Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #2

Tradition never forms around those with eyes; tradition forms around the blind. The line of the blind following the blind—that is what is called tradition. Those with eyes travel alone. The seeing have no crowd. Sheep move in flocks. Lions have no herds.

Saints have no fraternity, no guild. Behind a crowd there is always fear. The sheep clings to the herd out of fear—it lacks the courage to be alone. In the company of others, fear hides; the moment one is alone, it rises up.

Society exists because man is afraid. As man becomes fearless, society will fade. Then there will be individuals; the thing called society will loosen.

The very meaning of society is: alone, each of us feels too incomplete—so let’s hold hands and create a consoling illusion that we are not alone.

You have seen: when one man passes a cremation ground at night, he trembles. If a second joins him, the fear diminishes. The second was just as afraid. Both are frightened; separately frightened. But together they suppose some reassurance has come.

What difference should two frightened men make? The fear ought to double, if anything! Only an illusion arises—well, at least there’s someone else. The other’s presence gives a vague sense that if needed there will be company. So we make families. Alone there is fear. We make societies. Nations. States. We build group upon group. But behind it all, deep down, is fear.

A saint is alone. And the only ones who can be behind a saint, with a saint, are those who have the courage to be alone. Understand the difference. It’s not that people did not walk with Buddha—thousands did. But only those walked who were not seeking a crowd; who had the guts to be alone.

Sainthood means: the courage to be alone.

Had you gone to Buddha you would have found ten thousand monks sitting. On the surface it looks like a crowd. But don’t be deceived: this is not a crowd. Here each person sits for his own reason. From the outside it seems like a crowd, because ten thousand are gathered; but among these ten thousand there is not a single person who is sitting there because of the remaining 9,999. If the 9,999 were to leave, he would not get up with them. He sits for his own reason. Here each sits alone. Here ten thousand ones are sitting. Keep that in mind.

You can sit down for meditation with ten people, but the moment you enter meditation, the ten do not remain a group. Each person becomes separate. As you descend into meditation, separateness happens. The moment the eyes close, the crowd is gone. You remain. You remain alone; no second is left.

One tied to the crowd, shackled by tradition, cannot meditate—because in meditation one has to be alone. Meditation is the path to sainthood.

You ask: “Why has no tradition formed around drunkards like Baba Malukdas?”

Tradition cannot form.

Once in a while some rare one rises to that height. Such stars rise sometimes—and set. And then one has to wait for centuries.

You too can be such a star, if you drop fear. You too can be such a luminous body, if you drop the tie with the crowd.

Consider where all you have bound yourself to the crowd: someone says, “I am a Hindu.” Someone says, “I am a Muslim.” Someone says, “I am a Christian.” Someone says, “I am a Sikh.” Someone says, “I am Indian,” someone else, “I am Chinese,” another, “I am Japanese.” One says one thing, another says another. We have tied ourselves to a thousand groups.

One person is bound to who-knows-how-many groups! Rise above all these bonds and you will attain to sainthood.

Saints don’t have crowds; nor do they have any guild.

And a band around people like Malukdas is even more difficult. You get jittery even walking with such intoxicated ones. Their ecstasy fills you with even more fear.

Nothing scares you more than ecstasy. Why? Because ecstasy has one indispensable condition: you must drop control. If you are to sway like a high, carefree elephant, you cannot keep control. If you are to walk wave-like, like a drunkard, then control will be gone. And when control goes, the ego is gone.

Ego is the controller. Ego sits there all the time maintaining control. Ego is the tyrant within. What ego says, you do. What it says not to do, you don’t do. When ego moves you, you move; when ego seats you, you sit.

What does “mast,” the intoxicated one, mean? It means: there is no longer any inner controller driving the cart. Everything is now left to the Divine. Wherever His will is, let Him take me. If He wants to drown me, He may drown me—I will hum a song and sink. If He wants to erase me, He may erase me—I will smile and be erased. Whatever His will; however His will.

Ego says: move by calculation; measure every step; don’t stray. Be clever; be shrewd. So you cannot walk with the intoxicated.

Baba Malukdas is a drunkard. To go with a drunkard means you will have to gather the courage to drink too. Otherwise what’s the point of sitting with a drunkard? And the danger is that if you sit among drinkers, satsang has its consequences: sit with drunkards, you start drinking; sit with saints, you start drinking.

What does satsang mean? It means you are open to the saint’s “illness.” If the saint’s “disease” starts moving toward you, you will not resist. You will say: come, the doors are open. Sainthood is contagious. As disease spreads, so does saintliness.

People fear saints! Out of fear they even worship. Worship is a tactic of fear. Touch the feet—and run! They don’t sit nearby. They touch the feet and say, “Baba, spare me.” Touching the feet they mean: you keep your holiness, I’ll keep my life; may your grace remain; may your blessing remain. But they don’t linger with saints. It’s dangerous.

Difficult,
very difficult,
to sit and bear beauty:
the washed, tender grasses,
the scattered, shimmering form,
the light, half-closed sun,
the soft, drifting clouds.

Difficult,
very difficult,
to only peep from a window—
new leaves on trees,
their whispering rustle,
lying on the bed, to listen
to the showers outside.

Difficult,
very difficult.

There is a call. The sun has come out—there is a call. Spring has come, blossoms have fallen—there is a call. Fragrances bring a thousand messages: they say, come out. Then it’s difficult to lie there with doors and windows shut.

Just as nature calls—do you hear these birds?—so too the Divine calls through the saints.

If you keep yourself near saints, in the beat of their hearts you will hear the reverberation of the Divine.

Difficult,
very difficult,
to sit and bear beauty.
You will have to walk; to rise; to go along.

When the call comes, you will not be able to deny it. So people are clever—they stay far away. They find a thousand excuses to stay far. Someone stays away by saying there’s nothing in sainthood; God and such are mere words; nonsense. Heaven, hell, liberation—nothing exists. What soul? What soul! Man is only dust. A two-day’s play—play it out. Then gone is gone.

One avoids the saints by becoming an atheist. It’s a tactic; a negative tactic. It is also a tactic of avoidance—remember. The atheist is seeking ways to keep away from saints. He fences himself in: since it doesn’t exist, why go? Once he fixes his mind, hardens the thought—there is no God, no heaven, no moksha, no samadhi; all hoax, all sophistry—once he makes it firm, then the urge to go will not arise. And even if by mistake he does arrive sometime, the ears are so filled with the lead of these notions that nothing is heard. Even if he sees a saint, whatever is wrong is all he will see; the right won’t be visible at all. You have prepared your eyes beforehand to see the false.

There is another tactic—the theist’s tactic. You know the atheist may be trying to avoid, but I want to tell you: the theist also tries to avoid. He too devises ways not to have to go to a living saint. What are his methods? One is: he worships dead saints. In Rama there is no danger. In Krishna there is no danger. In Christ now there is no danger. Kabir, Nanak—now there is no danger. When they were alive, then there was danger.

What will a dead saint do! You are already dead; and your saint is dead too! Between two corpses, harmony is easy; friendship forms. A dead saint cannot change you. Hence the theist worships dead saints and avoids the living—because a living saint is dangerous, a spark. If it falls, your thatch will burn.

Kabir has said: “Let him come who has burned his house; he may walk with us.” Your house will burn. So you worship ashes—you call the ash “vibhuti,” sacred ash. You anoint your forehead with it.

The living saint is a live coal; you worship ash.

So either worship dead saints, or—if somehow you blunder into the presence of a living one—say, “Maharaj, I’ll come someday. Granted, you are absolutely right...” This “granted, you are absolutely right” is a tactic of escape; because once you’ve granted he is absolutely right, what remains to be done? Restlessness is gone. You grant, “You are absolutely right. I am a sinner; I am fallen; you are great. Where are you, where am I! I accept every letter you say is true. But my time has not yet come. When my time comes, I will come.”

So you place two flowers at his feet—and leave!

Worship is also a way to avoid the saint.

Only he reaches a saint who drops all strategies of avoidance. Who says: come, let me courageously open my eyes once and see what sainthood is. Who knows—the life-treasure we search for here and there, in separate directions, may be hidden in sainthood itself. Who knows...

Do not go to a saint filled with denial—and do not go filled with belief. Go neither as an atheist nor as a theist. Go to the saint with an open heart, with open eyes; go as a mirror—so that what is, may be seen as it is. And if what is is truly seen, then surely...

Difficult,
very difficult,
to sit and bear beauty:
the washed, tender grasses,
the bright, scattered form,
the light, half-closed sun,
the soft, drifting clouds.

Difficult,
very difficult,
to only peep from a window—
new leaves on trees,
their whispering rustle,
lying on the bed, to listen
to the showers outside.

Difficult,
very difficult.

When you hear the gushing of the Divine—within a saint’s heart; when you hear the tinkling stream of the Divine—within a saint’s heart; when you place your ear against the saint’s heart and sit—that is what discipleship means...

Discipleship does not mean worship. Discipleship means listening, the capacity to hear. Discipleship means: I will see what is, as it is; I will not alter it; I will not interpret. I will not stand in the way; I will step aside and see. At least once, let me look out the window and see what is happening outside. At least once, let me see what can happen within a human being—what is the possibility? In one within whom it has happened, if I can peep once, perhaps I will come to my own remembrance.

So people fear saints—and even more, the drunken saints. There are two kinds of saints. One kind is in harmony with propriety, society, culture, civilization—as we call Rama “the supreme of propriety.” So there are saints like Rama, who do not deviate a hair’s breadth from social decorum.

And there are revolutionary seers, like Krishna, in whose life there is no such decorum. It is no mere accident that this country called Rama a partial incarnation and Krishna a full incarnation. Those who knew had to say so. One who keeps to tradition is only a part—not the whole. One who walks the beaten track—there, only a fragment of God has descended—not the whole.

When the whole of God descends, what decorum? What limit? He descends like a flood. The whole Divine is not a faucet you turn on so He flows within your measure! The whole is like a cloudburst; the rain comes down in torrents; lakes, rivers, streams fill; the whole earth trembles.

So the saint has a gentle form—Rama is its symbol. And the saint has a revolutionary form—Krishna is its symbol. Maluk belongs to Krishna’s stream. It is the stream of the drunkards.

Rama’s utility is this: if you lack courage, fine—if you cannot bathe in a cloudburst, at least bathe under the tap in your house. If today you bathe under the tap, perhaps you will get the taste of bathing; then tomorrow perhaps you will gather courage to stand naked beneath the rain and be delighted in nature.

The traditional saint’s utility is only this: that someday he may lead you to a revolutionary saint. He is a stair—no more. In the end, one day you will have to peer into the heart of someone like Baba Malukdas. There God is revealed in His fullness.

The wealth of smoldering, hidden pain—
look, the torch of life has flared up; just look.

When a Maluk-like being is born, the torch of his life blazes wholly—fire at both ends.

But perhaps you cannot bear such a vast flame; perhaps you cannot bear such heat; you are used to the dark—then never mind. Light a small lamp. Rama is such a small lamp.

The saint who fits your notions is a clay lamp you light. It too gives light. And then there is a blazing torch, burning at both ends; it too gives light. The full relish of light is in the torch. But fine—at least you have moved from darkness to light. Even the small, flickering flame is good.

People like Malukdas speak in a language that unnerves the scholars and priests—especially those who consider themselves religious but are not; the ground slips from under their feet. A trench opens beneath them. They get jittery.

Such figures face great opposition. Far from coming near them, all efforts are made to drive people away from them.

The preacher comes along, leaning on his staff:
Cupbearer, pour so much that he can find no ground to stand.

That religious leader comes tapping his stick... Saints like Maluk say: O Lord, pour so much wine that he drowns; that he finds no footing anywhere.

If ever fear arises, go to the tavern;
and once you’ve drunk, sit absorbed in God’s remembrance, O friend.

There is a supreme vision in which life is seen as a unity; where there is no conflict between life’s ordinary joys and God’s vast bliss. Where, even in life’s simple pleasures, there is a ray of God’s supreme delight. Where the beauty manifest in this world is not a distraction, but an invitation to enter more deeply. God is in the blossom too—if only you could enter the blossom deeply! In the fresh green leaves, God has arrived—if only you could enter the leaves deeply! He dwells within you too.

Wherever you have had even a slight glimpse of joy—false though it may have been, even if it was a dream—wherever you glimpsed a little joy, there God was near. It was His fragrance that came.

For the revolutionary seer there is no opposition between creation and the Creator. This creation too is the Creator’s own form. This is a very irksome thing for the so-called ascetic, the so-called great man, the so-called religious leader.

The religious leader’s entire business is to set you against the world. He cannot lead you to God, but he can plant you in opposition to the world. He cannot erase the world from within you, but he can poison it. God’s bliss does not descend, and the little worldly joy that did descend stops too. You dry out completely.

The intoxicated saints hold a very different vision. They tell you: there is nothing here to renounce; everything is here to be attained. They say: the very talk of renunciation is a wrong beginning. It is not about leaving the world; it is about attaining the Beloved. Then, whatever drops in the process—let it drop. Whatever falls away as you attain Him—let it fall.

If the Friend Himself pours the wine, why not drink?
I am no ascetic, no cleric, no holy man.

If God Himself pours—drink. Whatever He shows—see. However He makes you dance—dance.

Because of this absolute acceptance of God, people like Malukdas have to endure society’s persecution. They have to face society’s opposition.

Society’s notions are petty—without any real worth. Yet society lives by them and trembles lest they slip away. Those notions never gave anything, never gained anything. But because one has lived so long with them, if a notion slips or breaks, the heart shudders.

It is as if a man has lived long in chains, long in a prison; then if you break his chains, he feels anxious. Those chains have become his ornaments. They have become part of his body.

It happened in the French Revolution: the Bastille was torn down, and in its prison there were very old inmates—some had been there forty years, some thirty, some even fifty. In that fortress only those sentenced for life were kept; there were thousands. The revolutionaries freed them all, brought them out.

They had thought the prisoners would be delighted. But they were furious. Some flatly refused to go out. They said, “We’ve been here forty, fifty years; we are old—where will we go now? We don’t even remember whom to look for; what home to reside in. We have forgotten all work. What work will we do in this old age? And our cells suit us. One who has lived fifty years in the darkness— the light outside will scald his eyes.”

And you will be astonished to know: the revolutionaries insisted and dragged them out—by force. You can force a man into bondage, but you cannot force him into freedom. How will you?

By midnight many had returned. One said, “I cannot sleep! Return my chains to me. Without them I feel naked. I cannot sleep.” Think: for fifty years a man’s hands and feet bound by iron—he has slept with them for fifty years. Now when he turns over, everything feels empty. No chain clinks, no sound! No weight is felt. His sleep keeps breaking. Habit!

The ordinary man lives by habit. And the revolutionary saint has a single insistence: wake up from habit; live in awareness.

And the wonder is that this awareness is such that on one side awareness increases and on the other, mad ecstasy increases. It is such awareness that the old unconsciousness departs and a new kind of, an innocent kind of un-selfconsciousness arrives. The old ignorance goes, and a new kind of blamelessness dawns.

Now you do not get intoxicated by wealth; nor by status. Now you become intoxicated without cause. You sway in joy. As a great elephant sways—Maluk said; as a drunkard walks after drinking—so one who has drunk the Divine spends twenty-four hours steeped in ecstasy.

But such a person will be great nuisance for society. For so intoxicated a man cannot be enslaved. He lives by his own bliss. Such men cannot be turned into sheep. They live like lions. But society wants sheep. Politicians, scholars, priests want sheep; they do not want such men. Society is not yet capable of bearing such dangerous people.

Society is not yet worthy of bearing saints. No society of saints has yet come into being. In the name of religion, hypocrisy still wins—not truth.

Even today you worship the saint who fits inside your courtyard. You fear the saint who will tear down your courtyard, uproot your walls, and bring you under the open sky.

That is why no tradition forms behind people like Maluk; even companions are rare.

Society has been afraid of them. Often you even worship out of fear.

Even in your worship there is fear.

In all the world’s languages there is a tasteless, ugly phrase: “God-fearing.” We call the religious man “God-fearing.” What kind of thing is this! A religious man—and afraid of God?

Mahatma Gandhi used to say: “I fear no one except God.” But they fear God! Be afraid of everyone else if you must; at least do not fear God. For where there is fear, there can be no love. Fear and love have no relationship. Where fear is, love dies. For one you fear, there can be hatred—how will there be love?

Have you ever loved someone out of fear? If someone puts a knife to your chest, will you love him? Yes, you may say you love him. But will you love him?

I have heard that man’s diseases reach even the jungle. Once the animals in the jungle organized a competition—like humans do. All kinds of games—kabaddi, volleyball, football—whatever wild beasts could play, they organized. The lion also came. He sat and watched. He did not participate in the games; he enjoyed himself thoroughly. But the last competition was telling jokes. In that he wanted to take part; he thought: at least in one, I too will compete.

First a rabbit stood and told a joke. But a rabbit has how much life! Seeing the crowd and the animals he was terrified. He told only half a joke and began to sweat; he sat down. Then the fox told a joke—clever, old politician; she made the crowd laugh. Others spoke too.

At last the lion stood. Silence fell. All were eager to hear what joke the lion tells. He came to the mic and—far from a joke—he roared mightily. So mightily... A lion’s roar as it is—and then on the loudspeaker! The breath of the small creatures stopped. The rabbit sitting in front—first to compete—fell dead on the spot. Many animals fainted. Those who remained had their hearts pounding.

After roaring the lion said, “Now fools, laugh. Why aren’t you laughing? That was the joke. Laugh.” No one felt like laughing. There was no reason. But they had to laugh—when the lion commands... So they began laughing. Some laughed so hard they started coughing. But until the lion said, “Stop,” they couldn’t stop!

Naturally the first prize went to the lion.

Where there is power, and along with power coercion, fear is born. In fear you can even laugh. The lion says, “Laugh, fools, laugh; that was the joke.” No one feels like laughing. But is that any laughter! There will be no laughter in it—only deceit, make-believe, acting, hypocrisy.

If you are afraid of God—how will you love? And if you fear God, deep within you will harbor hatred. You will want to take revenge.

Nietzsche said: God is dead. And he also said: no one else, man himself has murdered Him. People are very angry with Nietzsche—for saying such an indecent thing. But as I see it, what Nietzsche said is the natural outcome of God-fearingness. When man has been frightened with God for so long, some brave soul will shout: to hell with it, finish God—enough fear.

Had there been even one courageous animal in that jungle that day, he would have stood and said: stop this nonsense. Is this a joke?

Nietzsche also said: God is dead, and now man is free. Now man can do whatever he wants—because until now, out of fear of God, he has not done much.

Man has not changed; only he has been gripped by fear. And when even a person like Mahatma Gandhi says, “I fear no one, only God,” it is plain that such people have no realization of God. They cannot have it.

God means love. Where is fear in love! How can there be fear in love! Love is not a sword. In love there can be coaxing, entreaty; in love there is no coercion.

But man has believed this way till now—by fear... The society you have built runs entirely on fear. You are moral—out of fear. You do not steal—out of fear. You do not lie—out of fear. All your virtues rest on fear! Therefore all your virtues are worth two cents.

When someone like Maluk appears in the world, he says: drop fear; come, let us talk of love. Drop fear—come, let us be intoxicated. Drop fear—come, let us hum the Beloved’s songs—in ecstasy, in love. Beyond God-love there is nothing else. Come, place your hand in God’s hand, embrace the Beloved; dance with God, play the rās.

When a saint says something like this, you get frightened. Because the nets of fear woven over lifetimes—your chains, your habits, your notions, your conditioning—suddenly halt and stiffen: this is dangerous talk.

You know that if you drop fear, your whole morality goes; your whole conduct goes. It is all false—that is why you fear its going.

Maluk brings a new kind of conduct into the world—a conduct that rests on love; a conduct that rests on joy. You cannot do wrong because you are so blissful—how could you do wrong! You cannot do wrong because you are so flooded with love—how could you do wrong!

Love alone is the only ethics; and love alone is the only character.

The fragrance that rises from this intoxication of love—very few can know it. Because your nostrils have gone bad.

I have heard: from a far-off village a man came to the city to sell fish. After selling, on his way back, the noon was blazing hot; the sun was pouring fire. Hungry, thirsty, exhausted, he fell unconscious on a street.

It happened to be the perfumers’ lane, where fragrance sellers have their shops. One perfumer ran out; from his safe he took out a most precious attar—whose special quality was that if you let an unconscious person smell it, he comes to.

He held it to the man’s nose. The man thrashed about more violently, a great restlessness came over his face. The perfumer was amazed.

A crowd gathered. A bystander said, “Wait, brother—you will kill him. You don’t know who he is. He is a fisherman. What would he know of your precious fragrance? To him this fragrance will smell like stench. He knows only one smell—the smell of fish. That he calls fragrance. Wait.”

By the man lay his basket; filthy clothes in a filthy basket; in those dirty rags he had wrapped the fish he brought. The bystander ran; from a nearby tap he took a little water and sprinkled it on the dirty rags, on the basket. He brought the basket and those filthy cloths and placed them over the man’s face.

The smell of fish rose up. People winced. But the man came to. He opened his eyes and said, “Thank you—who did this kindness! Who brought back to me the smell of my fish? Otherwise today I would have died.”

If you have lived your whole life in the smell of fish, the attar’s fragrance will seem stench to you. You will not be able to bear it. And man has lived in just such fishy smells.

Baba Malukdas brings into the world that supreme perfume—one whiff of which can wake you forever. But your nostrils are spoiled.

Hence neither companions gather, nor tradition forms.

But keep your inner search alive. If you ever fall in with someone like Baba Malukdas, then even if it seems a thousand difficulties to you—to drop old conditioning—drop it. Even if it seems a thousand obstacles—to break old habits—break them. Because those habits never brought anything, nor will they ever bring anything. But if you can settle by such a person, abide there, then within you a sun can rise—without whose rising no one has ever been fulfilled, nor can be.

True—so it is. It is indeed a matter of a single glance from the Divine. One glance of His—and for us, it is a whole lifetime; that is how it is.

You are not at fault. All experiences of this world are like water-bubbles; nothing is ever really gained from them. They are mirages, rainbows—beautiful from a distance; the drums always sound sweeter from afar. Close your fist and you will find nothing in it. You are not to blame. From physical or mental relationships, nothing enduring is obtained. What you do get from them is the realization that they lack substance. And that is no small thing. This is a great insight. To see the nonessential as nonessential is the first step toward seeing the essential as essential.

It has become clear that all worldly relationships are formed and then dissolve; the hands remain empty. This is a deep experience. Keep it in remembrance. Now do not keep repeating it again and again; repetition will not add anything. Learn from it.

When you learn from experience, wisdom is born. When you merely repeat experience, dullness and stupidity are produced. Very few people in the world learn from experience; the one who does is truly intelligent.

One day you were angry; the next day you were angry; a thousand times you were angry—yet you have not learned! Having seen, after so many angers, that nothing is gained, then stop now. Let anger go. If after a thousand outbursts you have learned at least this much—that there is no substance in anger—then even those thousand angers have given you much; they were not wasted. You have extracted their essence; even from them you have distilled a little fragrance. Now be free of anger.

You descended into lust a thousand times and found nothing—now wake up. And understand the difference: I am not saying renounce lust; I am saying wake up.

To renounce means the taste is still there. If the taste remains, hope remains. If hope remains, you think, “Who knows? It did not happen till now; maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.” Then you feel you must renounce. But when you awaken and see that nothing is obtained—nothing can be obtained…

It is like a man who has been trying for years to squeeze oil from sand, and one day wakes up and sees, “I have been mad—how will oil come from squeezing sand? Oil comes from pressing sesame.” Will he then “renounce” sand? The matter is finished. He will simply get up, dust the sand from his hands and feet, and not even look back. Finished. Where is renunciation in this?

The day you see: there is nothing in anger, nothing in lust—you simply stand up; finished. No renunciation. You do not go and take a vow—“I will take the vow of celibacy.” One who takes a vow of celibacy is declaring that understanding has not yet dawned. Hidden inside the very idea of a vow is unawareness. Only the uncomprehending take vows. Why would an understanding person take a vow? Understanding is sufficient; a vow is unnecessary.

Once you see clearly that there is nothing here, the matter is finished. Against what will you take a vow? A vow is taken against oneself. There is fear that tomorrow the old taste might arise again—“What then shall I do?” So you create the bondage of a vow. You swear—in the marketplace, before people—“I have taken a vow of celibacy,” so that when fear arises you think, “Now I have told people; it is a question of reputation. If I slip, what will they say?” Ego will be hurt, so you get scared.

But this is not awakening. One who is awake has no need of vows. I make you vowless. All vows should disappear from your life, because no vow brings revolution. Understanding brings revolution.

Something did come; this understanding came—that unfulfillment keeps increasing. So thank all those experiences. Without them, how would this be understood! Feel grateful toward them. And now live awake—there is no need to repeat those experiences again and again. They have become meaningless. Now avoid that repetition: don’t keep circling the same old wheel.

In this world, everything is momentary. And through the mind, no connection is made with anything beyond the momentary. If you want to be joined to the eternal, it is necessary to go beyond the mind.

Do not ask about the desolation of this heart of despair.
Whichever garden it has gazed upon has turned into a wasteland.

Wherever this mind looks, distortion sets in. Wherever this mind leaves its stamp, only ash remains.

Do not ask about the desolation of this heart of despair.
Whichever garden it has gazed upon has turned into a wasteland.

Even if you look at a flower, it will wither. You see a lush green tree—and it will dry up.

Through this mind, no connection with the eternal ever happens. The mind’s connections are only for a moment. A moment—now it is, now it’s not. Just now everything is fine; just now everything is wrong. Just now love, just now hate. Just now compassion, just now anger. Just now you were ready to give away everything; now you are ready to plunder. With this mind, nothing more is possible. And the spread of this mind is what is called the world.

So wake up. Let it not happen—as it happens with most people—that they live a whole life and learn nothing.

Others plucked the blossoms of fulfillment.
We were left only with our hem outstretched.

Others plucked the blossoms of fulfillment.
We were left only with our hem outstretched.

Let it not be that others pluck the flowers while you keep holding out your hem—and death arrives.

Which flowers am I speaking of? The flowers that distill from each experience of life.

You were angry; you found—futile; you plucked a flower.
You indulged in lust; you found—futile; you plucked another flower.
You were greedy; you found—futile; you plucked yet another flower.
Thus you go on plucking flowers. One day a garland is made out of all these flowers. It is that garland you are to offer at the feet of the Divine.

If you do not pluck the flowers—if you descend again and again into anger, again and again into lust—then your time will pass only in spreading the hem.

So I say to Kusum: Now wake up. You have seen it all; it had to be seen. Just keep one thing in mind—that nothing is gained, futility is what you gain, and restlessness increases in life—this should be your own experience. Let there be no haste. Let it not be that this question is written out of greed under the influence of hearing saints—then you will miss.

This happens often. Reading the words of saints, listening to them, greed arises. And under the impact of their words it seems, “They are right.” But their “right” will not do anything for you.

My “right” is not your “right.” Your “right” alone is your right. My awareness is mine; it will not become yours. I may say a thousand times that there is nothing in anger; you may hear it, understand it, even grasp it intellectually—but nothing essential will happen until that conclusion arises from your own lived experience.

So keep only one thing in mind: do not be hasty.

With me, always remember this: do not fall into greed. Yes, if it has truly struck you that there is no substance in physical relationships, then the matter is finished. Do not do it just because I say so—otherwise lust will return; it will rock you again, pull and drag you again. Then repression will begin. And I am absolutely against repression. Awakening is right; repression brings disease.

There is nothing here to be gained; therefore there is no need to hurry either. If nothing is to be gained, then why be nervous!

Your so-called saints are very nervous. Nervous—about what? There is nothing to be had here. You are pressing oil out of sand—press a little longer if you must. There is nothing to get, nothing to lose. But let a ray dawn within you that “this is sand”; only then leave it—do not leave it before that. Do not fall half-ripe from the tree, otherwise you will remain bitter.

That is why your so-called saints remain so bitter. Life’s sweetness is absent; there is bitterness. They are full of anger, full of condemnation—because the things they have “left” were not yet ready to be left. They merely abandoned them. The attachment is still there; color still rises within; lust is still aroused. To fight that lust every day, they must abuse it every day.

If you go to listen to a “saint” and he talks of nothing but abusing woman and gold, then know that woman-and-gold are still after him. Otherwise what need is there to be after woman-and-gold twenty-four hours a day!

After a few flights of time, what will you finally get?
After these steps of age, what will you finally get?
There’s a long tradition of bowing the head to stones;
In the shadow of sin, merit has blossomed.
After donning the robe with “Ram” inscribed, what will you finally get?
There’s a great struggle to bring distances close;
There’s an offer to lie in ice for years.
After these wintry austerities, what will you finally get?
After a few flights of time, what will you finally get?

What is there to get here? As the days have gone, more days will go. As time has passed, more time will pass. In time, nothing is ever obtained. Time is a dream that only passes, only empties—nothing is gained.

But if only this much is realized—that in time nothing is obtained—then you have a diamond in your hand, a most precious diamond. With the help of that diamond you can reach the Divine. But let the diamond not be raw. A raw diamond is coal; coal ripened becomes a diamond.

You know, don’t you, that coal and diamond are of the same kind. The difference is only between raw and ripe. The chemistry of diamond and coal is identical. Both are made of the same element. What you call “diamond” is coal that has been pressed in the earth’s depths for thousands upon thousands of years. Pressed and pressed and pressed—under that pressure it became so hard and strong that now it is diamond. It was coal before. Even the Kohinoor was once coal; after millions of years of process and pressure it became diamond.

There is no real difference between coal and diamond. If it ripens, it is diamond. So take care of ripening. When your work ripens, it is Ram. When your anger ripens, it is compassion.

Life is an opportunity to ripen.

The day it truly dawns on you that “Ram is simply Ram; whose song would Ram sing?”—that day a song will arise from you which is just a song; not “someone’s song”—simply, a song. A fragrance will arise—ineffable; a beauty will awaken—inexpressible.
One needs to sing Ram’s song only so long as there is distance from Ram. Then Ram himself will sing within you; he will sing his own song—the self-song.
All this vastness in motion is Ram singing his own song. In the trees, Ram is green; in the throats of birds, Ram has manifested in countless tones. In the rivers, in the ocean’s murmur, there is the rippling sound of Ram.
This whole sound is the sound of Brahman. It is the unstruck music that goes on. The day you recognize it, you will find: Ram is singing his own song. Whose song else is there to sing?
Ram is dancing his own dance. Ram is humming. But until this recognition happens, you feel: you are separate, Ram is separate. Until then, sing Ram’s song. As long as there is distance, keep singing Ram’s song. Singing thus, the distance will dissolve. The day it dissolves, you will become Ram’s song; you will become Ram. That is what Maluk said: the Lord—became the Lord. What he was—he became again. For a little while in between, we forgot who we are. For a little while there was self-forgetfulness.
The Supreme is not far from you; there has only been self-forgetfulness.
You ask: “Nothing makes sense.”
It is not a matter of making sense; it is a matter of entering the heart. Beware of “understanding”—that is, the intellect.
Awaken the heart’s understanding. The heart’s understanding is love; the intellect’s understanding is logic, thought. The heart’s understanding is trust.
You say: “Nothing makes sense.”
If you try to understand with the intellect, nothing will make sense—because these matters are beyond the intellect; Malukdas and those like him have gone beyond it. This ecstasy, this wine—these are devices to go beyond mind. This won’t be grasped by the intellect. It is not mathematics to be solved. It is not a puzzle to be unraveled. It is life’s mystery—only if you live it will you know. Taste it, and you will know. Taste.

Even if I explain a hundred thousand times, it still won’t make sense. This is not a matter of understanding. Move a little beyond understanding.

Existence does not end with understanding. Truth does not end with understanding. At most, understanding can bring you to the temple’s door; it cannot take you inside. To enter the temple you must leave understanding where you leave your shoes; leave the intellect there too. Within, you will go in no-mind, innocent like a child—only then will you arrive.

Jesus has said: Only those who are simple like children will enter my Father’s kingdom; the others will not.

So you ask: “Explain.”

I explain every day. Explaining will not make you understand. Yet I go on explaining. If at least this much is understood—that through explanation, understanding does not happen—then something has happened; then you have reached the doorway.

One day you will get tired—of understanding, of explaining. One day you will get anxious—about understanding, about explaining. One day you will say, “Enough of the intellect; now let it be dropped.” One day the intellect will become a burden. And that is a most fortunate moment—when intellect becomes a burden; only then prayer arises, only then love arises, only then worship arises.

In whose disgrace there is dignity, in whose punishment there is delight—
nothing can be understood of what love is.
Nothing can be understood...

Love does not fit into understanding. Love is bigger than you; how will it fit? Your fist is very small; love is the vast sky—clench your fist and it is lost. If you want the sky in your hand, do not close the fist. In the open hand the sky is; in the closed hand it is lost.

Open the heart. With an open heart—you will understand: a different kind of understanding, another way altogether, a separate mode of knowing.

Enter into prayer. Hum the name of Ram; sing the songs of Ram. The real thing is to sing—the name is only a pretext. Take the peg of Ram to hang your song upon, so that you can sing, so that you can hum, so that you can dance, so that the hidden smile in your heart comes to your lips and the brimming honeyed cup within begins to overflow...

Yes, Ram is only a pretext. There is nothing to take from Ram, nothing to give to Ram. Therefore any name will do. Sing the songs of Allah, of Khuda, or of Ram, of Krishna—it makes no difference.

Learn to sing. Let prayer begin to arise. Let a relationship with life begin that is not of the intellect—but of the heart.

Consider: a rose has blossomed. You go and stand near it. The relationship of the intellect is that you think: Ah! What a beautiful rose! Where did it come from? From Iran? From where? I have seen so many roses, but never one like this—so beautiful, so large! You start pondering many such things—this is a relationship of the intellect with the rose.

The rose blooms; you approach it. Your eyes fill with the rose. Your nostrils fill with its fragrance. You begin to dance—never had such a rose blossomed! You start to hum a song. You sing a hymn to the rose; you dance; you play the flute. This is a different kind of relationship; it is not of the intellect.

Have you ever danced around a rose, absorbed, that such a flower has blossomed? Have you thanked the Lord? Have you ever wept there, standing by a rose—tears of joy? Then another kind of relationship has arisen.

At night you see the moon in the sky, and you start thinking: What are its dimensions? Is it dust and rock—what is it? Are there pits and craters—what are they? The scientist thinks—and misses. Even those who have walked on the moon have missed, because all that is a relationship of thought. There have been other kinds of people on this earth—poets, mystics—who never went to the moon. The moon rose—full moon rose—and they danced.

On the night of the full moon, if you do not dance, there must be something like a corpse inside you. On the full-moon night, if you do not sing, if you do not gaze at the sky without a blink, if you are not overwhelmed...! Even something like the ocean, inert matter, begins to sway; on the full-moon night and you remain without a ripple! The ocean rises in high waves, and in you no ecstasy arises.

The intellect has turned you to stone. The eyes have lost the capacity to see. There is no sprouting in the heart. If on a full-moon night you can dance, then a certain relationship is formed—and I tell you, it is a deeper relationship than that of those who have walked on the moon. What will walking on the moon do? You have come closer—you have touched the soul of the moon.

Those in this land who said that a deity dwells in the moon were more true. The deity takes up residence in the moon in the very moment the moon stirs your heart. In that moment the moon is no longer the moon—it becomes Chandra-deva.

In this country those who greeted the sun, offered water to it, stood on the riverbank at dawn intoning Om—they understood the sun more. That understanding is of another kind—take note. It is not scientific; it is not intellectual. They saw in the sun life arising. The sun is our life; without it we cannot be. We are the sun’s rays. Without the sun we cannot be even for a moment.

Seeing that which is our source, should we not dance! Seeing that which is our source, if we do not bow, the miss has happened. This is another way of seeing; another way of understanding.
So I will say this to you... And the one who has asked this question is named—Swami Prem Sagar! You have even been given the name—Prem Sagar, an ocean of love! Are you still busy with understanding? Now drop the foolishness of trying to understand. Now take up the innocent unknowing of love.
Grant me a sweet fragrance for life.
Today I ask for a few covenants for life.
May my supplication remain forever as my treasure—
Give me today that very vow for life.
Find for me the mind’s surface steeped in pain;
It longs for such an effortless bond for life.
Life passes by you without speaking—
Give me that very nectar for life.
Even the song of life still lies incomplete;
Two stanzas drowned in love—for life.
Grant me a sweet fragrance for life.

Now ask the Lord for that fragrance which will make life fragrant. Now ask the Lord for that verse which will turn your life into a song.

For now it will be Ram’s song—the beginning—the primer—the ka-kha-ga. For now it will be Ram’s song. For now Ram will seem other to you, so you will sing his praises. For now you will be the devotee—God far away. Then slowly you will come near. Then very near. Then, all at once, you will pass right through God. And then you will not be able to tell who is the devotee and who is God. Even then a song will arise, but then Ram himself will sing his song; the Lord himself will dance.

Before the Lord can dance within you, and before you can dance in the Lord, at least learn to dance.

Then where did union happen? What kind of union? And between whom and whom?

There is a difference between union and union. Put two pebbles close together—press them right up against each other. A kind of meeting has happened. Yet the two are still separate; only the peripheries touch. Just a little outer portion touches. Inside, both remain apart; even in meeting they are split. Two are still two—so where did they really meet?

Now bring two drops of water close. Go in the morning; bring two dew-drops settled on blades of grass near to each other. As the drops come closer—closer—until they truly touch, until then they are two. But the moment they truly meet, they become one.

This too is a kind of union. Here nonduality happens. The two are no longer two. This is the real union; because when two pebbles come near, were they truly near? They did not sink into each other’s very life-breath. They did not meet at the center. Only outer periphery met outer periphery. But these two dew-drops that came close and disappeared into each other, these drops that merged into one another—now it is hard even to tell which was which. You could not separate them again in the old way—this one number one, that one number two. Now they have blended.

The Divine is union of the second kind. Like two dew-drops meeting. The love of this world is love of the pebble kind—husband and wife, friends. They come close—very close—yet remain distant, remain separate, remain solitary islands.

The Divine is like a drop entering the ocean—dissolving. It is true; therefore the saints have said: so long as I am, You are not. And when You are, I am not. Only One remains.

Kabir has said:
The lane of love is extremely narrow; two cannot pass within.
Where the two cannot enter, to enter that lane is called devotion. The devotee and the Divine become one.

So your asking, “Then where did union happen?” is right in one sense. If you keep accounts by the first kind of union, then the second is not a union. If you call the second union, then the first is not a union. Understand this and call it what you like—there is no substance in the words.

“How did it happen? Between whom did it happen? Where did it happen?”

Keep these two meanings of “union” in mind. The union of two pebbles—if you take that as union, then the union with the Divine should not be called union. If you say only that definition will do—no other kind of union will be accepted—then the meeting of the devotee and the Divine cannot be called union; call it dissolution; call it immersion; the name makes no difference.

If you say the second kind of union is the real union—because in the first, where did union actually happen? Two remained two. They came close; but where was union? If you call the second “union,” that is fine. Then do not call the first union; call it association, companionship—not union. Call it relationship—not union.

But in language both usages have always existed. Union has two meanings: one of relationship, and one of dissolution.

Do not get stuck on language; do not get stuck on words; take hold of the essence.

Wherever language becomes a hindrance, remember this. Wherever words become too much, be alert.

This journey toward the Divine is a journey beyond language; it is word-transcending. Here words are to be left behind. If you wrestle with words too much, you will never be able to understand this supremely subtle truth.

Therefore all the words used concerning the Divine are contradictory. They say: union with the Divine—yet it is a paradox, because neither the one who meets remains, nor the One to be met remains. Both are lost.

They say: the Divine is very far; and they also say: the Divine is very near. How can both be together? They say: seek the Divine; and also that the Divine is present within you. How can both be together? Yet both are together.

Our language is dualistic; in our language everything is in pairs of opposites. And the existence of the Divine is beyond duality. For that which is beyond duality, our language is not capable of expression. So whatever we say about the Divine—take it as a child’s babbling. Whatever has been said, even by the wisest of the wise, is the babbling of children. If this is remembered, pointless complications will not arise in your mind, and useless questions will not be raised.

Only a questionless mind opens to That.
Only a wordless mind opens to That.

Enough for today.