Pain-drunk and crazed, carefree fakirs.
Holding to a single creed, thus their minds are steady.
Drinking the cup of love, they forget all companions.
All eight watches they sway, like a musth-mad she-elephant.
Into their sight comes no one, king or pauper.
Breaking the bonds of attachment, they roam unafraid.
Meeting the Master, they became the Master, nothing of 'mine' remained.
Says Maluka, they went to that house where even the wind does not go.
Not effacing the self nor worshiping Hari, those men drown.
Failing to grasp Hari's secret, they weary themselves with reasons.
Placing their trust in merit, they forget the Master.
Clinging to a gourd, they sank and found no savior anywhere.
Seated in the saints' assembly, the fools prattle of caste.
Crying "We are great, we are great," they died, drowned without water.
Bound by their cliques, those men are not freed even now.
Seizing them again and again, Yama's messengers thoroughly plunder them.
Having cast off all desire, whoever sings of Ram,
Servant Maluka thus says, he beholds the Unseen.
Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #1
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
दर्द दिवाने बावरे, अलमस्त फकीरा।
एक अकीदा लै रहे, ऐसे मन धीरा।।
प्रेम पियाला पीवते, बिसरे सब साथी।
आठ पहर यों झूमत, मैगल माता हाथी।।
उनकी नजर न आवते, कोई राजा-रंक।
बंधन तोड़े मोह के, फिरते निहसंक।।
साहेब मिल साहेब भए, कुछ रही न तमाई।
कहैं मलूक तिस घर गए, जंह पवन न जाई।।
आपा मेटि न हरि भजे, तेई नर डूबे।।
हरि का मर्म न पाइया, कारन कर ऊबे।
करें भरोसा पुन्न का, साहब बिसराया।
बूड़ गए तरबोर को, कहुं खोज न पाया।।
साध मंडली बैठिके, मूढ़ जाति बखानी।
हम बड़ हम बड़ करि मुए, बूड़े बिना पानी।।
तबके बांधि तेई नर, अजहूं नहिं छूटे।
पकरि पकरि भलि भांति से, जमपूतन लूटे।।
काम को सब त्यागि के, जो रामहिं गावै।
दास मलूका यों कहै, तेहि अलख लखावै।।
एक अकीदा लै रहे, ऐसे मन धीरा।।
प्रेम पियाला पीवते, बिसरे सब साथी।
आठ पहर यों झूमत, मैगल माता हाथी।।
उनकी नजर न आवते, कोई राजा-रंक।
बंधन तोड़े मोह के, फिरते निहसंक।।
साहेब मिल साहेब भए, कुछ रही न तमाई।
कहैं मलूक तिस घर गए, जंह पवन न जाई।।
आपा मेटि न हरि भजे, तेई नर डूबे।।
हरि का मर्म न पाइया, कारन कर ऊबे।
करें भरोसा पुन्न का, साहब बिसराया।
बूड़ गए तरबोर को, कहुं खोज न पाया।।
साध मंडली बैठिके, मूढ़ जाति बखानी।
हम बड़ हम बड़ करि मुए, बूड़े बिना पानी।।
तबके बांधि तेई नर, अजहूं नहिं छूटे।
पकरि पकरि भलि भांति से, जमपूतन लूटे।।
काम को सब त्यागि के, जो रामहिं गावै।
दास मलूका यों कहै, तेहि अलख लखावै।।
Transliteration:
darda divāne bāvare, alamasta phakīrā|
eka akīdā lai rahe, aise mana dhīrā||
prema piyālā pīvate, bisare saba sāthī|
āṭha pahara yoṃ jhūmata, maigala mātā hāthī||
unakī najara na āvate, koī rājā-raṃka|
baṃdhana tor̤e moha ke, phirate nihasaṃka||
sāheba mila sāheba bhae, kucha rahī na tamāī|
kahaiṃ malūka tisa ghara gae, jaṃha pavana na jāī||
āpā meṭi na hari bhaje, teī nara ḍūbe||
hari kā marma na pāiyā, kārana kara ūbe|
kareṃ bharosā punna kā, sāhaba bisarāyā|
būr̤a gae tarabora ko, kahuṃ khoja na pāyā||
sādha maṃḍalī baiṭhike, mūढ़ jāti bakhānī|
hama bar̤a hama bar̤a kari mue, būr̤e binā pānī||
tabake bāṃdhi teī nara, ajahūṃ nahiṃ chūṭe|
pakari pakari bhali bhāṃti se, jamapūtana lūṭe||
kāma ko saba tyāgi ke, jo rāmahiṃ gāvai|
dāsa malūkā yoṃ kahai, tehi alakha lakhāvai||
darda divāne bāvare, alamasta phakīrā|
eka akīdā lai rahe, aise mana dhīrā||
prema piyālā pīvate, bisare saba sāthī|
āṭha pahara yoṃ jhūmata, maigala mātā hāthī||
unakī najara na āvate, koī rājā-raṃka|
baṃdhana tor̤e moha ke, phirate nihasaṃka||
sāheba mila sāheba bhae, kucha rahī na tamāī|
kahaiṃ malūka tisa ghara gae, jaṃha pavana na jāī||
āpā meṭi na hari bhaje, teī nara ḍūbe||
hari kā marma na pāiyā, kārana kara ūbe|
kareṃ bharosā punna kā, sāhaba bisarāyā|
būr̤a gae tarabora ko, kahuṃ khoja na pāyā||
sādha maṃḍalī baiṭhike, mūढ़ jāti bakhānī|
hama bar̤a hama bar̤a kari mue, būr̤e binā pānī||
tabake bāṃdhi teī nara, ajahūṃ nahiṃ chūṭe|
pakari pakari bhali bhāṃti se, jamapūtana lūṭe||
kāma ko saba tyāgi ke, jo rāmahiṃ gāvai|
dāsa malūkā yoṃ kahai, tehi alakha lakhāvai||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
You have often asked me: “What is sannyas, what is its definition?” These sutras will give you the definition.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Holding to the One, the mind grows steady.
Mad with pain, wild with love...
The first definition of a sannyasin: one who is blissfully absorbed in the sweet ache of the Beloved—both the pain of separation and the pain of union. Understand this well: intoxicated by the pain of both separation and union.
Mad with pain, wild with love...
Until God is found there is pain—that is true. But even on finding God there is still a great pain—only its quality changes. The sting disappears; it turns honeyed, mellow, sweet. In separation it pricks like a thorn; in union it is like laying a flower upon a wound. But pain is in both.
The sannyasin is drunk on this pain; the worldly man is busy trying to forget it. The worldly mind means: forever attempting to deny that there is any pain in not finding or finding God. He toils to become powerful enough to forget God completely. His back is turned to the Divine, and also to life’s truth—playing with toys.
If even the faintest remembrance arises that God is, pain begins immediately. With that remembrance, revolution is born in your life. If God is, what are you doing hoarding money? If God is, what are you doing running a shop? If God is, what are wealth and status worth? Then pour your life-energy toward the One, because only in finding That is anything truly found; all else gains you nothing.
But the very fact that God is, hurts. God is—and I have not met Him—so there is pain. God is—so what have I been doing through birth after birth? Where have I wandered? In what painful dreams was I lost? God is—and I never even knocked at His door! Pain will arise.
Who flees this pain is worldly. Who becomes intoxicated in this pain—who says, “Blessed am I that even this much has happened: the pain of God’s absence has awakened in me! If autumn has come, spring cannot be far”—that one dances in the pain of separation. Yes, his dance is salted with tears, but now his tears are filled with thrill, with fervor; they are no longer merely tears.
You may laugh after gaining the world, but there is nothing true in that laughter, for death laughs through it. And even if you weep because God is still “lost” to you, your tears will not carry lamentation—shadows of union begin to fall, reflections of meeting start forming.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Who is drunk on the pain of God’s absence and God’s nearness—that one is a sannyasin. Who says: “God hasn’t met me yet, but is it not enough that I have remembered that He has not yet met me? If this has happened, union too will happen. How long can the night of separation last? The dawn of union must be near.” Separation means union is. If there were no separation, there would be no way to union.
The worldly man tries to forget: “I am cut off from the Divine.” He denies in a thousand ways—first by saying there is no God, all this is nonsense. He soothes his mind: “Since God does not exist, only this world is worth doing; nothing else is worth doing.”
By saying there is no God he is saving himself from the storm that would rise at once if he accepted God’s presence—a storm that would shake him to the roots. He is avoiding autumn.
But remember: autumn prepares the way for spring. Dry leaves must fall for new buds to have a door. If dry leaves cling, no new leaves can sprout. Night arranges for the dawn; morning is born in the womb of night.
The worldly one says, “I feel no such separation. If there is no God, what separation?” And if he does admit to separation, it is for money—that money should be and is not; or for a wife away at her mother’s; or for a husband who has left; or for a son not yet born; or for a position that was deserved and not received. We created a thousand flimsy separations to avoid the one true separation—and none of these bring union. You know this.
When money is lacking, there is pain; but when money comes, no fulfillment comes. These separations are impotent; no true union follows them. A post missed hurts—that is true; but who has become happy by attaining a post? Certainly the longing was false. The old leaf fell and no new leaf was born; then the old leaf must have been plastic, counterfeit—mere belief and illusion. Had it been real, its falling would have made room for the new.
Alexander died in sorrow, weeping—he conquered the world, but lost his life. Ask the richest—the honest ones will confess: nothing was gained but ash. They are spent and defeated.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
He who suffers in God’s separation-and-union—and yet whose suffering is bliss.
Mad with pain, wild with love...
He does not call it suffering anymore. How can it be called suffering? Even the Beloved’s absence is delight. He cries, but in his tears is the footfall of the One who comes.
…carefree fakir.
He cries, yet is ecstatic; he cries, yet is beyond all inner conflict.
Fakir means: one who owns nothing. Exactly the sense of Jesus’ saying: “Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of God.” Blessed are the poor!
Which poor? Those who say: “Nothing is mine; whatever is, is God’s. I make no claim of ownership.” See the difference. You may drop all your wealth and become a fakir—and still keep saying, “I left millions,” then you still believe they were yours and you, the renouncer, performed a great deed. You are not a fakir—you are still accounting!
Fakir means: one who has seen: what of all this can be mine? Before I was, the world was; after I am gone, it will remain. My being here a few days makes no difference to the whole. Yet I sneak in between and start claiming!
Look how people draw lines on earth and claim “my land, my nation!” The land doesn’t know whose land it is. You came and you will go. You arose from dust and will dissolve into dust. In between, for a moment, you dreamed grand dreams and made claims.
He who makes no claims is poor, a fakir. He says: “Nothing was mine—so what is there to renounce?” Understand this.
The indulger says, “I have millions.” The renouncer says, “I have left millions.” Both agree that the millions are or were theirs. The fakir says, “Nothing is mine. I use things, but they are not mine. I may cease using them, but still they are not mine. All belongs to God. The entire earth is the Lord’s.”
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Who has said “All is His; nothing is mine”—his ego dissolves on its own. For the ego needs props: my house, my money, my position, my prestige. The ‘I’ survives on the crutch of ‘mine.’ Remove the ‘mine’ and the ‘I’ collapses at once—it is crippled without it.
Many of you wonder: How to drop the ego? The ego will not drop until ‘mine’ drops. Let ‘mine’ go, and even if you try, you will not be able to keep ‘I.’ The sum of all your ‘mine-mine’ is your ‘I.’ The more you can say “mine,” the bigger your ‘I.’
Watch: someone attains power—his ‘I’ swells. Visit him when he loses his post—the ‘I’ has shriveled as if air escaped from a balloon.
While you have wealth, you walk one way; when you don’t, the vital spring leaves your step.
I have heard of two fakirs crossing a stream. One leapt in a single bound to the other side. The second was amazed—it was a long jump. He tried and fell in the middle. Soaked, he asked, “Where did you learn that jump? With such a jump you could break an Olympic record. Where did you learn?”
The first said, “It is not a matter of training. There is a secret—there’s money in my pocket. When there is money in the pocket a warmth comes. What’s in your pocket? An empty pocket can’t jump!”
See how a man’s gait changes when he has money—horns sprout! When the pocket is empty, even his height shrinks; the balloon has burst.
Fakir means: one who says, “Nothing is mine.” In saying that, he has also said: “I am nothing.” The outer meaning is “nothing of mine”; the deeper center is “no self of mine.”
He who has nothing—not even a self—is a fakir. Then naturally there is carefree ecstasy. The more you have, the more worry, conflict, anxiety, security, arrangements. When nothing is yours, what worry, what conflict, what security? Then you can stretch your legs and sleep.
A prime minister renounced and went to the forest. The emperor loved him dearly. Hearing he had become enlightened, the emperor went to see him—with old expectations in tow. He found the former minister naked under a tree, beating a small drum. He neither stopped his drumming, nor stood up, nor drew in his legs. A bit beyond decorum. The emperor said, “So you have become wise—but what kind of wisdom is this? You didn’t even pull in your legs! You did not stand up. I was once your master. At least move your legs; don’t forget manners.”
The fakir laughed, “Let it be. Why pull in my legs now? I pulled them in before because of inner conflict—to save my position. Don’t be in the illusion that I did it for you. I stood up for myself—out of fear, to save my post, prestige, wealth, job. Now, for whom should I rise? For what? If standing is needed, I’ll stand. If not, I won’t. What manners? All that was fuss; within was ego.”
Fakir means: nothing personal remains.
“Almast” has two meanings. First: drowned in boundless ecstasy. Second: beyond inner conflict. No anxieties arise; what is, is right; just as it is, it is perfectly right. No wish that the existence be otherwise in order to be happy. He is happy as he is. However the world runs, his joy is untouched.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Holding to the One, the mind grows steady.
Sannyasin means: one who has taken trust in the One.
Holding to the One…
Who has put all his faith in the One—gathered, one-pointed; surrendered everything to That One, poured everything at His feet.
Holding to the One, the mind grows steady.
And who knows the secret of waiting…
…thus the mind is steady.
Who has given everything to the One and is ready to wait forever. Because not everything is given in one stroke. Surrender ripens in layers. You say, “I have given all,” but much remains. Layer after layer, deep down in the unconscious, roots of ego burrow far. You hear only the rustle above; below the roots are hidden. You offer leaves, flowers, even cut branches, cut the tree—but the roots remain. Slowly, slowly a day comes when the surrender is total; then the revolution happens. Till then, patience is essential.
There are two means to find the Divine—prayer and waiting. Prayer means: hand it all over to Him. Prayer means: “Servant Maluka has said, the Giver of all is Ram.” Prayer means: “What You do, will be; as You will, so it shall be; when You do, then it will be.” And waiting means: “I consent. I will wait. There is no hurry. If You make me wait till eternity, I will wait. Who is in haste?”
Haste too is the ego’s. Impatience is its shadow. The ego wants it now. Why? It knows death is coming. Time is slipping away. One day gone—one day less; two days gone—two days less.
See how in the West there is more haste than in the East. Why? The belief: there is only one life. If there is just one, anxiety is intense. Death approaches—before I have lived or achieved anything, death’s footsteps sound. Blood pressure rises, heart attacks loom, the knock at the door grows loud, death’s shadows appear—and nothing has been done. Only one life—so restlessness.
In the East there is less restlessness: life is infinite. This life gone—nothing is lost; more will come. This season passes—no harm; the next will arrive. If flowers didn’t bloom this spring, they will the next; spring will keep returning.
The word “ritu” (season) comes from “Rit”—Vedic rit meaning: that which returns again and again; that which goes and comes; whose going holds its coming; the endless circulation of existence.
In the East there is waiting; hence little fixation on time. In the West, a great obsession with time. Tell a Westerner, “I’ll come at five,” arrive five minutes late—he is upset. In India, five o’clock can mean four or six—it’s fine. Monday meant, but Tuesday you came—fine. Time holds lightly here.
The clock was born in the West, not in the East. In the East most people wear watches as ornaments—that’s my experience. Especially women—pure adornment. The sense of time is not the Western, breathless, “It must happen exactly on time, save every minute!” And after you save the minutes—what will you do with them? Where are you going?
I heard of a primitive region where railway tracks were being laid. The chief officer saw a tribesman lying joyfully under a tree, head on a rock, watching others work. The officer asked, “What do you do?” “I cut wood and go sell it in the city.” “How long?” “Two days going, two days returning, one or two—sometimes three—days to sell.” “Then the whole week is lost! But look—trains are coming. Next year, in an hour you’ll go and return.”
But the man did not look pleased. “Why not happy?” asked the officer. He said, “All right, I’ll go in an hour and return in an hour—but then what will I do for seven days? Another bother! Now at least one day remains; I come back exhausted after six days and rest today. If I have seven empty days—then what?”
His concern is natural.
In the West they save time and then don’t know what to do with it. What is the use of saving time?
Impatience about time is part of the ego. The ego naturally fears death, for death kills only the ego, not you.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Holding to the One, the mind grows steady.
One trust in the Lord; prayer; hand everything over to Him—that is sannyas. And then the readiness to wait endlessly. Paradoxically, the more you hurry, the longer it takes; the more patience you have, the sooner it happens. The one ready to wait forever—finds Him this very moment. The very fragrance of waiting opens the door.
…thus the mind is steady.
Sannyas means: prayer.
Sannyas means: egolessness.
Sannyas means: to be drunk in His union and His separation.
Sannyas means: endless waiting for His coming.
Drinking the cup of Love, all companions are forgotten.
Swaying all eight watches of the day, like a rut-mad elephant.
Maluk says:
Drinking the cup of Love, all companions are forgotten.
The world is forgotten once even two drops from His cup have touched the lips; once prayer begins, once you are intoxicated with His remembrance—then all companions fade. Understand the difference.
Do not “leave” the world—taste the Divine. On tasting the Divine, the world is forgotten of itself. Those who try to drop the world without tasting God do not succeed; it returns in new guises. Suppression results. Desires crawl in the dark like vermin, peering from every side to drag you back to the world.
Look within a so-called renouncer and you’ll be shocked: his state is often worse than the indulger’s. The indulger at least indulges and is less tormented. The renouncer doesn’t indulge, nor has God met him—he hangs in limbo, neither here nor there; the washerman’s donkey—neither of home nor ghat. He left the world hoping God would come, but leaving the world has no necessary relation to meeting God. After all, the world is God’s—how can dropping it bring Him?
Not by leaving, but by understanding the world does one meet God—not by running, but by awakening. And surely, once you catch even a little taste of the Real, your grip on the false loosens. When real diamonds arrive, who will carry shards of colored glass?
Drinking the cup of Love, all companions are forgotten.
Swaying all eight watches, like an elephant in rut.
Like a tusker swaying in intoxication, so, says Malukdas, the sannyasin sways all twenty-four hours. His inner dance goes on.
I roam with two strings of breath as my lute.
I drink the wine of love.
I never tend the world’s concerns—
Ask those who sing of the world;
I sing the song of my own heart.
I carry my heart’s utterance, my heart’s gift.
This world is incomplete; it does not please me.
I carry a world of dreams within.
All efforts fail to know the Truth—has anyone known by effort?
The clever end up where the naive began.
Then why should the world not remain foolish, even after lessons?
I am learning to forget learned knowledge.
I roam in madmen’s garb,
Drunk to the dregs.
Hearing me, the world sways and surges;
I carry the message of ecstasy.
Because of so-called renouncers, a wrong image of the sannyasin has arisen—sad, defeated, tearful, never smiling; no joy, no flow of juice; a desert, a dry tree on which no new buds sprout; spring comes and returns empty; birds do not nest; no shade for the traveler. Such a dried-up man we call dispassionate, in whom all rasa is gone. This is a distortion.
A true sannyasin is always in rejoicing. His dance is ongoing; his tune plays through all the watches. Around him you will feel festival in the air. Where there is an atmosphere of celebration and waves of delight, know that sannyas has happened. The gloomy and tearful are not sannyasins; they are deluded about sannyas. They have left the world; true. But not one drop from the Beloved’s cup has slid down their throat. “Swaying all eight watches, like an elephant in rut.”
To his eyes no king, no pauper appears.
Having broken the bonds of attachment, he moves unafraid.
A sannyasin sees neither rich nor poor. Why? Because when all is seen as His, who is rich and who poor? To him both rich and poor are poor—both are crazed for wealth; neither has received news of the true treasure.
To his eyes no king or pauper appears.
Breaking attachment’s bonds, he wanders fearless.
With one sip from the Beloved’s cup, all bonds of attachment fall. Why? Because in attachment we sought that very love which never came. It did not come, so we clutched. Whom have you held on to—and why? Hoping that if not today, then tomorrow, the Divine will be found.
We are thirsty for God; we clutch the wife, the husband, a friend, a son, a mother, a father—hoping to find God through them. So all relationships are tinged with sorrow and anger. You can never be truly pleased with your spouse because your demand is enormous—what that poor person cannot give. You want a god or goddess. She wants the same from you. It cannot be; thus restlessness and quarrel. Look deeply and you’ll see: she wants you to be godlike. When she scolds you for smoking or gambling, what is she saying? In her ideal, her husband should be divine. Perhaps even she doesn’t know why she is mad at you, but her grievance springs from that hidden ideal.
You too seek something extraordinary—divine, eternal—in your spouse. It isn’t there. You find an ordinary person—full of jealousy, anger, pettiness. The mind feels cheated. You had wanted a beauty that never withers—and the partner wilts. You had wanted a taste of the beyond; it isn’t there, so you grow sad. Then you go looking in another man or woman.
But that is not a way to the Divine. Those who raise their eyes straight to the Infinite and stop demanding the Infinite from the finite—those who remove the demand beyond the capacity of limits—and directly seek the Unlimited, for them the bonds of delusion fall by themselves. When one ties up with God, all other ties loosen.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
Meeting the Lord, one becomes the Lord…
The supreme and astonishing result of meeting God is that the one who meets, becomes God. Nothing less can satisfy. You cannot fit in a small courtyard; you need the whole sky. Your destiny is the Vast. Until you yourself become the Lord of lords, you will remain unfulfilled.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
“Darkness” here means tamas, obscurity, smallness, lust. Essentially: within no darkness remains—the lamp is lit.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that house where breath does not go.
A unique sutra.
Buddha told his monks: watch the breath—anapanasati, satipatthana. Why? Watching the breath you will see: the breath is not you. You are where even breath does not reach. Breath is necessary for the body, not for you. Breath is the bridge between soul and body. When the breath breaks, the connection drops. But that is not death; only the conjunction ends. Keep watch as breath goes in and out—intensify awareness. One day you know: I am not breath. That day you step out of death—glimpse the deathless.
Maluk says:
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
Where breath does not reach—that is the home. Up to where breath goes—the world. Where breath does not go—God. And reaching there, you do not just see God—you are That. As long as even the tiniest distance remains—“you” as seer and God as seen—restlessness remains. Even that distance is unbearable. That is the pain of love. Whom you love, distance from them is unbearable. In this world, whatever you do, distance remains. Husband and wife may melt for a moment, but only for a moment; then the distance stands up again, thicker than before.
A car with dazzling headlights passes you on a dark night; for a moment there is bright light. After it passes, the darkness seems deeper; now nothing is visible. So too after the momentary merging of sex, a deeper distance appears, which is why a melancholy follows. Here, nonduality cannot be consummated. Only with God can nonduality be fulfilled, because there the body is not the barrier. Body divides; beyond body, distinctions end.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
Let me become like water,
Clutch the sun’s ray as a rope
And climb the sky;
Vapor, I wander—
Then rain.
Touch the moon’s cool shade,
Harden into ice—
Then melt and flow,
Pour where I will,
Assume any form or hue—
Yet remain, at last, what I truly am!
Even this prayer is unnecessary. What we are, we remain. Through endless time and wanderings, the Master dwells within; we remain what we are. Hence: meeting the Master, one becomes the Master.
If we were separate from the Master, we could not become one. We are already one with Him; therefore, the instant remembrance dawns, the distance falls. Our unity with God is eternal. We never became separate. We cannot be separate—like a wave cannot be separate from the ocean however high it leaps, whatever forms it takes; it is always ocean and will fall back into ocean. The power of the wave is the ocean’s power. We are waves. The day a wave wakes up it cries, “Ah—wave has become ocean!” But wave was ocean.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
He who does not erase himself to remember the Lord—that man drowns.
Maluk says: he alone drowns who won’t forget himself to remember God. We remember ourselves and forget God.
There are only two ways to live. Remember yourself and forget God—the worldly way. Or forget yourself and remember God—the sannyasin’s way. Put yourself second and God first—then it will not take long: meeting the Master, you become the Master. Put yourself first and God second, and no matter how much you call yourself a theist, you are a nonbeliever at heart.
Watch how even the so-called theist prays: he puts God second. He says to God: do what I want. He does not say: whatever You will, I accept gladly. He says: my son needs a job—fix it; my wife is ill—repair it; I am so devotional—now listen and don’t be deaf! He remains the master and wants to use God. This is not theism.
He who does not erase himself to remember the Lord—that man drowns.
Failing to grasp the Lord’s secret, he drowns for nothing.
He drowns because he never knew the Lord’s mystery. Forget yourself, remember God—and your passage is swift:
If You are with me, what midstream, what far shore?
Every wave is a shore, the ocean a call.
In the wildest storm, cradle my little boat in Your hands—
Even if You “drown” me, I reach the shore.
Understand: even if God “drowns” you, you arrive. Jesus’ famous paradox: whoever saves himself will lose himself; whoever loses himself will save himself.
He who does not erase himself to remember the Lord—that man drowns.
Failing to grasp the Lord’s secret, he drowns for nothing.
We all strive to save the trivial—trying to save the wave—and therefore drown again and again. We never learn the ocean’s secret; we cling to the small.
Trusting in merit, they forget the Master.
They sink while searching, never finding.
Even the religious do this—“trusting in merit, forgetting the Lord.” They rely on what they have done: so much charity, so many mosques, temples, gurudwaras; feeding so many; running hospitals and schools. They think by the force of merit they’ll find Truth. It is delusion. Merit can also be an ornament of the ego—a golden chain is still a chain. Sin may be iron, merit gold; both bind.
Trusting in merit, they forget the Master.
The man who says “I have done good” becomes the doer; he is trapped, and misses the ocean’s secret. There is only one true merit: seeing that I am not the doer—God is. And only one sin: “I have done; God is not the doer.”
Trusting in merit, they forget the Master.
They sink while searching, never finding.
Their search is like trying to empty the sea with a spoon.
I have heard: on the Greek coast a man had dug a small pit and was running with a spoon to the sea, filling the spoon and pouring into the pit. Aristotle, strolling, watched this again and again. Curiosity overcame him: “What are you doing?” “I have resolved to bail out the sea.” Aristotle laughed, “You will go mad! Such a tiny spoon, such a vast sea—do the math!”
The man burst out laughing, “If I am mad, who are you? I hear you are trying to comprehend God with this little skull of yours—measuring the infinite with the spoon of logic!”
Aristotle grew very sad. It was true. He, the father of Western logic, was being warned by some almast mystic, perhaps a Malukdas type: you cannot pour the Vast into this small head.
Trusting in merit, they forget the Master.
They sink while searching, never finding.
The Truth that surrounds you is bottomless. You will not find it with the spoon of ego, nor weigh it on your petty scales. If you would know it, there is only one way: drown! Melt into it! Become one with it!
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
Sitting in the company of saints, fools boast of caste.
“We are great! We are great!”—and drown without water.
Even when you go to satsang you do not do satsang.
Sitting in the gathering of the holy, fools talk of birth and status—“I am a Brahmin, a Kshatriya, a king, a scholar; I have this wealth, that post.” Even there you are busy with stupidity. Sitting with saints does not make satsang. Wrap yourself tight in the shawl of ego and the saint may rain on you—you will stay dry. Satsang happens only when you drop all shawls—stand naked and unafraid, open all doors. Then let the master’s wave enter; let your heart dance with his rhythm; disappear for a few moments.
With a guru you first learn to disappear—so that one day you can disappear into the Mahaguru. The guru is like a small lake—learn to dive here and someday you will dive into the ocean. He is a window—through it you can reach the vast sky.
Sitting in the company of saints, fools boast of caste.
“We are great! We are great!”—and drown without water.
Even if you don’t speak it aloud, the same disease works. People send word: “We want to come, but we can’t sit in the back; arrange seats in front.” Why? Whoever comes early sits in front; latecomers sit behind. It hurts them to sit behind. Even if they come, they sit burning: “I am in the back.” They cannot hear or sink into what is happening. A strong iron sheet encloses them.
Some say they cannot sit on the floor. Why? Some are diseased with being collectors, commissioners, mayors, ministers. So I say: better not come. It will be useless—waste of time. Use the time to become a full minister if you are deputy; at least that will serve your ambition. Coming here will not.
Sitting in the company of saints, fools boast of caste.
“We are great! We are great!”—and drown without water.
From long ago they are bound, yet they are not free.
Time and again death has seized and plundered them.
For births upon births you have been bound and still not free. Wake up now! When will you awaken? How long will you clutch this ego? How much pain will you gather before you learn?
From long ago they are bound, yet they are not free.
I heard of a hotel that wasn’t doing well. The manager put up a sign: “Eat to your heart’s content—no need to pay; your grandchildren can settle the bill.” Crowds came. Mulla Nasruddin arrived with wife, children, the neighborhood’s children and friends—ate the best of everything. As he left, the manager presented a bill for six hundred rupees. “What? Look at the sign!” “Yes,” said the manager, “today’s bill we’ll collect from your grandchildren. This is for what your ancestors ate here.”
Bound from behind, bound ahead—we wriggle along. You have not escaped what you did in past lives; what you do now will bind you tomorrow.
From long ago they are bound, yet they are not free.
Time and again the messengers of Death have seized and plundered them.
How many times have you died? How many times been born? How many times, reborn, you ran the same race—gathered wealth and lost it, played the games of desire and had them broken. Death came and snatched all. Yet you do not learn.
From long ago they are bound, yet they are not free.
Time and again Death’s envoys have looted them.
Even Death’s messengers are defeated by you—you slip from their hands only to run the very same race again.
Turning from lust, who sings only of Ram—
Says servant Maluka—he beholds the Unseen.
Maluk says:
Turn from lust and sing of Ram.
Do one thing you have never done. Until now your energy has run into lust and craving. Withdraw a little of that energy and pour it into Ram’s song. There are two directions: kama (desire) and Rama (the Divine). Kama means: blindly obeying the ego’s voice. Rama means: listening to the Vast, lifting your eyes to the Infinite, humming the Eternal.
…who sings of Ram.
Hum a little of Ram’s song, get drunk on His name.
Says servant Maluka—he beholds the Unseen.
Who learns to sing the Lord—who remembers Allah within—receives what nothing else can give: the Goal that no other means can attain.
…the Unseen becomes seen.
What the eyes cannot see becomes visible; what ears cannot hear becomes the sweetest music; what hands cannot touch is touched by your very being.
…the Unseen becomes seen.
With Ram, the impossible becomes possible. Alone, even the possible is hard; with Him, even the impossible happens. A wave trying to live alone goes insane; a wave that declares its relation to the ocean—“I am Yours; sing through me… I do not sing now—You sing through me; beat my heartbeat; surge as my wave; touch the stars; dance in me—I step aside, I give You door and window”—for that wave, the Invisible becomes visible; the unachievable is achieved; the unimaginable showers upon you.
Raise your eyes toward Ram—and Ram will raise His eyes toward you.
I trust Your divine tavern-keeping, O Cupbearer;
A glance does the work—the cup is only a name.
Nothing need be drunk; just meet His gaze with yours.
A glance does the work—the cup is only a name.
One meeting of your eyes with the Beloved’s is the philosopher’s stone. In one glimpse you will know where you were going wrong.
Remember: God’s eyes have always been upon you. Only you are not looking at Him. Your turning is the only issue. Until you look, mistakes will continue; you will take pebbles for diamonds.
What is perishing, we assumed to be abiding.
What is little, we took to be All.
In the tumult of the world, a life like a water-bubble—
O heedless one, what have you taken this life to be?
What must perish we assumed to be eternal. What is limited we took to be the Infinite. This life will end—today or tomorrow; hands will be empty. Yet we live as if we will never die; as if only others die and not we.
Whenever a bier passes, know it is yours. Every death brings news of your death; every death brings your death nearer.
A life like a water-bubble—
O heedless one, what have you taken this life to be?
A bubble rises; sunlight paints rainbows on it. Now it is; now it bursts—such is life—rainbow-like. Try to catch the rainbow and your hand is empty—charming from afar, void up close.
Let your eyes lift a little toward God, and you receive a touchstone, a measure to weigh. In one ray from His eye into yours, you will measure this entire life. In a moment you see its futility, its insubstantiality. Then there is no need to flee. If it is His will that you stay, you will stay; if His will is to move you, you will go. You will neither live by your will nor leave by your will. “As Ram keeps me.” You live by that way.
“As Ram keeps me”—this is the root-sutra of sannyas; it is the essence of surrender.
Sannyas means surrender.
Malukdas’ explanation of sannyas is a key. Hold it well; it can open the doors of life’s temple.
Enough for today.
Holding to the One, the mind grows steady.
Mad with pain, wild with love...
The first definition of a sannyasin: one who is blissfully absorbed in the sweet ache of the Beloved—both the pain of separation and the pain of union. Understand this well: intoxicated by the pain of both separation and union.
Mad with pain, wild with love...
Until God is found there is pain—that is true. But even on finding God there is still a great pain—only its quality changes. The sting disappears; it turns honeyed, mellow, sweet. In separation it pricks like a thorn; in union it is like laying a flower upon a wound. But pain is in both.
The sannyasin is drunk on this pain; the worldly man is busy trying to forget it. The worldly mind means: forever attempting to deny that there is any pain in not finding or finding God. He toils to become powerful enough to forget God completely. His back is turned to the Divine, and also to life’s truth—playing with toys.
If even the faintest remembrance arises that God is, pain begins immediately. With that remembrance, revolution is born in your life. If God is, what are you doing hoarding money? If God is, what are you doing running a shop? If God is, what are wealth and status worth? Then pour your life-energy toward the One, because only in finding That is anything truly found; all else gains you nothing.
But the very fact that God is, hurts. God is—and I have not met Him—so there is pain. God is—so what have I been doing through birth after birth? Where have I wandered? In what painful dreams was I lost? God is—and I never even knocked at His door! Pain will arise.
Who flees this pain is worldly. Who becomes intoxicated in this pain—who says, “Blessed am I that even this much has happened: the pain of God’s absence has awakened in me! If autumn has come, spring cannot be far”—that one dances in the pain of separation. Yes, his dance is salted with tears, but now his tears are filled with thrill, with fervor; they are no longer merely tears.
You may laugh after gaining the world, but there is nothing true in that laughter, for death laughs through it. And even if you weep because God is still “lost” to you, your tears will not carry lamentation—shadows of union begin to fall, reflections of meeting start forming.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Who is drunk on the pain of God’s absence and God’s nearness—that one is a sannyasin. Who says: “God hasn’t met me yet, but is it not enough that I have remembered that He has not yet met me? If this has happened, union too will happen. How long can the night of separation last? The dawn of union must be near.” Separation means union is. If there were no separation, there would be no way to union.
The worldly man tries to forget: “I am cut off from the Divine.” He denies in a thousand ways—first by saying there is no God, all this is nonsense. He soothes his mind: “Since God does not exist, only this world is worth doing; nothing else is worth doing.”
By saying there is no God he is saving himself from the storm that would rise at once if he accepted God’s presence—a storm that would shake him to the roots. He is avoiding autumn.
But remember: autumn prepares the way for spring. Dry leaves must fall for new buds to have a door. If dry leaves cling, no new leaves can sprout. Night arranges for the dawn; morning is born in the womb of night.
The worldly one says, “I feel no such separation. If there is no God, what separation?” And if he does admit to separation, it is for money—that money should be and is not; or for a wife away at her mother’s; or for a husband who has left; or for a son not yet born; or for a position that was deserved and not received. We created a thousand flimsy separations to avoid the one true separation—and none of these bring union. You know this.
When money is lacking, there is pain; but when money comes, no fulfillment comes. These separations are impotent; no true union follows them. A post missed hurts—that is true; but who has become happy by attaining a post? Certainly the longing was false. The old leaf fell and no new leaf was born; then the old leaf must have been plastic, counterfeit—mere belief and illusion. Had it been real, its falling would have made room for the new.
Alexander died in sorrow, weeping—he conquered the world, but lost his life. Ask the richest—the honest ones will confess: nothing was gained but ash. They are spent and defeated.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
He who suffers in God’s separation-and-union—and yet whose suffering is bliss.
Mad with pain, wild with love...
He does not call it suffering anymore. How can it be called suffering? Even the Beloved’s absence is delight. He cries, but in his tears is the footfall of the One who comes.
…carefree fakir.
He cries, yet is ecstatic; he cries, yet is beyond all inner conflict.
Fakir means: one who owns nothing. Exactly the sense of Jesus’ saying: “Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of God.” Blessed are the poor!
Which poor? Those who say: “Nothing is mine; whatever is, is God’s. I make no claim of ownership.” See the difference. You may drop all your wealth and become a fakir—and still keep saying, “I left millions,” then you still believe they were yours and you, the renouncer, performed a great deed. You are not a fakir—you are still accounting!
Fakir means: one who has seen: what of all this can be mine? Before I was, the world was; after I am gone, it will remain. My being here a few days makes no difference to the whole. Yet I sneak in between and start claiming!
Look how people draw lines on earth and claim “my land, my nation!” The land doesn’t know whose land it is. You came and you will go. You arose from dust and will dissolve into dust. In between, for a moment, you dreamed grand dreams and made claims.
He who makes no claims is poor, a fakir. He says: “Nothing was mine—so what is there to renounce?” Understand this.
The indulger says, “I have millions.” The renouncer says, “I have left millions.” Both agree that the millions are or were theirs. The fakir says, “Nothing is mine. I use things, but they are not mine. I may cease using them, but still they are not mine. All belongs to God. The entire earth is the Lord’s.”
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Who has said “All is His; nothing is mine”—his ego dissolves on its own. For the ego needs props: my house, my money, my position, my prestige. The ‘I’ survives on the crutch of ‘mine.’ Remove the ‘mine’ and the ‘I’ collapses at once—it is crippled without it.
Many of you wonder: How to drop the ego? The ego will not drop until ‘mine’ drops. Let ‘mine’ go, and even if you try, you will not be able to keep ‘I.’ The sum of all your ‘mine-mine’ is your ‘I.’ The more you can say “mine,” the bigger your ‘I.’
Watch: someone attains power—his ‘I’ swells. Visit him when he loses his post—the ‘I’ has shriveled as if air escaped from a balloon.
While you have wealth, you walk one way; when you don’t, the vital spring leaves your step.
I have heard of two fakirs crossing a stream. One leapt in a single bound to the other side. The second was amazed—it was a long jump. He tried and fell in the middle. Soaked, he asked, “Where did you learn that jump? With such a jump you could break an Olympic record. Where did you learn?”
The first said, “It is not a matter of training. There is a secret—there’s money in my pocket. When there is money in the pocket a warmth comes. What’s in your pocket? An empty pocket can’t jump!”
See how a man’s gait changes when he has money—horns sprout! When the pocket is empty, even his height shrinks; the balloon has burst.
Fakir means: one who says, “Nothing is mine.” In saying that, he has also said: “I am nothing.” The outer meaning is “nothing of mine”; the deeper center is “no self of mine.”
He who has nothing—not even a self—is a fakir. Then naturally there is carefree ecstasy. The more you have, the more worry, conflict, anxiety, security, arrangements. When nothing is yours, what worry, what conflict, what security? Then you can stretch your legs and sleep.
A prime minister renounced and went to the forest. The emperor loved him dearly. Hearing he had become enlightened, the emperor went to see him—with old expectations in tow. He found the former minister naked under a tree, beating a small drum. He neither stopped his drumming, nor stood up, nor drew in his legs. A bit beyond decorum. The emperor said, “So you have become wise—but what kind of wisdom is this? You didn’t even pull in your legs! You did not stand up. I was once your master. At least move your legs; don’t forget manners.”
The fakir laughed, “Let it be. Why pull in my legs now? I pulled them in before because of inner conflict—to save my position. Don’t be in the illusion that I did it for you. I stood up for myself—out of fear, to save my post, prestige, wealth, job. Now, for whom should I rise? For what? If standing is needed, I’ll stand. If not, I won’t. What manners? All that was fuss; within was ego.”
Fakir means: nothing personal remains.
“Almast” has two meanings. First: drowned in boundless ecstasy. Second: beyond inner conflict. No anxieties arise; what is, is right; just as it is, it is perfectly right. No wish that the existence be otherwise in order to be happy. He is happy as he is. However the world runs, his joy is untouched.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Holding to the One, the mind grows steady.
Sannyasin means: one who has taken trust in the One.
Holding to the One…
Who has put all his faith in the One—gathered, one-pointed; surrendered everything to That One, poured everything at His feet.
Holding to the One, the mind grows steady.
And who knows the secret of waiting…
…thus the mind is steady.
Who has given everything to the One and is ready to wait forever. Because not everything is given in one stroke. Surrender ripens in layers. You say, “I have given all,” but much remains. Layer after layer, deep down in the unconscious, roots of ego burrow far. You hear only the rustle above; below the roots are hidden. You offer leaves, flowers, even cut branches, cut the tree—but the roots remain. Slowly, slowly a day comes when the surrender is total; then the revolution happens. Till then, patience is essential.
There are two means to find the Divine—prayer and waiting. Prayer means: hand it all over to Him. Prayer means: “Servant Maluka has said, the Giver of all is Ram.” Prayer means: “What You do, will be; as You will, so it shall be; when You do, then it will be.” And waiting means: “I consent. I will wait. There is no hurry. If You make me wait till eternity, I will wait. Who is in haste?”
Haste too is the ego’s. Impatience is its shadow. The ego wants it now. Why? It knows death is coming. Time is slipping away. One day gone—one day less; two days gone—two days less.
See how in the West there is more haste than in the East. Why? The belief: there is only one life. If there is just one, anxiety is intense. Death approaches—before I have lived or achieved anything, death’s footsteps sound. Blood pressure rises, heart attacks loom, the knock at the door grows loud, death’s shadows appear—and nothing has been done. Only one life—so restlessness.
In the East there is less restlessness: life is infinite. This life gone—nothing is lost; more will come. This season passes—no harm; the next will arrive. If flowers didn’t bloom this spring, they will the next; spring will keep returning.
The word “ritu” (season) comes from “Rit”—Vedic rit meaning: that which returns again and again; that which goes and comes; whose going holds its coming; the endless circulation of existence.
In the East there is waiting; hence little fixation on time. In the West, a great obsession with time. Tell a Westerner, “I’ll come at five,” arrive five minutes late—he is upset. In India, five o’clock can mean four or six—it’s fine. Monday meant, but Tuesday you came—fine. Time holds lightly here.
The clock was born in the West, not in the East. In the East most people wear watches as ornaments—that’s my experience. Especially women—pure adornment. The sense of time is not the Western, breathless, “It must happen exactly on time, save every minute!” And after you save the minutes—what will you do with them? Where are you going?
I heard of a primitive region where railway tracks were being laid. The chief officer saw a tribesman lying joyfully under a tree, head on a rock, watching others work. The officer asked, “What do you do?” “I cut wood and go sell it in the city.” “How long?” “Two days going, two days returning, one or two—sometimes three—days to sell.” “Then the whole week is lost! But look—trains are coming. Next year, in an hour you’ll go and return.”
But the man did not look pleased. “Why not happy?” asked the officer. He said, “All right, I’ll go in an hour and return in an hour—but then what will I do for seven days? Another bother! Now at least one day remains; I come back exhausted after six days and rest today. If I have seven empty days—then what?”
His concern is natural.
In the West they save time and then don’t know what to do with it. What is the use of saving time?
Impatience about time is part of the ego. The ego naturally fears death, for death kills only the ego, not you.
Mad with pain, wild with love, carefree fakir.
Holding to the One, the mind grows steady.
One trust in the Lord; prayer; hand everything over to Him—that is sannyas. And then the readiness to wait endlessly. Paradoxically, the more you hurry, the longer it takes; the more patience you have, the sooner it happens. The one ready to wait forever—finds Him this very moment. The very fragrance of waiting opens the door.
…thus the mind is steady.
Sannyas means: prayer.
Sannyas means: egolessness.
Sannyas means: to be drunk in His union and His separation.
Sannyas means: endless waiting for His coming.
Drinking the cup of Love, all companions are forgotten.
Swaying all eight watches of the day, like a rut-mad elephant.
Maluk says:
Drinking the cup of Love, all companions are forgotten.
The world is forgotten once even two drops from His cup have touched the lips; once prayer begins, once you are intoxicated with His remembrance—then all companions fade. Understand the difference.
Do not “leave” the world—taste the Divine. On tasting the Divine, the world is forgotten of itself. Those who try to drop the world without tasting God do not succeed; it returns in new guises. Suppression results. Desires crawl in the dark like vermin, peering from every side to drag you back to the world.
Look within a so-called renouncer and you’ll be shocked: his state is often worse than the indulger’s. The indulger at least indulges and is less tormented. The renouncer doesn’t indulge, nor has God met him—he hangs in limbo, neither here nor there; the washerman’s donkey—neither of home nor ghat. He left the world hoping God would come, but leaving the world has no necessary relation to meeting God. After all, the world is God’s—how can dropping it bring Him?
Not by leaving, but by understanding the world does one meet God—not by running, but by awakening. And surely, once you catch even a little taste of the Real, your grip on the false loosens. When real diamonds arrive, who will carry shards of colored glass?
Drinking the cup of Love, all companions are forgotten.
Swaying all eight watches, like an elephant in rut.
Like a tusker swaying in intoxication, so, says Malukdas, the sannyasin sways all twenty-four hours. His inner dance goes on.
I roam with two strings of breath as my lute.
I drink the wine of love.
I never tend the world’s concerns—
Ask those who sing of the world;
I sing the song of my own heart.
I carry my heart’s utterance, my heart’s gift.
This world is incomplete; it does not please me.
I carry a world of dreams within.
All efforts fail to know the Truth—has anyone known by effort?
The clever end up where the naive began.
Then why should the world not remain foolish, even after lessons?
I am learning to forget learned knowledge.
I roam in madmen’s garb,
Drunk to the dregs.
Hearing me, the world sways and surges;
I carry the message of ecstasy.
Because of so-called renouncers, a wrong image of the sannyasin has arisen—sad, defeated, tearful, never smiling; no joy, no flow of juice; a desert, a dry tree on which no new buds sprout; spring comes and returns empty; birds do not nest; no shade for the traveler. Such a dried-up man we call dispassionate, in whom all rasa is gone. This is a distortion.
A true sannyasin is always in rejoicing. His dance is ongoing; his tune plays through all the watches. Around him you will feel festival in the air. Where there is an atmosphere of celebration and waves of delight, know that sannyas has happened. The gloomy and tearful are not sannyasins; they are deluded about sannyas. They have left the world; true. But not one drop from the Beloved’s cup has slid down their throat. “Swaying all eight watches, like an elephant in rut.”
To his eyes no king, no pauper appears.
Having broken the bonds of attachment, he moves unafraid.
A sannyasin sees neither rich nor poor. Why? Because when all is seen as His, who is rich and who poor? To him both rich and poor are poor—both are crazed for wealth; neither has received news of the true treasure.
To his eyes no king or pauper appears.
Breaking attachment’s bonds, he wanders fearless.
With one sip from the Beloved’s cup, all bonds of attachment fall. Why? Because in attachment we sought that very love which never came. It did not come, so we clutched. Whom have you held on to—and why? Hoping that if not today, then tomorrow, the Divine will be found.
We are thirsty for God; we clutch the wife, the husband, a friend, a son, a mother, a father—hoping to find God through them. So all relationships are tinged with sorrow and anger. You can never be truly pleased with your spouse because your demand is enormous—what that poor person cannot give. You want a god or goddess. She wants the same from you. It cannot be; thus restlessness and quarrel. Look deeply and you’ll see: she wants you to be godlike. When she scolds you for smoking or gambling, what is she saying? In her ideal, her husband should be divine. Perhaps even she doesn’t know why she is mad at you, but her grievance springs from that hidden ideal.
You too seek something extraordinary—divine, eternal—in your spouse. It isn’t there. You find an ordinary person—full of jealousy, anger, pettiness. The mind feels cheated. You had wanted a beauty that never withers—and the partner wilts. You had wanted a taste of the beyond; it isn’t there, so you grow sad. Then you go looking in another man or woman.
But that is not a way to the Divine. Those who raise their eyes straight to the Infinite and stop demanding the Infinite from the finite—those who remove the demand beyond the capacity of limits—and directly seek the Unlimited, for them the bonds of delusion fall by themselves. When one ties up with God, all other ties loosen.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
Meeting the Lord, one becomes the Lord…
The supreme and astonishing result of meeting God is that the one who meets, becomes God. Nothing less can satisfy. You cannot fit in a small courtyard; you need the whole sky. Your destiny is the Vast. Until you yourself become the Lord of lords, you will remain unfulfilled.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
“Darkness” here means tamas, obscurity, smallness, lust. Essentially: within no darkness remains—the lamp is lit.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that house where breath does not go.
A unique sutra.
Buddha told his monks: watch the breath—anapanasati, satipatthana. Why? Watching the breath you will see: the breath is not you. You are where even breath does not reach. Breath is necessary for the body, not for you. Breath is the bridge between soul and body. When the breath breaks, the connection drops. But that is not death; only the conjunction ends. Keep watch as breath goes in and out—intensify awareness. One day you know: I am not breath. That day you step out of death—glimpse the deathless.
Maluk says:
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
Where breath does not reach—that is the home. Up to where breath goes—the world. Where breath does not go—God. And reaching there, you do not just see God—you are That. As long as even the tiniest distance remains—“you” as seer and God as seen—restlessness remains. Even that distance is unbearable. That is the pain of love. Whom you love, distance from them is unbearable. In this world, whatever you do, distance remains. Husband and wife may melt for a moment, but only for a moment; then the distance stands up again, thicker than before.
A car with dazzling headlights passes you on a dark night; for a moment there is bright light. After it passes, the darkness seems deeper; now nothing is visible. So too after the momentary merging of sex, a deeper distance appears, which is why a melancholy follows. Here, nonduality cannot be consummated. Only with God can nonduality be fulfilled, because there the body is not the barrier. Body divides; beyond body, distinctions end.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
Let me become like water,
Clutch the sun’s ray as a rope
And climb the sky;
Vapor, I wander—
Then rain.
Touch the moon’s cool shade,
Harden into ice—
Then melt and flow,
Pour where I will,
Assume any form or hue—
Yet remain, at last, what I truly am!
Even this prayer is unnecessary. What we are, we remain. Through endless time and wanderings, the Master dwells within; we remain what we are. Hence: meeting the Master, one becomes the Master.
If we were separate from the Master, we could not become one. We are already one with Him; therefore, the instant remembrance dawns, the distance falls. Our unity with God is eternal. We never became separate. We cannot be separate—like a wave cannot be separate from the ocean however high it leaps, whatever forms it takes; it is always ocean and will fall back into ocean. The power of the wave is the ocean’s power. We are waves. The day a wave wakes up it cries, “Ah—wave has become ocean!” But wave was ocean.
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
He who does not erase himself to remember the Lord—that man drowns.
Maluk says: he alone drowns who won’t forget himself to remember God. We remember ourselves and forget God.
There are only two ways to live. Remember yourself and forget God—the worldly way. Or forget yourself and remember God—the sannyasin’s way. Put yourself second and God first—then it will not take long: meeting the Master, you become the Master. Put yourself first and God second, and no matter how much you call yourself a theist, you are a nonbeliever at heart.
Watch how even the so-called theist prays: he puts God second. He says to God: do what I want. He does not say: whatever You will, I accept gladly. He says: my son needs a job—fix it; my wife is ill—repair it; I am so devotional—now listen and don’t be deaf! He remains the master and wants to use God. This is not theism.
He who does not erase himself to remember the Lord—that man drowns.
Failing to grasp the Lord’s secret, he drowns for nothing.
He drowns because he never knew the Lord’s mystery. Forget yourself, remember God—and your passage is swift:
If You are with me, what midstream, what far shore?
Every wave is a shore, the ocean a call.
In the wildest storm, cradle my little boat in Your hands—
Even if You “drown” me, I reach the shore.
Understand: even if God “drowns” you, you arrive. Jesus’ famous paradox: whoever saves himself will lose himself; whoever loses himself will save himself.
He who does not erase himself to remember the Lord—that man drowns.
Failing to grasp the Lord’s secret, he drowns for nothing.
We all strive to save the trivial—trying to save the wave—and therefore drown again and again. We never learn the ocean’s secret; we cling to the small.
Trusting in merit, they forget the Master.
They sink while searching, never finding.
Even the religious do this—“trusting in merit, forgetting the Lord.” They rely on what they have done: so much charity, so many mosques, temples, gurudwaras; feeding so many; running hospitals and schools. They think by the force of merit they’ll find Truth. It is delusion. Merit can also be an ornament of the ego—a golden chain is still a chain. Sin may be iron, merit gold; both bind.
Trusting in merit, they forget the Master.
The man who says “I have done good” becomes the doer; he is trapped, and misses the ocean’s secret. There is only one true merit: seeing that I am not the doer—God is. And only one sin: “I have done; God is not the doer.”
Trusting in merit, they forget the Master.
They sink while searching, never finding.
Their search is like trying to empty the sea with a spoon.
I have heard: on the Greek coast a man had dug a small pit and was running with a spoon to the sea, filling the spoon and pouring into the pit. Aristotle, strolling, watched this again and again. Curiosity overcame him: “What are you doing?” “I have resolved to bail out the sea.” Aristotle laughed, “You will go mad! Such a tiny spoon, such a vast sea—do the math!”
The man burst out laughing, “If I am mad, who are you? I hear you are trying to comprehend God with this little skull of yours—measuring the infinite with the spoon of logic!”
Aristotle grew very sad. It was true. He, the father of Western logic, was being warned by some almast mystic, perhaps a Malukdas type: you cannot pour the Vast into this small head.
Trusting in merit, they forget the Master.
They sink while searching, never finding.
The Truth that surrounds you is bottomless. You will not find it with the spoon of ego, nor weigh it on your petty scales. If you would know it, there is only one way: drown! Melt into it! Become one with it!
Meeting the Master, one becomes the Master; darkness remains no more.
Says Maluk: he reached that home where breath does not go.
Sitting in the company of saints, fools boast of caste.
“We are great! We are great!”—and drown without water.
Even when you go to satsang you do not do satsang.
Sitting in the gathering of the holy, fools talk of birth and status—“I am a Brahmin, a Kshatriya, a king, a scholar; I have this wealth, that post.” Even there you are busy with stupidity. Sitting with saints does not make satsang. Wrap yourself tight in the shawl of ego and the saint may rain on you—you will stay dry. Satsang happens only when you drop all shawls—stand naked and unafraid, open all doors. Then let the master’s wave enter; let your heart dance with his rhythm; disappear for a few moments.
With a guru you first learn to disappear—so that one day you can disappear into the Mahaguru. The guru is like a small lake—learn to dive here and someday you will dive into the ocean. He is a window—through it you can reach the vast sky.
Sitting in the company of saints, fools boast of caste.
“We are great! We are great!”—and drown without water.
Even if you don’t speak it aloud, the same disease works. People send word: “We want to come, but we can’t sit in the back; arrange seats in front.” Why? Whoever comes early sits in front; latecomers sit behind. It hurts them to sit behind. Even if they come, they sit burning: “I am in the back.” They cannot hear or sink into what is happening. A strong iron sheet encloses them.
Some say they cannot sit on the floor. Why? Some are diseased with being collectors, commissioners, mayors, ministers. So I say: better not come. It will be useless—waste of time. Use the time to become a full minister if you are deputy; at least that will serve your ambition. Coming here will not.
Sitting in the company of saints, fools boast of caste.
“We are great! We are great!”—and drown without water.
From long ago they are bound, yet they are not free.
Time and again death has seized and plundered them.
For births upon births you have been bound and still not free. Wake up now! When will you awaken? How long will you clutch this ego? How much pain will you gather before you learn?
From long ago they are bound, yet they are not free.
I heard of a hotel that wasn’t doing well. The manager put up a sign: “Eat to your heart’s content—no need to pay; your grandchildren can settle the bill.” Crowds came. Mulla Nasruddin arrived with wife, children, the neighborhood’s children and friends—ate the best of everything. As he left, the manager presented a bill for six hundred rupees. “What? Look at the sign!” “Yes,” said the manager, “today’s bill we’ll collect from your grandchildren. This is for what your ancestors ate here.”
Bound from behind, bound ahead—we wriggle along. You have not escaped what you did in past lives; what you do now will bind you tomorrow.
From long ago they are bound, yet they are not free.
Time and again the messengers of Death have seized and plundered them.
How many times have you died? How many times been born? How many times, reborn, you ran the same race—gathered wealth and lost it, played the games of desire and had them broken. Death came and snatched all. Yet you do not learn.
From long ago they are bound, yet they are not free.
Time and again Death’s envoys have looted them.
Even Death’s messengers are defeated by you—you slip from their hands only to run the very same race again.
Turning from lust, who sings only of Ram—
Says servant Maluka—he beholds the Unseen.
Maluk says:
Turn from lust and sing of Ram.
Do one thing you have never done. Until now your energy has run into lust and craving. Withdraw a little of that energy and pour it into Ram’s song. There are two directions: kama (desire) and Rama (the Divine). Kama means: blindly obeying the ego’s voice. Rama means: listening to the Vast, lifting your eyes to the Infinite, humming the Eternal.
…who sings of Ram.
Hum a little of Ram’s song, get drunk on His name.
Says servant Maluka—he beholds the Unseen.
Who learns to sing the Lord—who remembers Allah within—receives what nothing else can give: the Goal that no other means can attain.
…the Unseen becomes seen.
What the eyes cannot see becomes visible; what ears cannot hear becomes the sweetest music; what hands cannot touch is touched by your very being.
…the Unseen becomes seen.
With Ram, the impossible becomes possible. Alone, even the possible is hard; with Him, even the impossible happens. A wave trying to live alone goes insane; a wave that declares its relation to the ocean—“I am Yours; sing through me… I do not sing now—You sing through me; beat my heartbeat; surge as my wave; touch the stars; dance in me—I step aside, I give You door and window”—for that wave, the Invisible becomes visible; the unachievable is achieved; the unimaginable showers upon you.
Raise your eyes toward Ram—and Ram will raise His eyes toward you.
I trust Your divine tavern-keeping, O Cupbearer;
A glance does the work—the cup is only a name.
Nothing need be drunk; just meet His gaze with yours.
A glance does the work—the cup is only a name.
One meeting of your eyes with the Beloved’s is the philosopher’s stone. In one glimpse you will know where you were going wrong.
Remember: God’s eyes have always been upon you. Only you are not looking at Him. Your turning is the only issue. Until you look, mistakes will continue; you will take pebbles for diamonds.
What is perishing, we assumed to be abiding.
What is little, we took to be All.
In the tumult of the world, a life like a water-bubble—
O heedless one, what have you taken this life to be?
What must perish we assumed to be eternal. What is limited we took to be the Infinite. This life will end—today or tomorrow; hands will be empty. Yet we live as if we will never die; as if only others die and not we.
Whenever a bier passes, know it is yours. Every death brings news of your death; every death brings your death nearer.
A life like a water-bubble—
O heedless one, what have you taken this life to be?
A bubble rises; sunlight paints rainbows on it. Now it is; now it bursts—such is life—rainbow-like. Try to catch the rainbow and your hand is empty—charming from afar, void up close.
Let your eyes lift a little toward God, and you receive a touchstone, a measure to weigh. In one ray from His eye into yours, you will measure this entire life. In a moment you see its futility, its insubstantiality. Then there is no need to flee. If it is His will that you stay, you will stay; if His will is to move you, you will go. You will neither live by your will nor leave by your will. “As Ram keeps me.” You live by that way.
“As Ram keeps me”—this is the root-sutra of sannyas; it is the essence of surrender.
Sannyas means surrender.
Malukdas’ explanation of sannyas is a key. Hold it well; it can open the doors of life’s temple.
Enough for today.
Osho's Commentary
By Nanak I am influenced; by Kabir I am astonished; by Baba Malukdas I am intoxicated. Such wine-drenched utterances belong to no other saint.
In Nanak there is the essential thread of Dharma—but plain, austere. In Kabir there is a challenge to adharma—greatly revolutionary, profoundly rebellious. In Maluk there is the ecstasy of Dharma; the Paramahansa form of Dharma; what the one who has drunk Dharma is like. There is neither much concern to state the essence of Dharma, nor any insistence to fight adharma. When one has drunk the wine of Dharma, what waves of intoxication arise in life, what songs burst forth from those waves, what flowers shower from those waves—such a simple, carefree fakir you will glimpse in Maluk.
Dripping, the flowers fell—
Harsingar rained down.
These clouds, they rain—
drop by drop they seep;
becoming a drenched cloud, friend,
Harsingar scattered.
On gusts of wind,
to far and farther edges,
gifting fragrance to the ambience,
Harsingar was wrung and spent.
Filling handfuls with flowers,
perfuming every particle,
becoming, friend, Vitarag,
Harsingar shone forth.
As a tree sheds itself into its flowers, so Baba Malukdas has shed himself into his utterances. There is no taking of sides, no opposing of anyone. What has filled the within flows naturally. For those who want to be intoxicated; who want to drown; who neither wish to offer any logical exposition of Dharma nor to enter into any struggle with adharma; who wish to set resonating the strings of that veena lying within—without whose resonance neither is truth known nor is any struggle with untruth possible.
You will not find a more beautiful lake than Maluk. For those who thirst and are eager to quench that thirst, and who do not care to theorize about water; who say: we are thirsty, and it is no concern of ours what the definition of water is—we want water...
And to quench thirst one does not have to understand the definition of water. You may know as much as you like about how water is formed; someone may explain at length that it is born of oxygen and hydrogen; may hand you the formula H2O and say, here is the formula of water—yet your thirst will not be quenched. Thirst is quenched only by water. And for quenching thirst, it is not necessary to know how water is constituted. To quench thirst you must simply bend, scoop water into your palms, and drink.
Maluk is such a lake; if you bend, you will rise fulfilled. If you consent and open the doors of your heart, Maluk’s waves will set you vibrating; you will dance. In that dance alone is transformation. A song will arise within you, and in the birth of that song is Paramatma.
The Sheikh has the Kaba, the Brahmin the temple—
we have fixed our gaze upon the door of the tavern.
The maulvi is looking toward the Kaba. The Brahmin is looking toward the temple, toward Kashi.
We have fixed our gaze upon the door of the tavern.
But those who are intoxicated, they look toward the tavern. For them, Paramatma is neither Kaba nor Kashi. For them, Paramatma is the tavern.
Malukdas is a drinker. In his every word there is wine; in his every word there is rasa. If you drown, you will be saved. So make less effort to understand, more effort to drink. Do not connect through the intellect. Malukdas has nothing to do with the intellect. His utterances are like those of a simple child.
Only one of his sayings is widely known; the rest are scarcely remembered. That one saying has become famous—and grossly misinterpreted.
The python does no service,
the bird does no work.
Das Maluka has said,
Ram is the giver to all.
It became popular for the wrong reasons. The lazy made it popular. Whoever wished to avoid work found cover in it. Man is cunning. Maluk’s meaning was something else entirely. He is not saying, do nothing. He could never say that. He is saying: let Paramatma do—do not you do.
The python does no service... true. Who has seen a python in employment? But the python is ceaselessly engaged in its work. ‘The bird does no work.’ True. Birds do not clerk in offices, nor sit as magistrates, nor teach in schools, nor run shops. But they are at work all twenty-four hours. The sun has barely risen when the birds are out at work. Only when the sun sets does the work pause. They forage all day, then rest at night.
The vast work goes on. Even the tiniest ant is at work. No one here is idle. Then why did Maluk say, ‘The python does no service, the bird does no work’? His meaning is this: in this work there is no sense of the doer; there is no notion such as ‘I am doing.’ Let Paramatma make it happen! ‘Jehi vidhi rakhai Ram’—as he keeps us, so it is. That which he gets done, that alone is being done. The doer is he; we are only instruments.
Das Maluka has said, Ram is the giver to all.
Therefore we are neither doer nor enjoyer. We are not the doer, nor can we be successful or unsuccessful in doing. He acts—let him be the successful one, let him be the unsuccessful. One whose vision of life is thus will have no tension left, no anxiety.
This is the greatest formula for erasing tension. It is enough to rob human life of all worry. What is worry? Only this: that I may not lose. Only this: that someone else may not win. Only this: will I be able to win? Only this: that no mistake be made. Only this: that the goal I have set out for be attained.
One who has understood ‘Ram is the giver to all’—all his worry is gone. Ego goes, and worry goes. The doer-sense falls away, and restlessness ends. Then there is peace and only peace. Then even in failure there is success; in poverty, wealth. Then in death itself there is the great life. And right now, even in success only failure falls into your hands.
Have you not seen? How miserably the successful man fails! Upon reaching the peak of success how sad he becomes! Success has come—but what else has come? Success is in hand, but the whole life has slipped out of hand. And success is hollow. Does success beget success? You gathered wealth by spending your whole life—and then you find what will you do with the wealth—eat it, drink it, wear it—what will you do? And death begins to draw near. Wealth will not save you from death. Then it occurs: had I only meditated, it would have been well. For meditation alone is the thread that joins one to the immortal.
Become president or prime minister—what then upon reaching the post? Death will take everything away. What you have snatched from others, death will snatch from you. Death ends all the grabbing and snatching. Death is the great socialist; it makes everyone equal—the poor and the rich, the losers and the winners; it mixes all alike into dust, alike into dust. It makes no distinction for the victor, none for the vanquished. None for the white, none for the black. Death is the supreme socialist.
What will come of acquiring? Like the dream one sees at night which, when morning comes and sleep breaks, is lost—so one day death arrives and all dreams shatter; whether gained or ungained, all is equal. But in the race to acquire, you squandered that life through which That could be known—which death cannot snatch away.
Maluk’s formula meant—an unprecedented formula—that if you want to be at ease, there is but a small task; just a little device; a little art—and the art is this: move yourself aside and let Paramatma do whatever he gets done. If he gets it done, good; if he does not, good. If he takes you somewhere, good; if he does not, good. Leave all worry to him. Upon whom such an immense life is poised—the moon and stars move, the seasons wheel, the sun rises and sets; the vast ocean of life, with so many waves, is held by him—he will surely hold your little wave as well.
This does not mean you do nothing. You will have to billow—but let him billow within you. Do not make your wave into your ego. Surrender your wave into his hands.
Only this one small formula of Malukdas is known to people—and even that for the wrong reasons; it is repeated by the lazy who wish to do nothing; who do not abandon the sense of being the doer, yet drop the trouble of action. And the real thing is not to drop action; the real thing is to drop karta-bhava.
And Malukdas has wondrous formulas that have not remained in people’s memory. Today the sutras from which we begin to speak on Malukdas are unique. First of all, they concern Sannyas. Many sages have appeared in the world; they begin with the world. Malukdas begins with Sannyas.
It is natural, of course, that talk begins from the world, for that is where we are entangled—speak of that. What would it mean to speak of health to the sick? Speak of disease. That is his language; that he will understand. Health will come later, when disease is gone. Therefore, generally the utterances of saints begin with the world; then slowly, slowly, coaxing you along, the talk of Sannyas comes. Gradually, by gentle shifts, Sannyas is implanted within you.
Malukdas begins with Sannyas. The reason is exquisite. He says: what is the point of speaking of disease at all? If the talk of health is understood, disease cannot stick. Disease persists because we talk and talk only of disease. Disease persists because all our attention clings to disease. Disease persists because we do not take our eyes off it. Some people savor disease—those we call bhogis—their gaze too is fixed upon disease, unwavering, one-pointed. Others—those we call yogis—are busy fleeing disease; but their gaze too is fixed upon disease, lest it catch them! Some are drowned in disease, some are running from it; but the minds of both are entangled in it.
Maluk says: let there be some talk of Sannyas; let there be some talk of the other shore; some talk of moon and stars. With our eyes glued to the ground we have become like worms. Therefore he begins with Sannyas.
People often come to me and say, ‘You plunge people straightaway into Sannyas!’ One must begin with Sannyas. You have been worldly long enough. And if, after lives upon lives of worldliness, you have not understood that the world is futile, then to hope that you will understand by any further explanations is itself futile.
Pebbles and stones are in your hand. If through lifetimes of experience you have not understood that these are pebbles and stones, then by calling them pebbles and stones again and again, you will not understand. Now let there be some talk of diamonds. Perhaps by the talk of diamonds there will arise in you the thought that what you are carrying—are pebbles and stones. Perhaps by the talk of diamonds, for the first time in your life a comparison will arise—you will reflect whether what you have is stone or diamond; for this is the definition of the diamond. Perhaps you will untie your knot and look again at your pebbles and stones—none among them is a diamond.
What is needed is the discernment of the diamond; vilifying pebbles and stones will achieve nothing. If the discernment of the diamond dawns, you yourself will discard the pebbles and stones and set out in search of diamonds. You do search a lot; what you lack is discernment. It is not that you do not run; you run in the wrong directions. So come—let there be talk of the right direction.
Therefore I too speak of Sannyas, and I have deep resonance with Malukdas, a deep intimacy. The same wavelength. My vision too is this: the non-essential does not drop by dropping it; it drops through the experience of the essential. Attain the higher—and the lower falls away. By abandoning the lower you do not obtain the higher.
The tyagis have told you something else. They say: renounce the world and Paramatma will be attained. I say to you: set yourself to attaining Paramatma, and drop your concern with the world. As much as you descend into even a little taste of Paramatma, in that very measure will the darkness of the world separate from you.
Do not fight the dark; light the lamp. Enough of condemning the darkness—how long will you keep condemning it? Condemnation of darkness is futile. Darkness has no fault. Light the lamp. Light even a small lamp. Do not go on maligning this dark night. Even after maligning darkness for thousands of years nothing happens: condemnation does not light a lamp. Light a small lamp. And the moment a small lamp is lit, darkness is destroyed—even the darkness of lifetimes is destroyed. Darkness cannot say, ‘I am very ancient; shall I be dispelled by you—a lamp born just now?’ Darkness has no power; darkness is impotent.
The world is impotent. The world has no strength. Taste just a drop of Sannyas upon your lips—and the world will go.
One notion of Sannyas is: leave the world, then Sannyas. Another notion—the one I am working with—is: become a sannyasin, and the world will drop; it will drop of itself. Whether it drops or not makes no difference; within it you will be outside it.