Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #3

Says Malukdas: drop your false hopes.
Be bliss-intoxicated, sing the virtues of Hari.
Say Ram, say Ram, say Ram, O mad one.

Baba Malukdas is a bhakta, not a jnani; a lover, not a meditator. He has known truth through the medium of the heart, by way of the heart.
There are two arrangements for recognizing the truth of life: one—intelligence awakens; sleeping awareness wakes—Buddha’s path. The mind’s impurities fall away, thoughts recede; intelligence becomes pure, becomes a mirror. When truth is known in that way, its name is not Paramatma. “Paramatma” is a name bestowed by the lover. Hence, on Buddha’s path there is no place for Paramatma. Nor on Mahavira’s path. The word “Paramatma” carries no meaning—in the economy of dhyana.
The second way: the heart wakes, the heart’s impurities fall away, the heart’s sensitivity deepens, feeling flowers, love is lit.
When intelligence awakens, what is encountered we call truth. When the heart awakens, what is encountered we call the Beloved—Prabhu.
It is one and the same that is found; two names. One truth seen from two different approaches, two ways of searching; two faces of the same coin. Therefore, in the talk of Paramatma and truth, there is no opposition. But the arrivers have come through different doors.
Whoever has arrived at Paramatma has come by the footpath of love. Whoever has arrived at truth has come by the royal road of intelligence. And note well: I call intelligence the royal road, and love the footpath—with reason.
Intelligence is a royal road—clean, straight, with method and measure, supported by logic. Mahavira’s words are supremely logical. So too Buddha’s. It isn’t possible to defeat Buddha in debate. You will have to accept Buddha’s word. Buddha’s word is not beyond reason; he has not spoken of the beyond-reason. He has explicated only that which can be contained in reason. Even an atheist will agree with Buddha; many did. However great a thinker, however refined his intelligence—he will bow before Buddha.
The devotee’s language is odd; it is beyond logic; it is of love; it is like a footpath—zigzag. Who can say when it swerves left or right! It is paradoxical. Only those will understand who walk holding the thread of trust.
On Buddha’s way—the way of intelligence—faith is not indispensable. On the way of intelligence, good thinking is indispensable. Faith will follow; it will come after experience; it will arise from experience. It is not demanded beforehand.
On the path of love, faith is the first step. Love begins with faith—un-arguable faith; experience will follow. Experience will be born of faith.
What is last on the way of intelligence is first on the way of love. Even on the path of intelligence surrender happens—but at the end. When the destination is very near, then surrender blossoms.
The road of intelligence is like a royal highway—clean, straight. No insecurity. The way of love is like a footpath; it passes through wilds; no safety.
For the lover, courage is essential. Love demands daring. Those who are very skilled in the intellect cannot muster such courage. The path of love is trodden by the mad. The very first step on love’s road is surrender—to efface oneself.
Remember first: Malukdas is a lover.
I said intelligence is a royal road, because intelligence is everyone’s and is alike. The rules of intelligence are the same. Two and two are four—not just for me, but for you too. And two and two are four not only in India, but in Tibet, in Japan, in China. And if man dwells on moon or stars, still two and two will make four. Wherever there is man, wherever there is intelligence, two and two will be four.
The laws of intelligence are universal. Therefore thousands can walk together upon intelligence’s way. There is consensus. But on love’s path crowds do not move. On love’s path one walks alone; hence—a footpath.
My love is simply my love. Like it, there is nowhere another in the world. Your love is your love; such a love has never happened before, nor will it happen again.
Love is personal. The taste of love is the taste of the person. Love is not like mathematics, that two and two are four. Love is poetry. Love is intimate. Every lover’s love bears his own signature. Hence—a footpath.
Therefore the words of Buddha, of Shankaracharya, of Mahavira can be harmonized. There is no obstacle. But to harmonize Malukdas, Meera, and Chaitanya—this will seem very difficult.
Love has privacy. Love has uniqueness, one-of-a-kindness, hence a footpath. A small, narrow track. Kabir says: so narrow that “two cannot pass through.” Only one can walk. Therefore, as long as the devotee remains, God cannot be. There isn’t space even for two. “The lane of love is exceedingly narrow.” When the devotee vanishes, then God can be. There is only that much room! Not enough for two. Hence a footpath—very small, constricted.
Only the intoxicated, the crazy, go by love’s way. Hence I say Malukdas is a drinker. A drunkard. Love’s intoxication is needed.
Intelligence walks with caution; love staggers along. Love has a certain drunkenness; intelligence is neat and tidy. Love has a rasa, a juice; intelligence is dry, parched. The royal road of intelligence passes through deserts. Love’s footpath winds through green forests, the songs of birds; by lakes and lotus ponds.
Each person must decide what accords with his heart, with his individuality, with his intelligence. No one else can decide. Each must decide within. That which, when heard, makes your being surge with joy; that which, when heard, makes your skin tingle; that which, when heard, swells your heart with reverence—that is your way. There is no other measure.
And do not, even by mistake, walk another’s way. For no one ever arrives by another’s path; one arrives only by one’s own.
Therefore Krishna says: “Swadharme nidhanam shreyah”—to die in one’s own dharma is blessed. Do not interpret it as Hindu-dharma or Muslim-dharma. Its meaning is: that which is your intrinsic nature, your swadharma... If devotion is your intrinsic flavor, to die in it is better. If knowledge is your intrinsic flavor, to die in it is better. “Para-dharmo bhayavah”—another’s dharma is dangerous; don’t wander into it. Hence the great turmoil in the world.
You don’t listen to yourselves! You don’t contemplate your own. As others say, you follow.
That you were born in a Jain home or a Hindu home is mere accident. Religion is not decided thereby. You must decide your religion.
Religion is not so cheap as to be decided by birth. For religion you must decide yourself. He who has not decided for himself goes on moving by others’ dictation; he continues in para-dharma. His life is futile; his death futile. The opportunity is lost.
Religion begins only when you decide: what is my own path?
I know such Jains who would like to dance—but in Mahavira’s presence dancing is forbidden. They would like to hum with a lamp in the hand; they would like to take up the veena and sing. But before Mahavira it is forbidden. If you should play the flute before the naked Mahavira—it will not even look appropriate!
I know such Hindus who play the flute before the images of Radha-Krishna, but their intellect does not accept it. They play; they sing; they hum; their intelligence is unconvinced. They go on performing a false pretense. Born into a certain house, they carry it like a burden.
And if religion is carried as a burden, how will it set you free? When religion becomes wings, it liberates. When religion is delight and celebration, it liberates. When you choose your religion, it liberates.
Those who took refuge at Mahavira’s feet had chosen. Now the children born in their houses, becoming Jain by birth, have not chosen. Those who danced, mad with Meera, had chosen. Now you traditionally hum Meera’s songs—no life, no breath remains in them; you go on carrying a corpse.
The primary reason there is so much irreligion in the world is simply this: people do not care for their swadharma. They are bound to birth-dharma.
The experiment here is just this: that once again you may care for your swadharma. Choose again. The choice has not yet happened.
By birth nothing is decided. By birth you receive a body, not the Atman. You bring the Atman—out of a long, long journey. In that long journey who knows what you have learned, what you have done! Based on that entire learning a decision will arise: what resonates with you? That which resonates—this is your swadharma. Then let go of all else and follow accounts only of swadharma. Even if swadharma misleads you, you will arrive. And even if para-dharma seems to lead you, you will not arrive. Keep this in mind; this sutra is precious.
In swadharma even if you drown, you will arrive. In para-dharma, even if you walk safely, you will reach nowhere. By another’s medium none arrives. You cannot eat through another; you cannot see through another’s eyes; you cannot walk by another’s legs. Then how will you peek at Paramatma through another’s soul? You must open your own window.
Malukdas is standing with the window of love thrown open. Keep this in mind and then enter his sutras.
He is not won over by your japa and tapa, nor by burning the Atman.
He is not won over by holding your dhoti high, nor by bathing the body.
That Paramatma cannot be charmed—neither by japa nor by tapasya; not by burning, torturing the self; not by notions of purity and untouchability, caste and ritual; nor by bodily cleanliness.
First understand: “He is not won over”—‘riijhai’—this word is of the bhakta; the key of bhakti is hidden in it.
Paramatma is not to be “obtained”; Paramatma is to be “charmed,” won over. Understand: which means—Paramatma is. The devotee has no doubt about that. In the being of God there is faith already.
The devotee does not demand proof of God. He does not say: prove that God is. Whoever asks for proof—bhakti is not his path. For the bhakta, only Paramatma is proven; all else is unproven. He accepts this without evidence. The jnani will be jarred: what blindness! But what is eye for the jnani is not eye for the bhakta; what is blindness for the jnani is eye for bhakti.
Shraddha is a great art. It is no small incident. Shraddha means: life is not tormented by doubt.
Every child is born with shraddha. Trust is natural. When the child latches onto the mother’s breast and begins to drink, it is with trust—not with doubt. If there were doubt, he would pull away. Who knows—it could be poison. First proof is needed. What proof is there that nourishment comes from the breast? He has never before received nourishment from it. First time he goes to drink. Where is the proof? What proof that the breast he goes to drink is not poisonous?
No—he simply begins to drink. There is a native trust; a faith untainted by doubt. As the child grows, trust becomes stained with doubt. He will doubt even his father, his mother. As he grows, doubt grows.
We learn doubt; we bring trust. Some blessed ones preserve their trust; it is not destroyed. Great courage is needed to preserve it. What courage?
There is no great courage in doubt. Doubt arises out of fear. Understand a little.
Doubt comes in the shadow of fear. When you are afraid you doubt. Doubt means: who knows, the other will loot me, cheat me, kill me—what will happen! When you are fearful, doubt comes. When you are fearless, there is trust.
As the child grows he becomes fearful. He meets those who are not his own. He goes beyond the family. Sometimes people will rob him, sometimes beat him, sometimes cheat him. Slowly doubt grows, a suspicious gaze arises. He begins to live enclosed in his doubt. He walks cautiously lest someone loot him, lest someone deceive him. Thus, gradually, he loses trust in humanity, in existence. This loss of trust cannot be called a great quality; it only proves that fear has become very dense.
Only the fearless are available to trust. Not that they “attain” trust; rather, they do not allow the trust they brought at birth to be broken. They keep it as a treasure.
Trust in Paramatma is like trust in the mother. You are born of the mother; from her, whatever comes is nourishment. We are born of this existence; it cannot be our enemy. This existence is our mother.
If we take this very existence as enemy—then the limit is crossed! That from which we were born cannot be against us. And into which we will dissolve again cannot be against us. We are its waves. As waves are to the ocean, so are we to Paramatma. This is present to the bhakta in a profound way. He needs no proof. He simply experiences it. And I see no flaw in this experience, no mistake.
These trees trust the earth; they spread roots into it. They know the earth is juicy, motherly. They lift their heads toward the sky; they go to touch the sun; they know the sun is father; in his rays is life. By the power of this trust they live. If a tree were to become untrusting, it would begin to die. If fear arose—who knows: will the earth give sap or death; whether the sun is or not—if the tree became thus afraid, it would shrink, close in on itself. Its life-stream would be broken, its sources dry up.
The bhakta is full of rasa. His first condition is: God is. He does not ask proof. Hence Maluk says: “He is not won over…” The question of whether God “is” or not does not arise for the bhakta.
If that question arises in you, bhakti is not your path. Then your path is jnana. You will have to travel the long road of doubt—doubt upon doubt—until a moment arrives when you begin to doubt doubt itself. Then trust will arise—before that, no. It is a long journey. When you doubt doubt itself, when doubt is doubted and doubt is undone by doubt—then trust is born.
The bhakta’s trust is virginal; it already is. He need not bring it. God is—then what is the question? The only question is: how to charm Him?
The jnani’s question is—whether God is or not.
When Keshav Chandra went to Ramakrishna he asked: Is there a God or not? That is the jnani’s question. Ramakrishna laughed heartily: this question never arose in me! I never searched for its answer, because the question never arose. God is. Who else is there? Whatever is, is His form.
Keshav Chandra argued. He was a man of logic. Ramakrishna became more and more delighted. When the debate reached its peak, Ramakrishna rose and embraced Keshav. Keshav was bewildered: What is this? I am demolishing your argument! People say you are mad—is it true? Ramakrishna said: Demolishing? Who is listening! I am seeing you. Seeing you, my trust in God deepens. How could such brilliance be without God?
Understand the difference. Such brilliance as can demolish even God—how could it be without Him? An extraordinary light of Paramatma is shining in you. Keshav, you have not seen it; I am seeing it. I embrace you. Whether you turn back to see your light is your wish. But I see a great radiance in you.
Keshav Chandra returned vanquished! There is no way to win against such a man. He brooded: what is this! Never had he experienced such a response. He was arguing; an argument should be answered. It was answered—but in such an unusual way: that your very capacity to argue is proof of God. The profundity and force of your logic is proof of God.
Says Malukdas: “He is not won over…” The beginning is with winning Him over—riijhanaa. The lover is there. Knowing is not the issue—He is. We already know. Now only: how to charm Him.
See the difference.
When the jnani amasses proofs and decides: yes, truth is—then he asks: now how shall I attain truth?
The thought of “charming” does not arise in the jnani’s mind. Such madness the jnani cannot even conceive. He thinks: first ascertain whether truth is; if, by logic and mathematics, it is established, then he asks how to attain it.
The jnani’s gaze is upon himself. The bhakta asks: How shall I charm You? He does not ask: how shall I attain You? That is not his question. He has already attained You. The only question is: in what way shall I dance so that grace showers from Your side—how shall I delight You, as if You are sulking.
See the difference.
The jnani thinks: my sins must be the obstacle; therefore truth is not attained. The bhakta says: God is sulking. It’s a play. As a lover sulks. He is sulking—how shall I appease Him, how shall I charm Him; by what dance, by what song will His sulking melt?
He is not won over by japa and tapa, nor by burning the Atman.
And Maluk says: however much you chant or perform austerities, you will not charm Him. This is not the way to charm! You will only make Him more distant.
Someone sits and chants—japa—meaning technique. Understand the difference. The devotee too takes the Name. Later Malukdas will say: Say Ram, say Ram, say Ram, O mad one. But that is not japa. Japa is a method, a technique.
A man sits to chant: Ram-Ram-Ram. There is no rasa in it, no love. He repeats it mechanically, as a technique. He does it because he has been told that by repeating the mantra thoughts will quiet down, the mind will become void—and in that void there will be darshan. It is a technique. Had he been told something else, he would do that.
There are many techniques in the world.
Lord Tennyson, a great poet of the West, wrote in his memoirs that somehow, from childhood, a technique came to him: whenever he would sit alone, he would repeat his own name: Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson. And repeating it would taste sweet to him. A great intoxication would descend. He would tell no one—people would think him mad. Slowly the taste grew so much that it became a daily rite. He would sit for hours and repeat Tennyson, Tennyson. Repeating and repeating, a moment would come when a great peace would settle.
If even by repeating his own name peace arises, he will repeat his own name! It’s a question of technique; what has Ram’s name to do with it! Any word will do. Repeat any word and the result will be the same. Whether Om, or Ram, or Allah—or if you wish, you can repeat a number: two, two, two—repeat it; the same effect will come.
For the jnani no word is different from any other; word is a device. For the lover there is a great difference. For him, the word is not technique; it is the heart’s feeling.
If you say to a lover that by repeating “two, two, two” your mind will quiet down, meditation will happen, he will say: I am not here to still the mind; I am here to utter Ram. Say the same to the jnani and he will reply: then fine, no problem; we shall repeat “two.” Understand the difference.
For the jnani, japa is technique—for the bhakta it is bhajan. Bhajan has rasa, bhaava. For the jnani it’s a scientific technique—he does it. And if a better technique is found, he will leave this and take that. But for the bhakta… he will say: it makes no difference…
Imagine telling a son: we’ll give you a mother more beautiful than your mother. He will say: Stop it. Who could be more beautiful than my mother? Don’t talk such things. However beautiful a woman you bring, the child will not go to her—“she is more beautiful than my mother, so let us choose her.” But if you go to buy a prostitute in the market, paying money—you will choose the beautiful and leave the unbeautiful. Of what use is the unbeautiful? If the beautiful is available—for the same price—you will choose the beautiful.
The choice of a prostitute is made by calculation; the choice of a mother is not; it lies beyond calculation.
No son finds his mother unbeautiful. Which mother finds her child unbeautiful? It is of one taste; it is feeling.
Remember, says Malukdas: “He is not won over by japa and tapa…” Pound your head and chant Ram-Ram-Ram—but if there is no rasa in it, if it is a dry method, if you merely twiddle beads…
In Tibet they found an “improvement.” You count 108 beads—it takes time. They made a wheel with 108 spokes, a prayer wheel. A man goes about his work and gives the wheel a spin. As many turns as it makes, that many malas’ benefit! Technique.
Once a Tibetan lama was my guest. He kept his wheel. Even while reading a book he would, from time to time, spin it; it would whirl for ten or fifteen revolutions. Ten or fifteen malas’ merit gained!
I told him: Fool—why not attach electricity to it? He liked the idea! If it is only a matter of rotating by hand, then let electricity do it. You still have to press the switch with your hand! Press it—and let it run twenty-four hours; you will gain millions of malas!
I was guest in a house; they had a large library. They kept writing Ram-Ram in notebooks, piling them up. The man was about sixty-five, doing it for forty years—filling the house. He was delighted to show me: See, how much Ram-Ram I have written!
I told him: How many notebooks you have wasted! Don’t come before Ramji—he will say: so many children! Had you given those notebooks to school, they would have been useful. You spoiled them for nothing. This writing Ram-Ram—what nonsense!
In Bengal there was a great grammarian. His father said: When will you chant Ram-Ram? He said: Why chant again and again? I’ll say it once in the plural. You go on saying it in the singular—Ram Ram Ram Ram; millions of times. I’ll say it once—plural—and the matter ends.
Where calculation rules, the matter is different.
I heard of a lawyer who prayed every night. His wife noticed the prayer ended very quickly—not a second. He would finish and slip under the blanket. She said: I also pray; it takes at least two minutes! You don’t even take a second! How so? He said: Why repeat the same thing? God knows; I know. I say: Ditto—and go to sleep.
He is a lawyer; he thinks in legal style.
Malukdas says: By such japa-tapa nothing will happen. Tapas means: to heat, to fast, to stand in sun or cold, to lie on thorns. Malukdas says: What madness is this! Will God be pleased seeing you torture yourself? Which mother, seeing her son hungry, is pleased? Which mother, seeing him stand in the sun, is pleased? Which mother, seeing him on thorns, will rejoice? If any mother is like that, she is mad.
You will charm God by roasting yourself? You go further away. The more a man becomes an ascetic, the more ego grows—not God. His stiffness grows: See, how many fasts I have taken, how much japa I’ve done, how much tapas! See how I have tormented myself! His complaint and claim increase. He becomes a claimant. If God were to give him darshan he would grab Him: It’s late; injustice! I’ve been practicing austerities for so long. How long will this go on? How far is my moksha?
Malukdas says: Neither by japa nor by tapas—because if God is love, then this is absurd: you will torment yourself and attain Him? And if by tormenting yourself you do summon Him, will He come happily? Many offer this argument. Understand: it operates in your life. Especially in women’s minds it sits deeply.
If love is not received from the husband, the wife falls ill. Fifty percent of women’s illnesses are imaginary—even if they believe them true.
I have been a guest in many homes. I was surprised: the wife was talking to me; as the husband arrived she lay down—headache began! It’s not that she is consciously lying; seeing the husband, the headache starts. Old habit; daily ritual—the car’s horn below, and the headache begins.
How did she learn this? Psychological reasons. She has never seen her husband sit with her lovingly—unless she is ill. Unless there is a headache he will not place his hand on her head. She longs for that hand. Slowly headache becomes the method—so that his hand may come to rest upon her head.
When someone is ill we go sit with them. Psychologists say: when the child is ill do not pour out too much love, otherwise you will condition him to remain ill all his life. When the child is healthy, show more love—so that health is linked with love, not illness. But we do the opposite.
When the child is well, who cares! Neither mother nor father nor anyone. When all is fine, what is there to do! When the child is ill, mother and father sit by him; he is very pleased. He orders them: Bring tea; do this; do that. The doctor also comes; the child is happy. He occupies the highest throne. As long as he is ill that throne remains. When illness is gone, the throne disappears. Then no one cares; his ego will only get that satisfaction again when he is ill. Slowly he starts to relish illness.
Many people relish illness—so the world is so ill. Many relish sorrow—so the world is so miserable.
People come to me; they say: We want to be happy. When I ask: truly? then the investments they have made in sorrow must be withdrawn; they must see their whole strategy—where they have tied their self-interest to misery.
A wife who has learned that the husband’s hand will be on her head only when there is a headache—how will she give up the headache? Give her aspirin—how can she give it up? It is not a small matter. You are not removing a headache—you are removing her love. She knows love only through this doorway. How can she leave it!
You will notice how people love to talk of their illnesses. Because only then do others show sympathy. No one shows sympathy to a healthy man. You go to the sorrowful with sympathy. This is wrong arithmetic psychologically.
If the child is ill, care for him—but do not overdo it, else he will develop a taste for illness. Otherwise he will never be free of it. If your wife is ill, give medicine and treatment, but do not pour so much love that the pleasure of your love outweighs the pain of illness. If that day comes, she will never be healthy. And you will be responsible.
We do the same with God.
Malukdas says:
He is not won over by japa and tapa, nor by burning the Atman.
However much you burn yourself, torture yourself—you will not charm Him. Perhaps by these very means you have made Him sulk.
If you are a part of God, when you hurt yourself the pain reaches Him. You are hurting Him. Understand the dignity of this. Remember it well.
Whenever you have caused yourself pain, it is God who is pained—because He alone is. When the wave is hurt, the ocean is affected. If we are parts of God, to torture ourselves is to torture Him.
The bhakta says: Love yourself, for in you too is God’s touch. Respect yourself, honor yourself. In this body God dwells; do not insult it. This body is His house, His temple. Care for it as you care for a temple.
The bhakta’s vision is very different—opposite to your so-called ascetic’s. Hence you are surprised. You will see the devotee with tilak and sandal paste, long hair, beautiful silks, fragrant attar, garlands of flowers—worshipping God! You feel: what sort of worship is this?
You do not understand the bhakta’s vision. He does not take this body as his; it is God’s own. So he bathes it, perfumes it, anoints it with sandal; he wears garlands; he dons silk and dances before God.
The bhakta says: When you are in your utmost health, your utmost beauty—enchanted within—then you can charm Him. To charm Him—be beautiful. To charm Him—be full of rasa. To charm Him—be such that He must be delighted. Sing something sweet; hum something sweet; live something sweet.
Thus the bhakta’s life is a life of sweetness—madhurya. The ascetic’s life is a life of self-torture. And note: modern psychology is against the ascetic. It says: these ascetics are nothing but masochists. They relish tormenting themselves; they have nothing to do with God; they enjoy violence against themselves.
In the world there are two kinds. One, those who relish tormenting others—an Adolf Hitler—he enjoys seeing others suffer. The other, those who relish tormenting themselves—a Mahatma Gandhi. The difference is not much; it is superficial.
If you enjoy keeping others hungry, no one will call it virtue—it is sin. If you enjoy keeping yourself hungry, people call it virtue. How is it virtue? If starving another is sin, starving oneself is also sin. How does the arithmetic change all of a sudden!
If fasting is virtue, then if you keep another man hungry you have given him an opportunity to fast; he could not muster the courage—you helped him; you brought him to God. God will be pleased! But we know: to keep another hungry is sin. Then how is starving oneself virtue? What you do to another’s body you do to your own. All bodies are “others.” The other’s body is as “other” as my body. Yours is a little farther; mine is nearer; what is the difference? I am not my body; nor am I yours. Both bodies are other to me.
Torturing the body cannot be virtue. Hence the bhakta offers bhog. He has no emphasis on fasting. He offers the most delicious foods to God—and to himself.
The bhakta’s life is a life of rasa, of sweetness; a life of a healthy mind.
He is not won over by japa and tapa, nor by burning the Atman.
He is not won over by hoisting your dhoti, nor by bathing the body.
And there are those who walk holding their dhoti carefully—lest someone touch it.
He is not won over by hoisting your dhoti…
Lest a shudra touch. Lest this or that touch. If He is—whom are you calling shudra?
It is said Shankaracharya emerged from the Ganga bathed clean, at dawn—five o’clock—Brahma-muhurta—humming Vedic mantras, climbing the steps; a man brushed against him. “Who is it!” “Forgive me,” the man said, “I am a shudra.” Shankara became angry—for a moment forgotten was his advaita. Gone was the talk that all is one; one Brahman, the rest maya. Difference—maya—forgotten.
To comment on scriptures is one thing; to live their vision, another.
He grew angry. The shudra said: Forgive me—may I ask one thing? I know who you are. You are the sage Shankaracharya—the great philosopher, the master commentator. One thing: what was the mistake in my touching you? Is my body impure? Do you think your body is pure? If my body is filled with filth, is yours filled with gold and jewels?
Shankara must have been startled. If this body is impure, how is mine pure? The Vedas say every man is born a shudra. None is born a Brahmin; one becomes Brahmin by knowing Brahman. Else we are all shudras. The recollection must have stirred.
Then he asked: If you say it is not a matter of touching bodies, then is my Atman impure? Can the Atman be impure, great one? I have heard that the Atman is eternally pure. From you I have heard it—from the wise, from rishis and munis—that the body is always impure and the Atman is always pure. Now tell me, whose touch disturbs you? The body’s? Then your body too is impure; impure has touched impure—what is spoiled? The Atman’s? Neither my Atman is impure, nor yours.
It is said Shankara bowed to that shudra: You have awakened me. What I could not know from scriptures, you have shown me. I am obliged.
He is not won over by hoisting your dhoti…
When you get tangled in untouchability—and I Brahmin, he shudra; I Hindu, he Muslim; I Arya, he mleccha—do not think you will charm God.
…nor by bathing the body.
Some busy themselves washing the body—hatha yogis doing nauli-dhauti, asanas, exercises—devising ways to purify the body! Even if the body is purified, what then? And the body cannot be purified. You may scrub it, but the nature of the body… you will eat; the same thing will happen. Stool and urine will form. Blood, flesh, marrow are made. How will you purify this? And what will come of it?
If God wanted a pure body, He could have made one from gold or silver—or iron at least. For the poor—iron; for the rich—gold and silver. But He made it of flesh and bone. What will come of purifying it? No—you only insult Him by such.
Malukdas says: All this is insult to God. Accept the body as He has made it. It is His gift. You have not made it. Accept it—with gratitude.
Be compassionate, keep the mind in dharma, stay at home—udasi.
“Be compassionate”—the one key to attaining Him is compassion, karuna, love. It is all around—so pour it as much as you can; love as much as you can; be compassionate as much as you can.
Have compassion—not only on others but on yourself too. Do not become harsh upon yourself while showing compassion to others.
Gandhi said: be compassionate to others, be harsh with yourself. This must be understood.
If you become harsh with yourself, you will not be able to be compassionate to others for long. He who has no compassion for himself—how will he have compassion for others? He will become harsh with others by subtle routes.
A great psychological truth: one who is harsh with himself becomes harsh with others—cunningly. Suppose you fast fiercely; toward those who cannot you will carry a sense that they are inferior, fallen. There will be a hidden pride: I am superior, he is not. Hence in the eyes of your so-called saints you will always find condemnation of you. An arrogance in them: I do so much; you do nothing! Sinner!
Look closely into the eyes of your saints—you will find a finger pointed at you: sinner! In their speech and sermons, at every step, your condemnation. And they will create a thousand arrangements to make you harsh with yourself. They will also ask you: be compassionate to others; be harsh with yourself. Who are these “others”?
If everyone accepts being harsh with himself, and compassionate to others—who are those others? None remains “other.”
One who is harsh on himself, his compassion becomes hollow. Remember: you can do to others only what you do to yourself.
Jesus said the famous dictum: Love your neighbor as yourself—as yourself. But first love yourself, only then can you love your neighbor. Otherwise how? Your nearest neighbor is you—yourself. This body is my closest neighbor. Then come other neighbors. First love this neighbor—this body.
Jesus said: Love your enemies as yourself. But first love yourself. One who has not loved himself will not be able to love anyone.
You will find people living under impossible ideals—harsh on themselves, hence harsh on others. Their harshness comes in such disguises you won’t recognize it.
In Gandhi’s ashram no one could drink tea, no one could fall in love. This is extreme harshness. But in the name of principle it runs. The principle seems right. And one must follow the principle. But the principle is for man—not man for principles. In the hands of “mahatmas,” man loses value; only principles remain. If you follow the principle, you are right; if not, you are wrong—and being wrong is the greatest crime. A sense of guilt will be born in you.
If someone drinks tea in Gandhi’s ashram, a fire of sin will burn within. He will fear, tremble—great sin! A small thing—tea—and such a sin! Skillfully he is tormented. He will not sleep at night lest someone find out. And if tea drinking is sin, then life becomes impossible; everything is sin—rising, sitting, speaking.
Such things have happened. Terapanthi Jain monks wear cloth over the mouth—speaking is sin, exhaled warm air kills tiny beings. Breathing becomes sin; living becomes sin; rising and sitting become sin. This is harshness against man; injustice. He who commits injustice upon himself will commit it upon others.
Once you follow a rule, you believe all must follow it. The one who rises at three a.m. believes all must rise then. Why? Because he does! Perhaps he cannot sleep; the old lose sleep. Life-arrangements differ.
Psychologists say sleep-needs vary. They also discovered that deep-sleep hours vary person to person. Some sleep deepest between two and three; others three and four; others four and five. Two hours of deep sleep at least are needed; they are different for each.
If the one whose deep hours are between three and five is awakened then, he will be disturbed all day; better he rise after five. He whose deep hours are between one and three can rise at three and feel fresh. He will then say: you too rise. But persons differ.
Yet mahatmas do not accept difference.
In Vinoba’s ashram all must rise at three. This is injustice—ask physicians.
Men and women’s sleep differs. Men’s is often between three and five, or four and six. In those deep hours the body temperature drops two degrees; if one sleeps then, the day is fresh; if not—yawning, dullness, trouble.
Women often take deep sleep between five and seven, or four and six. Men can rise an hour earlier. Hence in the West the custom is right: the man prepares morning tea; not the woman. Women should wake an hour later.
What is true of sleep is true of food. What is nourishment for one may be poison for another; the quantity sufficient for one may be insufficient for another. But people insist. He who is harsh with himself believes: I am the rule—therefore all must be like me. This is delusion; this is violence.
Your so-called saints are filled with violence.
Be compassionate; keep your mind in dharma; remain at home—udasi.
Understand this sutra. Upon it I have built the whole notion of sannyas. “Keep the mind in dharma.” Let the mind reside in dharma, dharma reside in the mind. “Remain at home in udasi.” Don’t be a runaway; for the real thing is of the mind; not of place or posture—but of the mind-state.
Go to the forest—what will happen! If your mind is not in dharma, even there you will think of shop-accounts, banks, elections; you’ll regret—could have contested; where have I come! What entanglement is this! Sitting in the hills, what are you doing? You will think what you can think. Your mind is yours. By going to the forest will you be rid of it? How will you run from it?
You can run from the house; it is outside. The mind is inside. Wherever you go, it will go. You will remain with yourself. Where will you flee yourself? And you are the real question. Not the wife, nor the husband, nor the children, shop or market.
…keep the mind in dharma; remain at home—in udasi.
And understand “udasi.” The word has been distorted—its original meaning lost. It fell into the wrong hands. Even the best words, if they keep the company of wrong men, go bad.
The fate of this word is sad. You have heard: choose company carefully. This word kept bad company—and landed in hell. Its original meaning is wondrous: ud-aasina—seated near the Highest. The same meaning is in upavas—fast—upavas means: seated near Him. The same in Upanishad—sitting near Him.
He who is seated near God—that is udasi, udaasina.
Now it is a great joke that one who is seated near God cannot be “sad.” He will overflow—brimming with rasa. He will dance.
If, seated near God, you become sad—where then will you overflow? Where will you dance? Where celebrate? If near God you are sad, it is no longer God’s company—it is hell’s company. In hell sadness is fitting.
Near God, one becomes carefree, mast. One has found the supreme tavern, the wine that, however drunk, is inexhaustible; once the divine stupor comes, ordinary wakefulness never returns. Gone is gone—drowned is drowned.
Such a man not only is filled with ineffable exuberance, his rays will fall on those who come near; his droplets will sprinkle them. They too will dance as they leave; songs will be born within them; anklets will tinkle at their feet; the strings of their veena will begin to vibrate.
The word “udasi” came to such a strange pass. Its original meaning: seated near God. Which means: samadhisth. And samadhi means: attained to the supreme bliss—Sat-Chit-Ananda. But the popular meaning became: one who sits with a long face; mud in the eyes; like a corpse; flies buzzing. Udasi!
Such are farthest from God. The very opposite!
Be compassionate; keep the mind in dharma; remain at home—in udasi.
To be at home and be seated near God—this is the art. Remember Him—wherever you are—sing His Name; deepen His remembrance.
“Keep the mind in dharma”—begin with this, and a day will come when dharma resides in the mind—then the end has come. The beginning and end are contained in these two.
Mind in dharma—the first step. Dharma in mind—the final step.
Begin by remembering—again and again, repeatedly. Then slowly you will find: now there is no way to forget. Now there is no need to remember; remembrance remains—continuous—like breath, remembrance goes on.
Be compassionate; keep the mind in dharma; remain at home—in udasi.
A small sutra—three things spoken: keep showering love; keep your attention in the Lord; and, remaining at home, seek God.
Know everyone’s pain as your own—then the deathless is found.
Know that the pain which is yours is everyone’s pain. Live knowing this. Then do not hurt yourself, nor hurt others.
…Then the deathless is found.
He attains the supreme—he charms God. This is the art of charming.
Endure harsh words, drop disputes, throw away pride and conceit.
This alone charms my Nirankar, says Maluk—the mad one.
Endure harsh words, drop disputes, throw away pride and conceit.
Drop the ego: that I am this, I am that; that I have wealth; that I have renounced; that I have fasted—so many vows. Drop the accounting. Do not stand before Him with ledgers. Before Him, bow; lay down all pride, the doer’s sense.
Endure harsh words, drop disputes…
And the world will condemn such a man. He will have to endure abuse. Because the world lives by wrong notions. The crowd lives in delusion. Whoever begins to live in truth—the crowd will be angry. He will have to endure insult.
Not without reason is Jesus crucified; Socrates poisoned; Mansoor’s limbs cut off.
People live in such lies that whenever truth appears, they mistreat it. It is natural.
So says Maluk: endure harsh words—hear them, swallow them—yet keep compassion, yet keep your seat near God. Do not waver. With those who insult and curse, there is no need to argue needlessly. You cannot explain by argument—because they do not wish to understand. So leave them to themselves. If they wish to live so, let them. Their wish. But do not withdraw your compassion from them. Keep the flow of love. Their insults may continue; your love must continue.
This alone charms my Nirankar, says Maluk—the mad one.
Understand well.
Maluk calls himself mad—a diwana. Unless one becomes mad in God, he has not known God. If you tie your turban tight before God—then the matter has not happened.
You can hold yourself together only until the meeting. In meeting God—it is as if the ocean descends into the drop. How can the drop not go mad! As if a blind man suddenly receives eyes; as if a dead man awakens. Even these comparisons are small.
When union with the Divine happens, the thirst of lifetimes is quenched.
Evening fell
to the flute’s refrain
the breeze began to sway
smoke rose over tiles
songs slipped over waves
at the wayside well a fair gathered
saffron veils rippled
children dressed their tiny homes
the courtyard flowered
Evening fell
to the flute’s refrain
and the breeze began to sway.

At the tulsi shrine lamps of ghee
chaste wives set alight
the new bride braided her hair
smiling garlands placed
and the moon, a four-sided lamp,
blew his mellow shehnai
Evening fell
to the flute’s refrain
and the breeze began to sway.

From all four corners joy poured in
cool shade spread wide
from some hermitage whose magic
rest was being shared
each atom, each instant—everything now
seems intoxicated
Evening fell
to the flute’s refrain
and the breeze began to sway.

There is a wine—but we have forgotten the joy of life. In our life the flute never plays. Evening comes—but no flute. Morning comes—but no flute. Noon comes—but no flute. The flute has fallen silent; we have forgotten its language.
Our connection with the Wine is broken. We never link with bliss. We go on living—crying, full of sorrow. From our pitcher sorrow overflows; joy never does. In our eyes never flashes the lightning of joy. Never do our souls feel blessed, grateful for life. Complaint—and complaint.
This only means: we have not yet learned to sit near God. We have not yet learned the art of becoming udaasina—seated near.
The farther from God—the greater the sorrow, in the same proportion. The nearer to God—the greater the joy, in that proportion.
Each atom, each instant—everything now
seems intoxicated
Evening fell
to the flute’s refrain
and the breeze began to sway.

Seated near God—then evening has come. No journey remains. Home is reached. Night nears—for rest. Now we can pull God over us like a quilt and sleep.
Endure harsh words, drop disputes, throw away pride and conceit.
Pride and conceit have seized us terribly—pride of wealth, of position, of renunciation.
I have heard: a Jewish rabbi was praying with a Jewish emperor on a holy day. The emperor, as was his right, came first to the synagogue to pray. He prayed: O Lord, I am nothing. Then the rabbi prayed: O Lord, I am nothing. Just then they both looked and saw the sweeper of the temple also sitting nearby in the dim light, saying: O God, I am nothing.
This did not please the rabbi. He said to the emperor: Look, who is saying “I am nothing”! Even to say “nothing,” when the emperor says it, it suits the occasion; when the rabbi says it, it suits; but this sweeper—he says “I am nothing”!
Remember: when a man says “I am nothing,” often the ego speaks within. If an emperor says it—there is a hidden pride: See, I am so great, and I say I am nothing! If the guru says it—see, I am so high, and I say I am nothing! Now this sweeper—he is nothing anyway; what is there in his saying!
Thus when you measure renunciation, you measure it by wealth. If a poor man renounces—you say: what did he renounce, he had nothing! If a rich man renounces—you say: yes, renunciation! So the criterion for measuring renunciation is wealth itself.
Then I could not hold back my tears.
That for which I went mad, running
through my whole life
when it turned to mirage
my own yearning laughed at me—
then I could not hold back my tears.

A day will come when the prides and conceits you have cherished for lives will laugh at you.
Then I could not hold back my tears—
that which sought to fill my soul
with deathlessness
hiding behind forgetfulness
my own song mocked me—
then I could not hold back my tears.

My worship and adoration
my total surrender—
when called my weakness
by my worshiped stone—
then I could not hold back my tears.

Look once at the ego you have nurtured lifelong. It is not your companion. It will laugh at you—at your grave it will laugh. It will laugh at the futility of your life. And that for which you gave all—at the end, its loud laugh will pierce you like a dart.
Therefore—
Say Ram, say Ram, say Ram, O mad one.
We go on saying: I, I, I.
Maluk says:
Say Ram, say Ram, say Ram, O mad one.
O madmen, if you must say something, stop this “I, I.” In place of “I” enthrone Ram; call Ram.
Miss no more, O simpleton—you’ve found a fine wager.
So many misses already. Do not miss again. This chance of life—stake it for God. Even losing life, if God is found—gain it. It is to put all on the wager.
Miss no more, O simpleton…
O fool, miss not now.
…you’ve found a fine wager.
Rarely do you get this chance of being human. This small opportunity can be lost again for lifetimes. Animals and birds cannot remember God. Trees and stones cannot remember God. Only man stands at the crossroads—from where, if he wishes, he can rise toward God; or, if he chooses, fall back into nature. Man is the crossroads—Nature and God.
Miss no more, O simpleton—you’ve found a fine wager.
What does it mean to say “Ram”? We have criticized japa—yet now: Say Ram, say Ram, say Ram, O mad one. Not japa—love’s call.
They say: stars are singing.
Silence has fallen on the earth
we leaned our ear to the sky—
still this innumerable choir
we cannot hear—
They say: stars are singing.

Heaven listens to this song—
Earth only knows this much:
in innumerable dew-drops
fall the starlight’s silent tears—
They say: stars are singing.

Gods above, men below—
in the sky both—song and sob—
song always rises upward;
tears always fall down—
They say: stars are singing.

The whole existence is singing, humming—a vast song. If only you look with love’s eyes, flowers are singing, the moon and stars sing, birds sing. If only you look with a loving heart, you will find a great prayer is going on. Join this prayer. “Say Ram, say Ram, say Ram, O mad one”—means this.
Do not remain isolated in this prayer—do not be an island. Join the vast prayer. And you have a unique chance: birds sing in unconsciousness; moon and stars sing in a swoon. You can sing consciously. You are blessed.
If animals and birds cannot reach God, it is not their fault. If you do not reach, you are at fault—your responsibility is great.
He gave you this body—and you did not worship Him.
Your life is turning to ash—like heat leaving iron.
As with iron—if you must shape it, strike while it is hot. When it cools, it is useless. So while life has warmth—do something. Offer this warmth at God’s feet.
People wait for dying. They say: at death’s door we will take the Name; at death we will sip Ganges water; at death listen to Gayatri. When the iron has cooled, beat as you will—nothing will be made.
He gave you this body—and you did not worship Him.
From whom your birth came—you have not sung the source! From whom all is received—you have not said even a thank you!
Your life is turning to ash—
And every day the ash piles up; the ember cools.
…like heat leaving iron.
Remember—when iron cools, prayer is in vain. Do something now—while the iron is hot. While life is warm; youthful; full of energy—the capacity to do, the capacity to be—lay all your energy at God’s feet; in such a life revolution happens.
Sing of Lord Ram, charm Lord Ram.
Enshrine the lotus feet of Ram in your heart.
And remember—charming—like a beloved charms, like a lover charms. “Charm” is a beautiful word. God is sulking—because in what you have done till now you have not even thanked Him! You have not accepted His grace. Complaints, you have made many; gratitude you have not expressed.
Even when you go to the temple to pray—you go to ask, not to thank. For what is—you don’t thank; for what is not—you complain. What has complaint to do with prayer? Prayer means gratitude. So much has been given! So much!
Take stock: how much has been given! Each breath is priceless.
When Alexander had almost completed his dream of conquering the world, he met a fakir while leaving India. He said: I have fulfilled my dream. The fakir laughed: Alexander, you still have no sense! If you were lost in a desert and thirsty, how much of your kingdom would you give for a glass of water?
Alexander said: If I am dying of thirst, I’ll give half my kingdom.
The fakir said: Suppose I am not ready to sell for half.
Alexander said: I’ll give the whole kingdom.
The fakir laughed: Then consider—one glass of water for a whole empire—to live! And life has been given to you—have you thanked God? You received it free. You are ready to give the whole world to live a little longer. Yet you have been living for years—have you thanked Him?
For a single breath—what would you not give!
A moment came: a little later Alexander died. He did not reach home. When death came near and physicians said he could not be saved, he was only a day from his village. In twenty-four hours he would meet his mother, wife, family. He yearned. He said to his physicians: Do not worry about expenses—keep me alive for twenty-four hours. Let me reach home. I can die there. They said: we are helpless. Not twenty-four hours, not even twenty-four minutes.
Alexander said: I will give everything. He remembered the fakir’s words. It was not a desert fantasy—it was happening. But what could the physician do!
Alexander said: I will give my whole empire—save me for twenty-four hours; let me reach my mother’s lap; let her see her son—returned having conquered the world. Then I can die. The doctor said: Forgive us. We can do nothing. Death is at the door.
He could not reach home. Life had been given. He was ready to give his whole kingdom to live one more day. But you—have you ever thanked God that this life has been given?
He gave you this body—and you did not worship Him.
Your life is turning to ash—like heat leaving iron.
Sing of Lord Ram, charm Lord Ram.
Enshrine the lotus feet of Ram in your heart.
Charm the Lord. To charm means: call from the heart—weep. Let your prayers become tears.
It is like the papihā’s refrain—the pied cuckoo’s call.
Clouds gather and swell
they take the earth’s vows
they open their hearts and bless—
look, in which breast burns this thirst?
It is the papihā’s refrain.

If a drop of water comes
a dart of fire follows—
a thunderbolt without pity—
when has this vow been broken?
It is the papihā’s refrain.

Not by water will it quench
nor be pressed by stone
nor fear tongues of flame—
this is the lover’s longing—
It is the papihā’s refrain.

When your life is filled with that refrain—Pi kahan? Pi kahan? Where are You, Beloved?—
It is written in Nanak’s life: He was young. That night the revolution came. He sat remembering the Lord. Midnight passed. His mother came: Sleep now. Nanak said: Hush—listen.
Outside a papihā called: Pi kahan? Pi kahan? And Nanak said: If he will not stop, I will not stop. If he does not notice midnight, why should I! If he calls, I will call. Today I have decided: if the papihā stops, I will stop—otherwise not. His beloved is lost; mine too. And perhaps his beloved will come; mine—who knows! I must call long—day or night—I must go on calling.
All night he called. That very night the revolution happened. That very night he had the first glimpse. That night Nanak ceased to be merely a man; he rose beyond. A wave came—and drowned him.
It is the papihā’s refrain.
Not by water will it quench
nor be pressed by stone
nor fear tongues of flame—
this is the lover’s longing—
It is the papihā’s refrain.

When it is so—charm arises.
Says Malukdas: drop your false hopes.
Be bliss-intoxicated, sing the virtues of Hari.
Say Ram, say Ram, say Ram, O mad one.

Says Malukdas: drop your false hopes.
Now do not hope from the world that something will be found here. Because of this hope we do not call the Lord.
How to call the Beloved? First let the call of rupee be silenced—only then will the call of the Beloved begin. Money holds all our breath right now. How can we call the Supreme Beloved while our little calls bind us?
Says Malukdas: drop your false hopes.
From this world no one has ever gained anything; no one will. Here, all hopes turn into despair. Here, all fantasies become dust. This world is a heap of broken rainbows. Here, dreams break; they do not come true. Here, dreams are only made to break, not to be fulfilled. The world is a mirage.
No one, no one—
this earth is full of wine
goblets, cupbearers everywhere—
where is one that can quench
my heart’s thirst?
No one, no one.

Taverns are seen in plenty
cupbearers in plenty
goblets in plenty
pitchers in plenty—
But one who could quench
my heart’s thirst—
No one, no one.

But the heart’s thirst is not quenched in any worldly tavern. No goblet quenches it. No cupbearer can.
The sky hears and understands
the forest birds’ utterance—
one who could understand
my heart’s deep sigh—
No one, no one.

Call and cry—worldly calls vanish into empty skies.
One who could understand
my heart’s deep sigh—
No one, no one.

The sweet breeze has begun
the forest stands in new leaf—
one who could bring back
my vanished trust—
No one, no one.

If you look with a little awareness into the world, your hopes will become despair.
When trust in the world falls away, trust in God begins to settle. When you turn your back to the world, your face turns toward God. Whoever is turned away from the world is turned face-to-face with God. He who understands the world’s futility stops running; the long net of craving is cut.
Says Malukdas: drop your false hopes.
Be bliss-intoxicated, sing the virtues of Hari.
And then, bliss-intoxicated—not “sad.” Whoever becomes disillusioned with the world will become blissful in God. Therefore by becoming “sad” one does not become udaasi. The so-called sadness—long faces, tired, defeated—
No. As soon as one is disillusioned with the world, a celebration of supreme joy appears. “Be bliss-intoxicated, sing the virtues of Hari.” Charm Him. “Say Ram, say Ram, say Ram, O mad one.” And then a relationship with God begins—the relation of lover and beloved.
You do not give shade—
what will I do with spring?
You do not give your arm—
what will I do with faith?
Broken and scattered, my heart’s
flower-soft austerity—
Dreams have become false—
The honey-oil of my lamp
is running dry—
The flowers have gone stale.
If You had come to my door
I would have offered my sadhana—
Where shall I go now, tell me?
You do not give fulfillment—
what will I do with longing?
You do not give shade—
what will I do with spring?
You do not give your arm—
what will I do with faith?

The bhakta is the beloved; God is the lover. She says: Give me Your arm—words will not do. You do not give your arm—what will I do with faith?
Thoughts and doctrines will not do. You do not give fulfillment—You do not give shade—what will I do with spring?
Today—from earth to sky
the moment of union is adorned
moonlight preens
like a dream, the flute of the heart
touches the core deep
fragrance flies
through blossoming mango groves
and the drunken koel calls—
but my lips are sealed
You don’t give song—
what will I do with sighs?
You do not give your arm—
what will I do with faith?

The bhakta begins to quarrel. Once love’s call arises, only the bhakta can quarrel with God—for he has no fear of God. In love there is no fear!
You don’t give song—
what will I do with sighs?
You do not give your arm—
what will I do with faith?

The last ray of dusk
is my remaining hope—
and my eager life—
in which valley of what horizon
have my sweet songs
lost as echoes?
Feet weary, on the path
mind sad, body tired—
Who but You can give support?
You do not give breath—
what will I do with joy?
You do not give your arm—
what will I do with faith?

Prayer, for the bhakta, is not japa—it is a colloquy; the beloved’s quarrel with the Beloved; the sulking and appeasing of lovers.
In Ramakrishna’s life, it is written: often he would stop prayer; shut the doors of the shrine; for two or four days he would be absent. Trustees came: what is this! Prayer must happen daily by rule. He said: Rule or no rule—find another priest. When I am angry, I will not pray. For two days I was angry. I shouted and cried—and He doesn’t listen! What use to shout! I appease Him; sometimes I force Him to appease me. When I keep the door shut and do not offer bhog, He begins to circle around me: Ramakrishna, come; now come. It’s all right.
The supreme revolution in Ramakrishna’s life happened thus: one day he began to pray and went on praying. People who had come to hear the prayer, tired, went away; the temple emptied; noon passed; no one remained; silence fell—but he went on praying; he went on weeping. Finally he said: The last day has come; will You appear or not? Either appear now—or I will take the sword hanging here—Kali’s—and cut off my head. Enough. You do not agree to any offering; then I will offer my head.
He snatched the sword and was about to strike his neck when it fell from his hands. A vast light spread. Ramakrishna fainted. For six days he did not regain consciousness. And when he came back, the man who fell unconscious was gone; another had arrived. Ramakrishna had departed; the Paramahansa had appeared.
Matters reached so far—the fight reached so far—that: If You won’t agree, I will cut off my head. In that instant the event happened. This is called staking the wager.
We must charm God, appease Him. We must write love-letters to Him. We must establish a relationship of love with Him.
This is the essence of Maluk’s songs; the essence of these sutras.
This alone charms my Nirankar, says Maluk—the mad one.
Remember “riijhanaa”—to charm. If you learn even a little of this art, God is not far. God is very near—you have not called. He is very near—you have not lifted your eyes. You have not yet raised the word of love.
These are the two paths: the path of jnana and the path of bhakti.
The path of bhakti is a very unique path.
For those among you who are mad—here is the invitation.
Enough for today.