Kahe Vajid Pukar #9

These are the days of love’s dominion;
The days have come to make the earth paradise-like.
Those suns that stood fixed in their high stations—
Now dawns the radiance of each tiny particle.
Resolves rise to their utmost crest;
The times make mishaps themselves hang their heads.
Love has unveiled itself in the huts;
Now this wealth is within reach of the poor.
Every chain lies shattered at the ankles;
Each prison stands on the verge of desolation.
Collapse has begun for edifices of delusion;
These are the days of the peak of human thought.
Panegyrics to kings have come to an end—
These are the days for singing the ghazal of love.
Every stumble is utterly innocent;
These are the days of the pride of pure-heartedness.

Religion is the proclamation of love. Religion’s whole endeavor is to invite love’s prasad to descend upon the earth. Religion’s prayer—“Lord, come down to this earth”—is nothing else. And the staircase for the Lord’s descent is love. The steps to ascend to the Lord are love; the steps by which the Lord descends to us are love. Naturally, the same steps by which we go up, by those very steps one comes down as well. Love joins—heaven to earth. Those who wish to reach heaven must climb the stairs of love. And if heaven is to be brought here onto the earth, it too will come only by the stairs of love. The essence-thread of Dharma is love.

Muḥabbat ki jahānbānī ke din hain—
The days of love’s governance have arrived.

Jamīn par khuld-samānī ke din hain—
The time has come to make earth akin to paradise.

Jo hain apnī jagah khurshīde-bunyād
Ab un zarroñ kī tabānī ke din hain—
The days of the suns were always there; now the time has come when each atom shines like a sun. And science has discovered it: within every atom burns a sun-like sea of energy. So too, each human being is as vast as the divine.

But without love this immensity remains unknown. Without love we shrink, we become small. With love we expand. Love widens. The greater the love, the greater your soul. If you love even one person, you grow a little vast; two—greater still; three—greater yet! And the day the whole world becomes your beloved, your lover—on that day your soul will be as vast as the sky!

Har-ik zanjīr hai ab pā-shikasta—
The chains around humanity’s feet have grown tattered and frail; the time has come to break them; at a slight jerk they will snap.

Har-ik zanjīr hai ab pā-shikasta
Har-ik zindān kī vīrānī ke din hain—
And the prisons must now fall into desolation. Which prisons? Those forged of iron bars are not the real prisons. The real dungeons are mortared with the bricks of your hatreds. Man is imprisoned in hatred, enmity, anger, jealousy, malice—these are the cells. And man will be free only in love’s sky. The time has come: let all prisons stand empty, let man be free!

But man is never freed by anything other than love. Those who seek freedom without love—liberation becomes a new bondage for them, nothing else. Hence you will find even your ascetics and saints bound in fresh fetters. Their chains are new. Upon their shackles the word “Moksha” is engraved!

And those whose hearts are barren of love, who have broken love’s stream, who have burnt love’s bridges—let them shout themselves hoarse for Moksha; they have erased the very means to it. Their cry will reach nowhere. It will bear no fruit. They have scorched the very seed that becomes liberation. The seed of love alone flowers into Moksha.

In the human heart nothing is more precious than love. Therefore my whole teaching is this: let your love evolve—by whatsoever door it evolves, through whatsoever medium—use every medium. The love of the body is beautiful, but do not stop there. The love of the mind is beautiful, but do not halt there. The love of the soul is beautiful, but do not remain even there. The journey’s end is Paramatma. Only then will all your chains break.

And the chains have become utterly worn. Give a little shake and they will fall. They no longer have much hold over you; only out of old habit do you remain their captive. Today who is truly a Hindu Hindu? Who is a Muslim Muslim? Who is a Christian Christian? If people become Christians, they become so on Sundays—when they go to church. A Muslim becomes Muslim when there are Hindu temples to be burned. And a Hindu becomes Hindu when the flames of hatred and enmity are to be fanned. These chains, these prisons—you bring them out only when something wrong is to be done. Chains can never be rightly used; prisons can never have any wise outcome.

These walls separate you from others. They raise distances between man and man, divisions between man and man. They turn man into the enemy of man. The time has come to break them! And they will break in a single jolt, for they have grown too old, too brittle. Their life-breath has already departed—astonishing that you still drag them around! Your soul has no connection left with them.

Har-ik zanjīr hai ab pā-shikasta
Har-ik zindān kī vīrānī ke din hain—
The time has come to lay every prison to ruin. Religion has been preparing man for this hour; the hour is near. The hour awaited by Mahavira, by Buddha, by Mohammed—draws near! This earth can now become one. All walls can be razed, all chains can be smashed. What they longed for can be fulfilled today.

An utterly unprecedented moment in human history is approaching. Before this century closes, you will either find man annihilated—or you will witness a new birth of man. And that birth will be the birth of love. Only the temple of love will remain on the earth; no other temples can remain. Indeed, no temples are needed; let every temple become a temple of love. And in every temple let songs of the Lord’s rejoicing be sung. Enough of melancholy; enough of dispassion-talk; enough of austerities and renunciations—now the song of love must arise, the spring of love must burst forth. Dispassion for the world has proved a failed effort; now let there be raga with Paramatma. And I tell you: the one who falls in love with the Vast finds that his bonds to the petty fall away on their own.

Leave the effort to snap ties with the small; forge your link with the Vast.

This is the fundamental distinction between my vision and other visions. Other visions say—fight the darkness. I say—light a lamp; do not fight darkness. What stature has darkness? What existence? What strength? Let a lamp be lit—and darkness is no more. Do not renounce the world; love Paramatma. And in that very love the world will fall away. Remaining in the world you will not be worldly. This alchemy I call sannyas.

Zawāl āmāda hai tāmīre-auhām—
The days of blind beliefs are over.

Kamāle-fikre-insānī ke din hain—
The day of man’s dignity has come; the day of the flowering of human genius has come.

Qasīde bādshāhoñ ke hue khatam—
Enough paeans to politicians.

Muḥabbat kī ghazal-khwānī ke din hain—
Politics is the science of hatred. If religion is the science of love, politics is the science of hate. If religion is the science of nonduality, politics is the science of duality, of division. If religion can unite, politics sets to fighting.

Therefore I say, those “religions” that made you fight were politics in disguise; they were not religions. Your pundits, your priests, your mullahs, your pastors—no more than pawns in the hands of politics. Behind the temples and mosques wave the flags of politics. The flag of love has not yet been raised. Many times it was attempted: Jesus tried; Buddha tried. And as soon as Buddha departed, the flag fell; or if it remained, other flags rose behind it. Again and again arrangements were made to honor human intelligence. Declarations were made that the abode of Paramatma is within you. But again and again you fall asleep and forget. You get lost in dreams!

You do not hear the Buddhas; you fall into the clutches of foolish priests. And the foolish priest has no use for your liberation. His concern is with your exploitation. He lives upon your exploitation. Oh yes, he has fine rhetoric, beautiful words, the Vedas by heart, the Quran memorized—but only as parrots memorize! Nothing more than parrot-chant. Nowhere in his life is there the resonance of the Upanishads. Nowhere in his life is there any taste of the Dhammapada. The melody of the Quran does not breathe in his breath. Nor has his heart yet known what the divine is. He has understood even “religion” as a cunning device to dominate man!

Those days are over! If you will, step out of your prisons. You linger only out of old habit. The door stands open. The doors are broken. The chains are corroded. There remains no reason to stay imprisoned. It is only a matter of gathering courage. Just a little daring—and all those Lakshman-lines drawn around you, all those superstitions, can be thrown on the garbage heap! The days have come to sing the songs of love!

Muḥabbat kī ghazal-khwānī ke din hain—
Bahut māsūm hai ek-ek lagzish—
And on the path of love even a mistake is sweet. And on the path of hate—even if you make no mistake—you are in error. Understand this: love is such magic that even errors upon its path lose their error. On love’s path even a slip becomes innocent, becomes guileless. On hate’s path, even if you are exact, your exactness is only cleverness and trickery.

Bahut māsūm hai ek-ek lagzish—
Every slip is utterly childlike.

Gharūre-pāk-dāmānī ke din hain—
Now are the days for the glory of this guileless purity.

Man must be made innocent. Do not cram scholarship into man; scholarship murders love. You will not find the pundit a lover. The pundit’s brain becomes so full of rubbish that his heart gets no chance to hum. The pundit lives in the head, forgetting the heart. He no longer remembers the heart. And he cannot hear the heart’s voice, for the heart sounds like madness to him. One who has taken the mathematics of intellect to be everything finds the heart’s language blind. Therefore the pundit calls love blind. I tell you, love alone has eyes; only love can see. For with that eye alone is Paramatma seen. All other eyes are blind.

Yet the clever call love blind; surely there is a flaw somewhere in their cleverness. The logical say—beware of love, for love is madness. From logic’s vantage love is indeed madness. For logic says: snatch and grab; love says: give. To a logic of snatching and grabbing, the language of giving must appear madness.

These today’s sutras are sutras of dana. Dana means—give; give without reserve. Give yourself utterly; spend yourself in giving. Do not be stingy. However much miserliness you keep, by that much will you be deprived of the divine. Paramatma is attained by the one who gives himself in totality. The surrendered one receives the divine. And only in love’s school are the lessons of surrender learned.

Bahut māsūm hai ek-ek lagzish—
Do not be frightened if your feet wobble on love’s path. They will wobble, for you have never walked there. If new, untasted experiences come, do not be afraid. The unknown creates fear. The unfamiliar, the unaccustomed, creates fear. Until now you lived by cleverness. You walked with caution. You do not even know what it is to stagger.

But there is an innocence in staggering, a simplicity. Seen a drunkard lurch? So too does the lover lurch—drunk on God’s wine. He becomes intoxicated, sways. His eyes grow moist. Not the eyes alone—his heart grows moist. His whole being fills with a new rhythm. He begins to attune to the cadence of existence. The greenness of trees begins to feel like his own greenness. The red of flowers—his own redness. The sun rises there; here he feels something dawns within. A parallel relationship with existence arises. Flowers bloom there; he feels a blossoming within. Only then does one know Paramatma!

But for this, for this experience, the art of dana must be learned. And do not imagine that dana means you went and offered two coins in a temple! That again is of the mathematics of cunning: give something so that someday God may be reminded we too gave. This is not dana that demands return. This is not dana that asks for reward. This is not dana given with calculation. Dana is only dana when it is given out of joy—without cause, for the sheer delight of giving; when the reward has already come in the very act of giving; when there is no thought of receiving behind it, no notion of merit, no arrangement for heavenly pleasures in Vaikuntha. Where there is no arrangement at all—that is dana. And dana does not mean tossing a beggar a couple of coins and feeling relieved!

Those two coins you give the beggar—less to the beggar, more to hide your own restlessness, to soothe yourself. You say, at least we did something. If you don’t give, some hurt arises within—pain—because you too are culpable. You feel: am I not a participant in this beggar’s beggary? This society—I too am part of it. This society forced him to beg. A sense of guilt is born in you. You feel: I am somewhat responsible. Somewhere I have unknowingly sinned. By giving two coins you lighten your mind. You don’t give to the beggar—you put a bit of balm on your own wound! Or you go donate to a temple, or go on pilgrimage—these are deceits. This is not giving; it is creating the illusion of giving.

Then what is giving? Giving is a very unique process. The way you give to your beloved, to your child, to your friend—not for any other reason, not from guilt, not on account of a ledger looking to future gains—svantah sukhaya Raghunath gatha. In ecstasy, in joy. The giving itself is the juice. Giving in itself is complete; there is no desire beyond. When you give like that—then to whom you give is no question—when you give like that...

And money is not the point. That too is man’s trick. When the word dana arises, man thinks—money. You did not bring money with you; what will you give? Do not fall into the illusion of giving what is not yours. What is not yours is not yours. You came empty-handed; empty-handed you will go.

Real giving is to give what is yours—what you are. To give yourself. To avoid giving yourself, man gives money. He thinks—I have given something. This “giving” is a device to evade real giving. Give yourself. It is not necessary to give the beggar two coins—perhaps simply taking his hand in yours, sitting by him for a while—listening to his joys and sorrows, speaking a few words—treating him as a human being, as a human just like you, neither below you nor you above him—perhaps you will have given more. Perhaps you gave him the dignity of being human. Perhaps you lifted him from his dust. You gave him glory. I am not saying do not give money. But money should be only one facet of your vast giving. Do not make dhan and dana synonyms. Yet in this country, and elsewhere, they have become synonyms. People give money and assume they have given.

What a joke! First you exploit them by the lakh! Then you donate ten rupees! And you are consoled. Whom do you deceive?

So much value has been given to money that even renunciation is measured by money. Thus Jain scriptures describe Mahavira’s renunciation by listing elephants, horses, golden chariots, palaces, diamonds and jewels in such numbers as seem untrue—for Mahavira owned only a very small estate. Such wealth could not have been. He was lord of a tiny state—at most one tehsil or two. In Mahavira’s time India had two thousand kingdoms; the land was split into tiny fragments. Think of him as a great landlord, not an emperor. But the scriptures speak as if he were a chakravarti emperor. That wealth never was. Scriptures kept on increasing it.

Why exaggerate? And the older the scripture, the fewer the elephants and horses mentioned. As later scriptures came, the numbers grew. Why? Because how else to magnify renunciation? Our only measure is money. If Mahavira had nothing, how call him a great renunciate? Had he been born poor and renounced, people would say: what did you renounce? There was nothing!

So—both the wealthy and the renunciate are measured by money; the same measure for both! Then money becomes the supreme value. Prestige here and prestige there—both by money. Money’s coin becomes absolute—valid here and in the beyond!

Then the followers of Mahavira must have felt: Buddhist scriptures list so many elephants and horses—exceed that. The race began; competition raged. Buddhists too began exaggerating. Buddha too was no great emperor—lord of a small Nepalese estate. Kapilavastu is lost to memory—a tiny kingdom.

We have no other measure. It is not that others in this land did not renounce—but only princes could be counted; with the poor there is nothing to count. The three great streams—Hindus, Jains, Buddhists—their highest figures are all princes. Why?

Because the poor too renounced—but how to count? When the rich renounce, the mind is impressed: yes, something has been given up. Our mind is so fixated on money that even thought itself is bound to it. Renunciation—again money! We ask: how much renounced? One leaves ten rupees—no big deal; others leave lakhs! One leaves crores—now that is something!

This deluded mentality has made dana synonymous with dhan. As soon as you hear “give,” your hand goes to your pocket.

Dana has no necessary relation to money. Dana is a style of life. Dana means—share your life! Do not contract it; expand it. Pour from the cup of your life into the cups of others as much nectar as can flow—let it flow. Do not be miserly. If you can give someone a laugh, give laughter. If you can give a dance, give a dance. If you can offer someone an embrace, give an embrace. If taking someone’s hand and sitting awhile can bring them relief, give relief. If you can weep with someone’s sorrow, shed two tears. If you can dance in someone’s joy, be ecstatic—that too is dana. The possibilities of dana are infinite.

Do not bind dana to money—or what will the poor give? If you bind dana to money the results are perverse: those intent on giving must first accumulate. And how much hurt do you inflict while hoarding! And then you distribute what you have gathered. If you will distribute, why hoard? People think: when there is money we can give; without giving there is no Moksha.

This whole logic is wrong. Every person can give. One who has nothing can give immensely. Often the one with nothing gives most, for he has no fear of losing. He has nothing—what can be lost? Therefore you find the rich miserly, not the poor. The poor can give. Not without reason.

I have heard: Upon a poor man’s hut—there was heavy rain at night. He was a fakir; a small hut; he and his wife asleep. At midnight someone knocked. The fakir said to his wife: get up, open the door. She slept nearer the door. She said: at this hour—where is space? If someone seeks shelter, you will not refuse; the rain is pouring; if someone has come, it must be for shelter. Where is space? The fakir said: space? For two to sleep there is enough; then for three to sit there will be enough. Open the door! But do not send back the one who has come. The door opened. A traveler sought shelter; he was lost and the rain was torrential. The three sat chatting; there was no space to lie down.

After a while another knocked. The fakir again said: open. The wife said: now what will you do—where is space? If someone asks shelter? The fakir said: now there is space to sit; then we shall stand. But open the door. The door opened, another came. Now they stood conversing; such a tiny hut!

Finally a donkey brayed at the door, pushed it. The fakir said: open. The wife said: now you are mad—this is a donkey, not a man! The fakir said: we did not open for men; we opened because of our heart. What difference to us between donkey and man? We opened for guests. He too has called. He too has shaken the door. He has done his part, now let us do ours. Open! The woman said: not even space to stand remains. He said: right now we stand at ease; then we shall stand pressed together. And remember—this is no rich man’s palace that lacks space! This is a poor man’s hut—there is ample space!

When I read this story I was amazed. He said: this is no rich man’s palace where there is no room. This is a poor man’s hut—there is plenty of room. Space is not in palaces or huts; space is in hearts. You will often find: the poor is not miserly—he has nothing to clutch. What will he grasp? As a man becomes rich, he becomes miserly: the more there is to hold, the more the craving to hold, the more the greed. The spell of ninety-nine arises. The one who has ninety-nine rupees longs to make it a hundred. Ask him for one—he cannot give, for if one goes, ninety-eight will remain. He was about to have a hundred—and now finished! He cannot give. But the one with a single rupee can give, for he knows a hundred will never be; it will go anyway.

Thus it is not that the poor do not give; in truth they have given greatly. But their gift is not recorded. There is no scale to weigh it. They gave love; there was no money to give. There were no palaces, elephants, horses, jewels; but what they had—their life—they gave. They gave their love, their sympathy, their compassion. But how will you measure that? On what scale?

Therefore, the wealthy’s dana is trumpeted. The wealthy become “great givers.” The poor are not counted.

Do not join dana to dhan. Do not equate dana and money. Dana is a vast happening. In that vast happening, the giving of money is only a small part; very small, petty. The real parts are of the soul—of love, of knowing, of awareness.

See the irony: Mahavira left palaces and riches—the scriptures expound it thoroughly. Then all his life he gave love, gave knowing, gave meditation—of that no account is kept. No one counts that as dana. I am startled to see how blind are those who wrote the scriptures. No one says how much meditation Mahavira gave; how many lamps of meditation he lit. Lamps do not light on their own; Mahavira’s flame leaps, then a snuffed lamp flares. Mahavira pours his life-breath into people. How many he breathed life into! How many lives were perfumed! How many found peace!

No, no account of that. But those pebbles and stones he left—the palace not his, those stones not his—they would have been taken by death today or tomorrow—of this they kept account!

But how much meditation Mahavira gave! How much love! Not only to people—remember the fakir’s donkey—Mahavira gave as much love to insects as to men. Therefore he placed his feet gingerly lest any be harmed. At night Mahavira would not turn in sleep, lest some insect resting behind is crushed. He slept in one posture. This giving is on. Now there are no jewels to abandon—now the true jewels are being distributed. But our so-called scripture-writers have no idea of the real gems.

Kabir had no palaces to renounce—he had none. Hence Kabir could not be made a Tirthankara; he could not be made an Avatara; he could not be made a Prophet. He missed—so they say. And what Kabir gave—what ecstasy, what bliss, what nectar he poured all his life! How many flowers he showered into people’s lives—who will keep account?

I want to break this illusion in your minds that dhan and dana are identical. Dana is a vast event; money’s giving is a small facet of it. The essence is love. Dana and love are synonyms; dana and money are not.

Hum dīwānoñ kī kyā hastī,
Hain āj yahān kal vahān chale,
Mastī kā ālam sāth chalā,
Hum dhūl uḍāte jahān chale,

Aye as jubilation just now,
And now as tears we flow away—
All kept asking and asking, “Ah,
How did you come, where did you go?”

Ask not which way we turned—
We walked because walking is so;
We took a little from the world,
We gave the world a little of our own,
We spoke two words, heard two more;
We laughed some, and then we cried some;

Draining the goblets of joy and sorrow,
We drank them even-handed,
In a world of beggars we passed free—
Lavishly scattering love;

On our breast we bore like an emblem
The burden of our failures;
Honorless, beyond insult,
We played with all our heart;

Smiling, smiling—here today—
We staked our lives and lost them.

We forgot both good and bad,
Head bowed we turned our face,
A curse we lifted on our lips—
And left a benediction in our eyes;

Now what is mine and what is thine?
May those who halt, be blessed!
We ourselves were bound—and we ourselves
Broke our own bonds and went.

Hum dīwānoñ kī kyā hastī—
Hain āj yahān kal vahān chale,
Mastī kā ālam sāth chalā,
Hum dhūl uḍāte jahān chale,
Āye bankar ullās abhi,
Āñsū bankar bah chale abhi—

Dana is synonymous with love. Only the intoxicated know its real meaning. They share even their tears; they share their smiles too. And remember one crucial point: they do not share in order to receive, to provoke a response. They share because sharing itself is bliss—svantah sukhaya. This phrase is crucial; it is the base-point of Dharma.

Whatever you do—svantah sukhaya. Do it because it delights your own heart. Do it because joy arises in the doing. The act in whose very doing merit happens—that alone is punya. Do not look back thinking: tomorrow merit will come; in heaven a place will be reserved, a better womb will be had, next time born with a golden spoon; next time a longer life, a fairer fate...

Where future-planning enters, thought becomes sin. That which is purely blissful in the present—that alone is dana, that alone is virtue. And what is blissful to you will inevitably be blissful to others—because you and the other are not separate. There is only one expanse here. If something blissful happens in me, its shiver of joy will pass into the breathing of others.

You have tasted this at moments, perhaps without noticing. Near some persons you grow sad—no reason known. Near others you brighten—no reason known. Someone comes to your house and leaves behind a dark shadow. Another comes and leaves a festive atmosphere. You were gloomy; someone arrives and you begin to laugh. You were laughing; someone arrives and you grow sad.

Notice—none of us is separate; we are joined, yoked. Moment-to-moment exchange is going on. We stir and are stirred by each other’s energy. Someone dances—and your hands begin to clap. Someone sings—a flush comes to your throat. Your feet begin to beat time. If this is the outer case, so too within. This is the gross; the subtle is similar. Go near one who lives in joy, in peace, in meditation—he is not singing, not dancing, yet a dance sways within him, a song runs within him. His heart is in ultimate peace. Coolness is there. Heaven abides within. Your inner consciousness will be stirred; anklets will begin to tinkle within you. Your inner lute will tune to his inner lute.

One who lives in bliss, in peace, in meditation—his life is dana even if he does nothing. One who lives in sorrow, in unrest—however much he gives—his life is not dana.

Therefore I want to bring before you the whole backdrop of dana; otherwise you will miss Wajid’s words. Wajid speaks simply, not expansively.

Khair sarīkhī aur na dūjī vasat hai—
There is no other thing like khair. He is a simple, rustic soul, saying: there is nothing like khairat, dana.

But the word khair carries a double meaning. One meaning is alms, charity. The other: when we ask, “All well within? Is all right? Khair hai?”—khair means inward well-being: clarity, calm, joy—sat-chit-ananda within. In this tiny word khair a rustic villager has revealed a great secret! Khair is khairat. In one whose inner kingdom is of joy—there showers a rain of delight all around him. Those who come near—on them too a drizzle descends. Then khairat has meaning; then dana is meaningful, substantial.

Your life is full of snatching and grabbing—envy, enmity, ambition. And you do a little “charity” here and there—hoping to keep a small bank-balance in the beyond, just in case. Lest we arrive there empty-handed! Keep some deposit there too. Then, before God, we will not be utterly bankrupt. Give a trifle. And often people give what is of no use to them. In my experience gifts circulate that no one can use—passing from one to another to a third to a fourth. Things that only move as gifts!

Live in insecurity, in fear, in anxiety, in restlessness—however much you give, your giving has no value, because moment-to-moment you are releasing jets of poison within. They infect all around. Do nothing—yet live in benediction—and you are giving. Day and night, giving is going on. Those ready to receive will receive; those ready to drink will drink. Those determined to remain miserable—their business. No one can be made happy by force. Bliss cannot be imposed. If one does not wish to be happy—there is no way. But those who do wish—your waves will set an opening in them; a resonance will begin within.

Near the prayerful, prayer begins to be born—though not in all; only in those who come with heart-doors open. To come thus is called satsang. Satsang means: my heart’s doors are open, and I sit near one, among those, who are absorbed in the Lord and ecstatic. Their energy will surely flow. Their energy will surely pluck the strings within you. Their veena will set your veena ringing. Their intoxication will sway you. You too will begin to be filled with bliss.

Khair is a lovely word. When there is khair within, there is khairat without. Then whether there is money or not, it makes no difference. Money is secondary. Wajid had no money—he was a poor Pathan—yet he distributed abundant khairat! He had no outer wealth; he shared inner wealth. And that is the real wealth. Share that—if you are to share at all.

Khair sarīkhī aur na dūjī vasat hai.
Mēlhe bāsaṇ māñhi kahān muh kasat hai—
Do not tighten the mouth of the vessel while giving—do not be a miser while you pour. Let the hands be open. Spill with both hands. Let whoever wishes, drink. If none takes, it is their misfortune. But let there be no fault with you that you did not pour. You poured!

There are foolish ones who will stand thirsty on the shore of a lake. But that is not the lake’s fault. The lake is present, ready to flow down the throat, but one must bend. The hands must form a bowl. The lake cannot leap into your throat. And if ever it did—then you would run away frightened! The lake must wait—present, willing. Whenever you are willing to receive, the happening happens.

So he says: when you have something to give, do not shut your doors. Keep your treasure open. Let it flow. If a drinker comes—let him drink as much as he will.

Mēlhe bāsaṇ māñhi kahān muh kasat hai.
Tūñ jin jāne jāy rahego thām re—
And that which you clutch will all be gone. Like dreams vanish in the morning, so, at death, all this disappears.

Kuch āñsū ban gir jāeñge,
Kuch dard chita tak jāeñge,
Unmeñ hī koī dard tumhārā bhī hogā—

On the roads my feet were torn and wounded—
That the village footpath could tell.

We all, honored, so utterly dishonored are—
How long will this wound torment?

Kuch tūṭ rahe sunsānōñ meñ,
Kuch tūṭ rahe tahkhānōñ meñ,
Unmeñ hī koī chitra tumhārā bhī hogā—

There were days when dying gave delight;
And days when living makes me tremble.
Those days passed; these too will pass—
Thinking so, like a traveler, I smile.

Kuch andhyāre meñ chamkeñge,
Kuch sūnepan meñ khanakeñge,
Unmeñ hī koī svapn tumhārā bhī hogā—

My own face pricks like a thorn
When garlands of relationship wither.
Some left behind at bends long past—
Their memories set fire to sleep.

Kuch rāhoñ meñ bechain khaḍe,
Kuch bāhoñ meñ bechain paḍe,
Unmeñ hī koī prāṇ tumhārā bhī hogā—

Sādhu ho yā ho sānp—there is no difference:
A burning forest burns both together.
So is the fire in our settlement too—
Yet even so, a few—sing on.

Kuch mehfil kī jai bolenge,
Kuch dil ke dard taṭolenge—
Unmeñ hī koī gīt tumhārā bhī hogā—

All will be lost. Death comes—everything is lost. Those we loved, those we hated—like pictures hung in a dream—they fade away, slowly, slowly, saying farewell.

Kuch tūṭ rahe sunsānōñ meñ
Kuch tūṭ rahe tahkhānōñ meñ
Unmeñ hī koī chitra tumhārā bhī hogā—
Those with whom we wove attachments—their pictures will lie in some cellars, in some deserts.

Ve bhī din the jab marne meñ ānand milā—
Ye bhī din haiñ jab jīne se ghabrātā hūñ—
Ve bhī din bīt gaye, ye bhī bīteñge—
Yah soch koī sailānī-sā muskatā hūñ—
Kuch andhyāre meñ chamkeñge,
Kuch sūnepan meñ khanakeñge,
Unmeñ hī koī svapn tumhārā bhī hogā—

All experiences of this world will vanish like dreams. There is nothing here worth saving. Give it away! And the wonder is—what is given remains; what is saved is lost. Jesus said: Those who try to save will lose; those willing to lose—theirs will remain. Religion’s arithmetic is upside-down. Common arithmetic says: save, and it will be saved. Spend, and it will be lost. Share, and it will be lost. The uncommon arithmetic of Dharma runs contrary: give—and it remains. Only what you have given remains yours. Strange—only what you have given remains. What you kept back rots, decays—and will not remain with you.

The one who departs richest from this world is the one who shared his love, shared his meditation, shared his knowing, shared his flame—shared himself. He gave what he had.

Tūñ jin jāne jāy rahego thām re.
Hari hān, māyā de, Wajid, dhaṇī ke kām re—
Therefore, whatever there is—place it in the work of the divine Master. Offer all your energy.

Hari hān, māyā de, Wajid, dhaṇī ke kām re.

Wajid uses dhan and dhani with great charm: Wealth is only that which serves the Dhani—the true Master, the Owner of all. The wealth too is his. You, needlessly, pose as owner. Your proprietorship is false. Let all serve his work. Dance as he makes you dance. Live as he makes you live. Do what he has you do. Leave all to his will.

Hari hān, māyā de, Wajid, dhaṇī ke kām re.

Mangaṇ āvat dekh rahe muh goy re—
Wajid was Rajasthani; he knew the Marwari habit, and says:

When a beggar is seen coming, you hide your face.

I have heard: a beggar knocked at a Marwari’s door at noon in the heat. The seth sat behind screens of fragrant khus. The beggar said: something, sahib. The seth replied: there is no one at home. The beggar said: I am not asking for your wife or your people. No one need be home—just give something, two rotis. The seth said: food is not cooking today; we have an invitation. The beggar said: then two paisa? The seth said: there is no money here—move on! The beggar said: then what are you doing inside? Come with me. If there is no food, no money, no wife, no people—what are you doing within? Come—let us beg together; we will split it half and half.

Mangaṇ āvat dekh rahe muh goy re—
You hide when the beggar comes.

Jadyapi hai bahu dām—kām nahīñ loy re—
Though you have much wealth, you make no use of it. In this land one cause of poverty—among the greatest—is burying wealth, hoarding wealth.

Understand the scripture of wealth: the more it circulates, the more it grows. By flow it increases. Suppose a hundred of us each have a hundred rupees, and all keep them clutched—then each has a hundred. But if we use them—buy, sell—money moves; at times one has a thousand, then another has ten thousand, then a third. Money must move, not stagnate. If we are a hundred, the moving rupees multiply their touch a hundredfold. Hence in English money is “currency”—that which runs, flows. Money grows by flowing.

If America is rich, its root reason is trust in flow. No one hoards. You will be surprised: they do not even hoard the money they will have tomorrow, or the day after. They spend even that—buy on installments. The money is not yet theirs—and yet it moves. An installment buys a car worth a lakh. He will pay over ten years—yet the lakh begins to flow today; the seller takes papers to a bank and draws the lakh—the flow begins.

India is poor because it does not understand the true meaning of wealth. Here wealth means: save. Wealth’s truth is: circulate. Keep it flowing, it stays clean, reaches many hands. Use what you have—for yourself, for others.

But here people neither use it themselves nor let others use it. And slowly we have given this meanness a great value—we call it simplicity. This “simplicity” is foolishness. It is not simplicity; it is the root of poverty.

Circulate! Use something. If you can share—share. If you can buy—buy. Do not sit upon money, weighing it down. If you must crouch upon your buried hoard, be a snake after death; but while you are human—live like a human.

Jadyapi hai bahu dām—kām nahīñ loy re.
When will you use it? Tomorrow all will lie there—useless to you and to others. Many treasures lie buried in this land, never used. Recently you read in newspapers of treasure hunts in Jaipur. The one who buried it did not use it. Three centuries passed—no one used it. Now it is not found; perhaps for centuries none will use it. Such waste! For three hundred years that wealth served no one. The one who buried it committed a grave sin—he blocked its flow for centuries. Who is responsible? Let wealth flow!

Yet the very base of our poverty—we have given it a philosophical dignity. We say: people are simple, live simply. Then keep living simply—and stop crying. Call poverty God’s boon, the fruit of your spirituality! Then why cry? But note this: the very bases from which we suffer are those we cling to. A long association binds us; it takes courage to drop them. And we do not see that these very bases hurt us.

People must learn to use, to be ready for use. The more you use... Yet if someone uses his wealth, we all feel like condemning him. In a village, if someone begins to use wealth, his respect falls. The truly respected rich man is one who lives like the poor! What a joke. People say: see how simple, how plain—so much wealth, yet he lives like the poor.

He is a fool! If poor—then why be rich? It is like having food in the house and starving to death. He could wear clean clothes; he wears torn rags.

Someone said to Mulla Nasruddin: Mulla, your coat is infamous in the village—discard it. Your father—what a splendid man—his clothes had a certain grace; the way he ate, drank, carried himself—there was dignity. And you go around in this coat! Nasruddin said: what are you saying—this is the very coat my father wore! Same cloth, same coat. When he wore it, you praised it; when I wear it, you do not! Thirty years since my father died—I still wear the same coat!

Yet such men are esteemed—“simple,” “austere.” Money that stagnates could have multiplied—but he prevented it. It flows only when he learns to use it, to live it. And do not wait for all to become givers; if all were givers—who would receive? Then money would be useless. All will never be givers. But in this land nearly all are misers. Between the two is a way: if you cannot give to others, at least use it yourself.

So Wajid is right: if you cannot give to the beggar—if you hide from him—at least spend for yourself. Use it, and it will move, reach others. You buy a garland of jasmine and wear it—“simplicity” is gone; people will say: at this age, a garland! But that rupee you spent flows to a poor gardener.

If you can share—share. If not, at least use. Through your use it reaches others. But do not block it. Do not bury it.

Jadyapi hai bahu dām—kām nahīñ loy re.
Bhūkhe bhojan diyo na—nāgā kāparā—
You let a hungry man stand there—and cannot give him food. A naked man stands—and you cannot give him clothes.

Hari hān, bin diyā, Wajid, pāve kahā vāprā—
And if you do not give—how will you receive from Paramatma? He who does not give, who has no taste for giving—he will not have the fortune to receive. As you give here, so much you can receive there. By giving we form the capacity to receive.

Hari hān, bin diyā, Wajid, pāve kahā vāprā—

The matter is this, O preacher seated in the heavens:
What will he get of Yazdan who has not met man?

One who has not even become human—what “God” will he get!

Men died before your eyes—and you looked away—
If this is life, what is there to gain by such a life?

But so it is. People clutch the useless. They neither use nor let others use. For centuries this habit has prevailed. Upon it we have erected vast philosophies.

Yesterday someone asked me: Morarji Desai wants to mix polyester with khadi to make “polyester khadi”—what do you think? He wears khadi; he fears khadi will be “polluted.” I said: to hell with your khadi—polyester will be polluted. I wear one hundred percent polyester—do not pollute polyester. Let khadi go where it wants. Khadi’s chatter will keep this country poor. I favor polyester—but a hundred percent! Why spoil it by mixing in khadi? Why is Morarji bent on adulterating everything?

Now the cloth will be eighty percent polyester, called “polyester khadi.” Why cheat the world? Why not simply say polyester is needed, khadi is not? Why this dishonesty? If eighty percent is polyester, why not a hundred? At least it will be pure. With twenty percent khadi—whom do you fool?

We do not wish to drop our old notions. We will call it polyester khadi—but khadi must remain. Now they have made charkhas that run by electricity—but will still call them charkha! If the charkha must run by electricity, why blame the mills? Still we cling to our old grooves. Even that which makes our lives worse—we hold on stubbornly. We shout—we shall not abandon it. And if forced to, because life changes, the world changes—then at least let a cover remain: add twenty percent khadi so that the excuse remains—we wear khadi.

The days of khadi are gone. No country can become rich with khadi. And I see no reason why a country should not be rich. I see no reason why people should not be prosperous. I see no reason why prosperity must be opposed to simplicity. Prosperity has its elegance; simplicity has its richness. Why tie poverty to simplicity? Why tie meanness to simplicity? Beauty has a simplicity. Nobility has a simplicity. If you must choose simplicity—choose a high simplicity—more sap-full, more tasteful.

But once wrong notions ride a country’s chest, they do not leave easily. This country is burdened by many wrong notions.

Bhūkhe bhojan diyo na—nāgā kāparā.
Hari hān, bin diyā, Wajid, pāve kahā vāprā—

And when someone is hungry, you will not feed; when someone is naked, you will not clothe—yet we have found philosophical cover: the hungry reap their past-life sins; the naked reap past-life sins. What can we do? A fine doctrine behind which to hide! This is hiding the face—saving oneself. Now compassion is needless.

How strange are the doctrines! Acharya Tulsi’s sect—Terapanth—teaches that even if someone is dying of thirst, do not give water. Why? Because if you give water and that man, saved, goes and murders someone—you share the sin. If you had not given water, the murder would not have happened.

See the trick! Could there be a more cunning way to kill compassion? The gist: a man is falling into a well—do not interfere; who are you to hinder his karma? Let him do it. If he falls into a well—do not pull him out either. His past sins must be burned out; if you rescue him, he will have to fall again elsewhere. You have obstructed him; that obstruction is your sin. And if you save him and he murders—mad as he is, that’s why he fell into the well—then you are a partner in the murder. If you had not saved him, he could not have murdered. Now you are trapped; you will suffer consequences in hell. So quietly save yourself and pass by.

This is what this country has done for centuries. Each one saving his own skin—to get free of his own karmas; you save yourself. We talk grandly of love, prayer, God, but in truth no country has made people as selfish as this one. And the basis is this: I attend to myself; you attend to yourself. I must be freed of my karmic net; you of yours. You are not my companion; I am not yours.

This is pure selfishness. Here compassion dies; the warmth of heart is lost. You become stone—cold as ice. How will the seed of religion sprout in such a life?

Wajid says: bring a little compassion—awaken a little love.

Jal meñ jhīṇā jīva—thāh nahīñ koy re.
Bin chhānyā jal pīyāñ—pāp bahu hoy re.

Kāṭhai kapṛe chhān nīr kūñ pījīe.
Hari hān, Wajid, jīvānī—jal māñhi jugat sūñ kījīe—

Live compassionately—not only toward humans, but toward animals, plants, even tiny organisms. Filter water before drinking—there is so much life in it. Do not destroy. As much as possible, honor life, support life. All life is one. To hurt another is to hurt oneself—like slapping one’s own cheek with one’s own hand.

Sāhib ke darbār pukāryā bākra.
Kāzī līyā jāy kamar soñ pākra.

Mērā līyā sīs—usī kā lījīe—
Hari hān, Wajid, rāo-rank kā nyāv barābar kījīe—

And the goat cried before the Lord’s court, as the kazi had him by the waist for sacrifice: “My head you take—take his instead! He merits the punya—my head is to be cut.”

Buddha passed a village; a goat was being sacrificed at a fire rite. In this “religious” country such rites have been, that it is astonishing to call it religious. There were ashvamedha—horse sacrifices; gomedha—cow sacrifices; and in the scriptures even naramedha—human sacrifices. Slowly it became difficult. Even now, news appears—somewhere a child is killed and offered to a goddess. Poor religious folk—doing as per scripture. The law is against them; the world is against them. But they are scriptural.

Buddha saw a goat about to be cut. The Brahmin held the knife. Do you know, a special Brahmin caste is “Sharma”—meaning the cutter of necks at sacrifices. If any Sharma are here—abandon the name; it is not good. It hides murder. Nowadays many who are not Brahmins use Sharma—it sounds elegant. One was a Verma; he began writing Sharma. I said: what are you doing? Verma was alright—Sharma? Hell awaits!

Buddha said: what are you doing? The Brahmin said: do not worry; this goat will go to heaven. Animals sacrificed in yajna go to heaven. Buddha said: then why not sacrifice your father? So easy a way to heaven! And the goat does not wish to go—he cries, he runs. Send your father—or go yourself. If you are so eager for heaven—why send the poor goat? Did he ask to go? He was living happily here—he is in heaven; you are in hell!

Sāhib ke darbār pukāryā bākra.
Kāzī līyā jāy kamar soñ pākra.
Mērā līyā sīs—usī kā lījīe.
Hari hān, Wajid, rāo-rank kā nyāv barābar kījīe—

The goat pleads: Lord, do some justice. I do not wish to go; I am being sent. They wish to go; they will not go—they send me.

Pāhan paṛ gayī rekh—rāt-din dhovahīñ,
Chhāle paṛ gaye hāth—mūñḍ gahi rovahīñ—

Jāko joi subhāv jāihai jīv sūñ—
Hari hān, nīm na mīṭhī hoy—sīñch guḍ-ghīv sūñ—

An important statement: each being lives by his nature. Do not force your conduct upon anyone. Let each live by his own swabhava. However much jaggery or ghee you pour—neem will not become sweet. Nor need it. Bitterness is its nature; there is no evil in bitterness. In Ayurveda, nothing is more valuable than neem.

You know the Panchatantra story: four pundits returning from Kashi, masters in different disciplines, halted in a forest to cook. The one learned in botany was sent to fetch vegetables—from a village or from the forest. He brought neem, for he knew the virtues of neem—purifies blood, increases longevity, makes the old young. A pundit is a pundit! The one in grammar was to tend the stove—he was a master of sound. When the water boiled—khaḍ-bad, khaḍ-bad—he thought: this is no recognized sound; shastra says do not speak or hear ashabd, non-word, hearing it is sin. He smashed the pot! The philosopher was sent to buy ghee; on the path he debated: does the vessel contain the ghee or the ghee contain the vessel? He inverted the pot—ghee spilled—“proved!” The life of the pandit is like this.

Each has his nature; give each freedom to become himself. When one settles in his nature, he reaches the divine.

Satguru sharane āyak—tāmas tyāgīe—
Burī-bhalī kah jāe—ūṭ nahīñ lāgīe.

Ūṭ lāgya meñ rāḍ—rāḍ meñ mīch hai—
Hari hān, jā ghar pragṭai krodh—soī ghar nīch hai—

Speak of love—and speaking of anger is natural, for anger is love’s opposite. In the Master’s presence abandon tamas—torpor, sloth, stupor. Sit with awareness. Satsang is available only to the alert; not to the drowsy, the yawning. The Guru is the ultimate form of awareness; become a little aware and the bridge forms. Friendship with the awakened is possible only if you awaken.

If someone calls you names, there is no need to stand up and reply. He has only revealed his own nature; nothing of you has he spoken. If you reply, you fall into the net.

Someone abused Buddha. Buddha said: if you are finished, may I go? I must reach the next village. The man said: we abused you; will you not answer? Buddha said: If you wanted an answer, come ten years ago; now I do not accept abuses—how will I answer? You brought a tray of sweets in the previous village—I said my belly is full; they took the trays back. You have brought abuses—each gives what he has. And I say: my belly is full—I do not take them. What will you do? Take them back. I feel pity for you—carry back these trays. I am in haste; if something still remains to give, bring them when I return—I will sit longer and listen fully.

What became of that man!

Ūṭ lāgya meñ rāḍ—
If you answer, quarrel arises.

Rāḍ meñ mīch hai—
And in quarrel—violence, death. This is the irreligious way—living less, dying more. Not letting others live, nor living oneself.

Hari hān, jā ghar pragṭai krodh—soī ghar nīch hai—
Where anger flares—that house falls low—into hell. There is no hell; love is heaven, anger is hell.

Kahi-kahi vachan kaṭhor—kharuñṭ nahīñ chholīe.
Sītal sānt svabhāv—saban sūñ bolīe.

Āpan sītal hoy—aur bhī kījīe.
Hari hān, balatī meñ suṇ—mīt—na pūlā dījīe—

Do not throw grass into fire. If someone is already ablaze, do not add fuel. If you can, be cool and quiet. Let his fiery arrows fall upon your coolness; they will be extinguished. And not only will his arrows be quenched—your coolness will become an opportunity to transform him. Your coolness will touch him; your love will touch him.

Baḍā bhayā so kahā—baras sau sāṭh kā.
Ghanā paṛhyā to kahā—chaturvidh pāṭh kā.

Chhāpā tilak banāy—kamandal kāṭh kā—
Hari hān, Wajid, ek na āyā—hāth paserī āṭh kā—

Age does not make you great. Be sixty, be a hundred—greatness is by love, by coolness, by deep peace. Nor by learning: memorize the four Vedas—you will not become wise. Wisdom is born in a thought-free mind—in dhyana.

Kahai Wajid pukār—sīkh ek—sunn re—
Wajid cries: learn just one thing—shunya. Learn the void—then you have attained all scriptures; the Vedas, the Quran, the Puranas will surge within you.

Chhāpā tilak banāy—kamandal kāṭh kā—
Do not waste life in outer arrangements—stamps, tilaks, wooden water-pots—

Hari hān, Wajid, ek na āyā—hāth paserī āṭh kā—
The mind like an eight-paserī measure will not come into your hand through such outer rites. Only through the inner lamp. Be still, be shunya. Be love; be dana. Be life—and be a shade for life; be life—and be an honor to life. For life itself is Paramatma—there is no God separate from life. One who learns to love life draws near to the divine.

Wajid’s teaching is in two words—remember them: one is shunya; one is love. Be shunya within; be love without. All else will settle by itself.

And shunya and love are two faces of the same coin. Shunya—when you are alone. Love—when you are with another. Master both—together—and you have mastered all. Paramatma is already yours.

Become shunya—and within He is recognized. Become love—and without He is recognized. One who knows Him without and within—his outside and inside disappear. The one who goes beyond outside and inside—he alone is beyond duality—Advaita.

Enough for today.