Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #5

Baba Malukdas is an Avadhuta. Avadhuta means: the ultimate state of sannyas—where no rule remains, no boundary; where nothing is auspicious and nothing inauspicious; where one lives out of Sahaj Samadhi; where whatever happens is just right; where acceptance is total; where no prohibitions remain; where notions like what to do and what not to do have vanished; where a person becomes again like a small child.
The state of the Avadhuta is called the supreme state; it is rebirth, a new birth.
One birth comes from the mother, and then the innocence that came with that birth—the softness, the purity—gets lost in the crowd of society, in its confusions, in the net of the world. One has to learn dishonesty, to learn trickery, to learn distrust. So the faith with which man is born becomes tarnished. His mirror is stained. In that stained mirror the image of the Divine does not form. And the waves of a thousand thoughts scatter any image that tries to arise—like the reflection of the moon in a lake ruffled by waves; it does not form; it shatters and scatters. Silver spreads over the whole lake, but where the moon is, what its face is like, becomes hard to know.
The lake must be still, the lake must be pure—only then the face of the moon appears. Just so, when the lake of consciousness is pure, the form of the Divine appears.
To know the Divine one does not need scripture-knowledge; one needs freedom from words. And to know the Divine one does not need much calculation and logic; one needs an innocent mind; one needs a second birth.
Avadhuta means: one who is born again, and who has regained the simplicity of a child.
All yoga, all bhakti, all meditation do this much only: they remove the dirt and rubbish that society has piled upon you. Their work is negative.
Yoga or bhakti do not give you something; they take away what society has given you. You become again what you were meant to be.
So, in the supreme state of the Avadhuta, surely no merit remains, no sin remains. In the Avadhuta’s supreme state, childhood returns again. And this childhood is deeper—deeper than the first. For had the first childhood been truly deep, it could not have been destroyed. It was destroyed. It could not face the storms of the world. It was unripe; immature. It was simple, but the foundation of that simplicity was not very strong. A little gust of wind and the lake trembled. A few difficulties and the mind grew agitated. There was a tree, but its roots were not deep; small gusts uprooted it.
The second childhood is deeper, for it is self-attained; it is aware. This second childhood is what we in this land have called dvija—the twice-born.
There are two kinds of people in the world… and this division is very significant. Those who are born only once—they are, in technical terms, called shudra—the once-born; those who took the first childhood to be everything and were finished, who never made any effort to be born again.
The one who is born again—dvija, twice-born—he alone is a brahmin; he alone is entitled to attain Brahman.
So there are the once-born; and there are the twice-born.
The Avadhuta is twice-born. His body may be old, but in his consciousness there is no age, no time. His consciousness is free of time. His heart is like that of a small child.
Jesus is standing in a marketplace, and someone asks him—the one who asks is a religious teacher—‘Who will enter the kingdom of your Lord? Who will be worthy, who will be the owner?’ Naturally, that rabbi must have thought Jesus would point to him. He was a religious authority; a knower of religion; respected. But Jesus did not point to him. Nearby stood a man renowned as a saint, known as pious, virtuous. He too looked carefully at Jesus, thinking perhaps he would be indicated—but no; Jesus removed his gaze from him as well. The wealthy were there; the respected were there; people of all kinds were in the crowd. But Jesus’ gaze came to rest upon a small child. He lifted him onto his shoulder and said, ‘Only those who are like this child…’
Avadhuta means: one who is like a small child. The Avadhuta’s relation with the Divine is exactly as a small child’s relation with the mother. For him, the Divine is not something great and distant. His connection with the Divine is not of etiquette—it is of love. And does love obey limits? Does love accept boundaries?
A small child fights with the mother; a small child tangles with the mother; he sulks; gets angry; makes a commotion; even compels the mother. If he wants to go outside, he will go. He will break all rules and trouble the mother.
The relation a small child has with the mother—such is the Avadhuta’s relation with Existence. Existence—meaning the Divine.
You will understand these sutras only if you keep this relation in mind. Otherwise they may seem a little strange. They may even seem a little impolite. There is no question of etiquette here.
Etiquette, consideration—these are formal ties. With those toward whom you have relations of etiquette you actually have no relation. Etiquette is not relationship; it is a device to hide the fact that there is no relationship. As long as etiquette continues between two friends, know that friendship has not yet happened. When etiquette is lost between two friends, when out of love they can even abuse each other, then know that friendship has deepened. Now even an abuse will not be able to uproot it.
When friends break all the rules of etiquette, then know that they have come close in the heart.
If you live with God in etiquette, you have neither known nor recognized God. With Him the only bond is of love—not of politeness, not of civilization. With Him the tie can only be heartful.
These sutras are of the heart. As a small child quarrels with his mother, so Malukdas quarrels with the Divine.
Before we enter the sutras, a few more things must be kept in mind.
Second: the doctrine of karma is a very important doctrine—but on the path of knowledge, not on the path of devotion. The doctrine of karma is very precious on the path of knowledge. Karma means: you will reap what you have sown. Do wrong and the results will be wrong; do good and the results will be good. This seems logical, just. There is no mistake in it; the arithmetic is very clear.
It should be so: he who did evil should suffer; he who did good should receive good; he who gave happiness to others should find happiness; and he who gave sorrow to others should find sorrow. There would be no injustice in this. If the reverse were to happen—if the wicked were happy and the good were miserable—then the order of the world would be unjust.
Karma is the principle of justice. On the scale of justice every person will be weighed; no one is special, no one exempt. Justice will favor none. Karma is impartial. It is a discovery of mathematics, a discovery of logic. And it appeals to us. But on the path of devotion, karma has no place at all. And you will be surprised to learn that the devotee travels in a wholly different direction.
The devotee says: through karma we may go to heaven; do good and heaven will come; do evil and hell will come—but how will the Divine be attained? Do good and pleasure will be attained; do evil and pain will be attained—but how will the Divine be attained? The Divine is neither good nor evil. The Divine is beyond both. The Divine is transcendence.
You cannot call the Divine good or bad. If you call the Divine good or bad, you bring duality into the Divine. Because of calling the Divine ‘good’ people had to invent a devil. If you call God good, then where will the bad go? On whose head will it be placed?
So those religions that called the Divine good—like Christianity, Islam, Judaism—had to find something else; a source for evil: from where does evil come?
From God, only goodness is raining—gold is showering; then what of mud, of the hell of life, of its misfortunes and torments? Morning comes from God, then the dark night? There must be a source for the dark night as well; otherwise the account becomes absurd. So a Satan has to be erected.
But this solves nothing; for where does Satan come from?
Christianity too admits, Islam too admits that he too comes from God. He is an angel gone corrupt. That implies that even before Satan there was the possibility of corruption! Then Satan cannot be the source of corruption; for Satan himself arose from corruption. An angel was corrupted; then the possibility of corruption existed prior to Satan. So Christianity, Judaism, Islam—all three have a huge snag they cannot resolve: how to account for Satan!
Satan too was created by God; Satan too came from God—then what difference does it make if you say that night came from Satan? Ultimately it came from God. From God came Satan; from Satan came night. From God came Satan; from Satan came sin, came evil. Ultimately the responsibility falls upon God.
In this sense India’s vision regarding the Divine is very unique and clear: everything comes from the Divine—the bad as well as the good. Therefore the Divine is beyond both. We can call the Divine neither good nor bad.
So the devotee says: do good and you will become good, a virtuous man; do evil and you will become evil, a wicked man. But how will you become a saint? Saintliness means: beyond good and evil. By doing good upon good how will you go beyond good? By doing evil upon evil how will you go beyond evil?
Understand one more thing: whenever you think ‘I did good’ or ‘I did bad,’ your I gets strengthened. It gets strengthened by evil; it gets strengthened by good.
Have you noticed? When you do a little good, you boast about it greatly. You give five rupees in charity and tell it as fifty; if no one pays attention, you start telling it as five hundred!
And note this too: the same happens with evil. Go to the prison. The man who stole five hundred inflates it to five thousand. Ask the prisoners—the prisoners too boast to one another: ‘What are you—a pickpocket? That’s nothing. We committed robberies.’
Someone landed in jail after beating someone—what worth is that, where great killers sit…!
I have heard: a new prisoner arrived in a cell. The man already there asked him right away: ‘How many years is your sentence?’ He said, ‘Only five years.’ The other said, ‘Then sit near the door, for I have to be here fifty years. Sit by the door—your five will be over in no time. Leave from there quickly.’ He did not even let him come further in—‘Make your camp near the door; you have to go soon. And what did you do anyway—only five years! If you had to do something, do something manly.’
Man inflates his evil; he inflates his good—because with karma there is the sense of doership, and in doership there is ego.
The scripture of devotion says: where there is ego, how will you meet the Divine? So bhakti declares: talk of karma is futile. We will not meet the Divine through our karma, but through His grace. Mark this difference. It is foundational.
The knower says: we will meet through our good acts. There, asmitā exists; ego exists. The devotee says: what weight do we have! What will come of our doing? Doing, we only spoiled things. Doing and doing, we were ruined—we became doers; the ego grew strong. Sometimes the ego of being a great sinner; sometimes the ego of being a great saint; sometimes wicked, sometimes virtuous—but we remained egoistic. From this corner to that, from that corner to this—but the ego always followed like a shadow.
‘We will attain the Divine by our power’—the devotee says, this is absurd. He says: we will attain by His prasad. Not by our effort, but by His prasad; if His compassion descends. He is Ram, Rahim, Rahman; if His grace happens.
See the difference; the whole emphasis shifts.
Knowledge emphasizes: become pure. Devotion emphasizes: become thirsty. Knowledge emphasizes: fill yourself with virtue. Devotion emphasizes: empty yourself of ego.
Even merit, for the devotee, is a golden chain. Sin is an iron chain; virtue is a golden chain. From neither does freedom result. The devotee says: drop both. The devotee says: do not claim that you have something by which you deserve to attain Him. ‘Deserve’? The very notion is false. Let Thy grace happen. I will weep; I will plead; I will cry out.
What does a small child do? Has he any right? He lies in his cradle and cries, kicking his little legs. Has he any claim? The mother runs when she hears his cry. Has he any entitlement? Any basis by which he can say ‘you must come’? No claim; he only cries. Softly he cries; if the mother does not hear, he cries louder. His only basis is: I will call out. And his only trust is that there is love in you, there is compassion in you; hearing my call you will be drawn—you will have to come.
The devotee says: we are nothing; by our power we will reach nowhere. By our power we are so small that even what we earn will be small. Whatever we do cannot be greater than us. You are so vast—how will we attain You! Whatever we achieve by doing will be worldly. So we call out; we weep; we sulk. We trust Your being Rahman, Your being Rahim. We trust that You are dayāl, You are kripālu.
Now note: if the path of knowledge is taken to its consummation, there remains no need of God. Then God seems a useless hypothesis; therefore the Jains and the Buddhists removed God. Their argument is understandable; it is the ultimate position of the logic of knowledge. If logic is driven to the end, the Jains and the Buddhists are right.
They say: if we attain liberation through our good karma alone, then what is the use of the hypothesis of God? Good karma suffices.
If God can do nothing; if the good will receive pleasure and the bad pain, and God cannot do anything in between—cannot give pleasure to the bad, or pain to the good—then what is the purpose of the idea of God? Then the law of karma is sufficient. So in Jainism and Buddhism the place of God is taken by the law of karma. That is enough: this is logical.
On the path of knowledge, truly, there is no special need to maintain God.
Just as science acknowledges law; it does not acknowledge God. It acknowledges the law of gravity. Throw a stone up and the earth will pull it down. Just so, he who does evil will be pulled downward; he who does good will rise upward—this is law. To bring any God between is neither right nor necessary. There is danger in bringing a person in. For where a person is, it is difficult to trust. He might take pity on someone; he might consider someone his own, someone another.
You see: because a judge is in the court, justice is not fulfilled. The judge’s presence is an obstacle in justice. If his son steals, the judge will pretend to be just, but inwardly he will give the minimum punishment possible; if he can save him, he will. If the son of his enemy steals, he will try to give the maximum punishment. And there can be considerable difference. For one offense, five years may be given—or ten. So much variance is possible. By some device he can be acquitted; by some device entangled and trapped.
The judge’s presence is not an aid to justice. It is our helplessness that we keep a judge. The day a computer can do this work, justice will be better fulfilled. The machine has no son, no wife, no brother; it is impartial.
The day the machine delivers verdicts, there will be no hindrance; justice will be straight and clear.
So the Jains and Buddhists say: in accepting God there is danger. Someone may keep pleading, praying, worshipping, waving lamps and incense, and in some way please Him; and another, who never looked towards Him, never went to a temple, never prayed, but remained engaged in good works—there is danger. The one who prayed and pleaded—maybe he did not engage in good works—by flattery…
Praise is flattery. Prayer is flattery. On the path of knowledge, prayer and praise are dangerous. Therefore, in Buddhism and Jainism there is no place for prayer; there is place for meditation, not prayer; there is no place for praise. Be silent—but whom to pray to? And why? Why offer food to God in a temple? It is like sending a basket of fruit to the judge’s house—a bribe to the judge.
There are a thousand ways to bribe: some give it directly to the judge; some to his wife. The more clever, to the wife.
So someone chants Ram; someone chants Sita. The clever one chants Sita. Therefore you see: the chanters keep Ram’s name after—Sita-Ram; Radha-Krishna. Clever. Keep Radha in front. If Radha is pleased, Krishna will certainly be pleased. If Sita is persuaded, Ram will follow. The reverse is not necessary: you may appease Ram, but Sita may not come. And if Ram is appeased and Sita is not, she may create trouble at odd times.
Praise, prayer—on the path of meditation, of knowledge, are meaningless; they are obstacles. God too appears a hindrance. Law is sufficient. An impersonal law is at work—the law of karma.
But on the path of devotion, God is sufficient; there is no need of law. Law means we are doing on our own. We did good; we want good. We want only as much as we have done. We want justice.
The devotee says: if we demand justice, what good have we done! We want compassion—not justice. We want grace. What we have done is worthless. It has no value. If we ask for justice, we will wander births upon births and never be free. We pray; we ask for Your compassion; we seek Your prasad.
Keep this difference in mind and you will understand that on the path of knowledge, resolve has value; on the path of devotion, surrender has value. On the path of knowledge one has to polish oneself, adorn oneself, purify oneself, bring character. On the path of devotion one has to learn the art of falling at His feet.
Who, in the dark night, sits with a lamp alight?
Such a storm has risen in the sky,
the moon and stars are all hidden.
Such a hurricane has risen in the heavens,
even all lamps have gone out;
yet in this night who is it
that keeps a flame alive?
Who, in the dark night, sits with a lamp alight?
So it is a dark night; the dense darkness of ego. Sin upon sin have we done; what merit have we? In what we call merit a thousand sins hide.
If you, giving some money in charity, build a temple—do you think it merit? Where did that money come from? You exploited to gather it. In that merit too sin is hidden. To become a donor one must first be an exploiter. For donation you need money! First steal; snatch; behead—then donate! What merit will you do? In the very doing of merit sin lurks. It is a dark night.
Heavy with pride the clouds
gather and gather across the sky;
with thunder they proclaim:
‘Light will never come again.’
Yet who keeps a vow with the Eternal Flame?
Who, in the dark night, sits with a lamp alight?
If we look at our own acts, it is a dense night. In this night there seems no escape—except that there be a trust: that He who has begotten us, who has grown us, who has made us, has a mother’s heart. That from whom we are born will have love for us, compassion, an attachment to us—only the lamp of such a trust can be lit in the dark night; otherwise there is no way.
Such a dread reign of darkness—
so fierce a terror has fallen;
those who could have raised their heads
have bowed them down.
Yet who keeps the fire of revolt alight?
Who, in the dark night, sits with a lamp alight?
All the signs of dissolution are bound,
the night of annihilation has settled;
in the midst of these devouring powers
who keeps alive a hope of creation?
Who, in the dark night, sits with a lamp alight?
Tempest, cloud, lightning—
what have they not torn and shattered?
Between earth and sky
nothing has been left intact;
yet who protects his faith still?
Who, in the dark night, sits with a lamp alight?
On a night of dissolution—
will anyone think of love?
Yet who, falling into the bondage of love,
has not lost his understanding?
At someone’s path whose eyelids lie spread?
Who, in the dark night, sits with a lamp alight?
On the path of love, in the hope of love, a lamp burns; in prayer a lamp burns. In the trust that the One from whom we are born cannot be indifferent to us. From whom we have come, there must remain some thread of connection, of love, with us. And for this there are a thousand proofs.
Right now, in front of this Lao Tzu Hall, a bird on a small tree has laid two eggs. For days she has sat brooding them. Twenty-four hours. She has not cared for her hunger and thirst; she has not moved. In what deep love, in what trust! And as soon as the chicks broke from the eggs, since then she has been busy—bringing food, chewing it, placing it in their mouths, feeding them. All day long this continues. She shows no time yet to eat herself. Whether she eats at all is not seen.
In what powerful love all this goes on!
If we lift our eyes and look around life, we will find it everywhere: powerful love. Where there is a mother, there is love. Therefore, if in this land we gave the mother incomparable honor, dignity, there was a reason. Not merely that she is mother. The reason is deeper: the thread of the mother is the thread of religion itself.
We are born into this world; the Divine surrounds us on all sides; He cares for us. Only on this trust the lamp burns; otherwise the lamp does not burn.
On a night of dissolution—
will anyone think of love?
Yet who, falling into the bondage of love,
has not lost his understanding!
At someone’s path whose eyelids lie spread?
Who, in the dark night, sits with a lamp alight?
The devotee says: our trust is not in ourselves. We have no trust in ourselves. Trusting ourselves we have seen again and again—we fell into pits. When we trusted, we fell. When we stiffened, when we thought ‘I am,’ then mistakes were made.
So the devotee says: now we will trust the Vast; therefore on the path of devotion shraddhā is the first condition. Without shraddhā no step will move; with it a step can move.
On the path of knowledge shraddhā is not the first condition. You can move forward with doubt; there is no obstacle. For those in whom shraddhā is natural, the path of devotion. For those in whom doubt is natural, the path of knowledge. In the end both reach the same place. But their routes are very different.
The devotee’s assurance is less in himself, more in the Divine.
You sing—and my song becomes immortal.
My letters are dishevelled,
my steps bewildered,
what I have composed echoes and fades—
I have made such songs.
The coo has become the lament of the sky
upon the cuckoo’s throat.
You sing—and my song becomes immortal.
The devotee says: if I sing—nothing will happen. A small ripple will rise—and be lost; the result will be momentary.
My letters are dishevelled,
my steps bewildered;
what I have made echoes and fades—
such songs have I made.
I cannot even sing them before they vanish. I cannot form them before they scatter. Lines drawn on water are all my acts. I am impermanent; I am limited—how will my act be limitless? How will it be eternal?
Whenever the world stretched its hands,
I emptied my treasury;
I became a pauper, losing my own wealth—
what did the world gain!
Give me a gift by which I lose nothing,
but You receive everything—
You take it, and my offering becomes immortal.
You sing—and my song becomes immortal.
In this world of fair and foul
what have I not admired!
In such a world full of affection
I alone am unwanted.
Let me see now whose desire
comes to rest upon me—
You keep it, and my name becomes immortal.
You sing—and my song becomes immortal.
Though life has passed in sorrow,
something still remains.
In life’s final moments
I still say to You:
for a single breath of joy
immortality is poured out.
Touch me—and my life becomes immortal.
You sing—and my song becomes immortal.
The devotee says: I am nothing in myself; if You touch me, my life becomes immortal. I am empty—a shunya. If Your figure sits before me—comes upon me—I acquire worth. I have no worth of my own. In the measure You are with me, to that extent I have worth. You sing—and my song becomes immortal.
If this assurance becomes clear, Malukdas’ sutras will be understood. They are very unique—simple, yet unique.
When did the Bhil ever do any good—you Yourself know.
When did the elephant become a disciple—of whom?
Says Maluk:
When did the Bhil ever do any good—you Yourself know.
He reminds God: ‘Listen—when did Valmiki do anyone’s good? He was a robber; a killer. He never even took Your name straight; instead of “Ram Ram,” he chanted “Mara Mara”!’
When did the Bhil ever do any good—you Yourself know.
Do You remember? Do You recall any good the Bhil child ever did for anyone? Is there any tale of his merit?
No tale. That young Bhil was a murderer and a robber.
You know the story: Narada was passing by and the young robber Balya came to loot him. But Narada is a strange man. Balya must have drawn his sword—but Narada kept on playing his veena. He stood before him, ready to kill—and the veena would not stop. So he asked, ‘Are you mad? I have seen two kinds of men: those who, seeing my sword, draw theirs and are eager to fight; and those who, seeing my sword, run away. But you are of a third sort. You are the first of your kind I have met. You neither run nor draw your sword! And what is this you have started? Stop it. Why do you keep playing this veena?’ And Narada laughed and kept playing.
Balya was astonished. He had met a new sort of man—without fear; neither frightening another nor being frightened. This man belongs to some other category. Balya had never met such a category. So he too stood and listened to this song. And the song too was bewitching. There was something unique in it—because it was a remembrance of Ram.
And when the song ended, the music stilled, Balya said: ‘Do you know I am a killer? I have come to rob you.’ Narada said: ‘Rob me. But answer one thing. I have long wished to ask this of some robber: for whom do you do all this looting?’ Balya said, ‘What sort of question is this! My wife, my children, my mother, my father—for them.’ Narada said: ‘Then do one thing. Go and ask them whether they will share in the sin that will fall upon your head for all this.’
Balya laughed: ‘What do you take me for! If I go home, you will be gone.’ Narada said: ‘Then tie me well to this tree, so I cannot run. But go home and ask.’ The suggestion appealed to Balya. Perhaps he too had occasionally thought so. Who does not?
If you steal for your children, do you not sometimes think whether they will feel grateful? Will they, when grown, thank you? Will they remember in your old age? If you commit robbery for your wife, does the thought not occur that if truly the law of karma works, I will go to hell; and my wife—will she be with me? For I do it for her.
In this world you always sin for others. Who sins for himself? No one is that wicked.
You will be surprised: no one is so wicked as to sin for himself. Everyone sins for someone else. Even for sin, one needs at least so much trust—that one is doing it in someone’s love.
Even sin cannot be without love. For sin too, love’s support is needed. You can steal, even kill, if you feel sure you are doing it for someone, in someone’s love.
Without love, nothing is done in this world—even evil is done for love.
So Balya too must have thought thus. However dull or ignorant he was, this wave must have arisen many times: I am doing all this—will I alone have to bear its result?
So the suggestion appealed to him. He went to ask. And in the net of that asking he got entangled. He became Narada’s disciple.
He went home and when he asked, his wife said: ‘How should I know what you do! It is your duty to provide for me. I do not know what you do. What you do, you know. Whether you bring good or bad, you know. We never told you to do evil.’
The old parents said: ‘We are old; why do you bring such entanglements to us—that we will share your sins? Our days are few. We will meet God soon; you will still take long. We do not know. We gave you birth; we reared you; if you gather food for us, are you doing any great favor?’
He asked the children; they said: ‘How do we know; we are innocent. We never asked for this.’
He returned sad. He told Narada: ‘No one will share my sins.’ Narada said: ‘Then consider—do you want to continue this?’
And in that moment a revolution happened. Balya threw away his sword; fell at Narada’s feet: ‘Teach me the secret by which a song like yours may arise in me; by which your peace and fearlessness, your joy, may pervade me—so that even if death stands before me I remain unshaken; even death cannot move me. What is its secret?’
Narada said: ‘The secret is not much—remembrance of Ram.’ Balya was unlettered, ignorant. He asked: ‘What must I do?’ Narada said: ‘Simply chant Ram-Ram; remember Ram; forget all else—remember Ram.’
Balya began to chant—Ram Ram Ram. Unlettered, ignorant, he had never chanted Ram’s name. And if you too chant Ram Ram Ram very fast, with urgency—one Ram after another—you will slowly find the sounds merging, and instead of ‘Ram’ the sound ‘Mara’ begins to come.
He slowly forgot whether it was ‘Ram’ or ‘Mara.’ Chanting ‘Mara, Mara,’ Balya attained knowledge.
Baba Malukdas speaks to Ram, to God:
When did the Bhil ever do any good—you Yourself know.
‘Do You remember; have You any sense of it—this Bhil child You made into Valmiki, a rishi! He was liberated! In which of Your ledgers is this written? Where is the account? When did the Bhil ever do any good—you Yourself know. Where is Your awareness? You keep doing anything whatsoever!’
When did the elephant become a disciple—of whom?
And there is the tale: Gajendra, the elephant, is caught in the grip of a crocodile; the crocodile seized his leg; he remembered the Lord and was freed. ‘When did the elephant become a disciple—of whom?’ I ask You—this elephant, whose disciple was he? When did he become a disciple? From whom did he receive initiation? With whom did he do sadhana? Who was his guru? Where are the accounts?
We hear so much talk of justice, justice, justice—and the law of karma; but reality appears otherwise!
Says Maluk:
When did the vulture touch even the edge of the book of knowledge?
The hunter and the butcher—You saved them; where is the justice in that?
And Jatayu, the vulture! Did he ever read any book? Any Veda? ‘When did the vulture touch even the edge of the book of knowledge?’ Not even the edge. What knowledge did he have, by which he was liberated?
The hunter and the butcher—you saved them; what justice is that?
Where is justice in all this? I ask You, where is justice here?
People receive good by their acts, and evil by their acts—this is not the truth. Malukdas raises the names of Valmiki, Gajendra, Jatayu, to make clear that no one is liberated by his own doing; one is liberated by His compassion.
And he says: justice is not the real thing—karuna is. Understand: justice and compassion are different principles; they are opposite.
Therefore before a judge the question often arises: should he emphasize justice or compassion?
Justice is very hard; in justice there is no heart. You see: the magistrate sits in court like a stone statue. His garments, his posture, his face—he sits like stone. He shrinks his heart completely; only then can he do justice. If his heart is a little open, if he sits like a human being, justice will be very difficult; compassion will arise. If a man has committed theft—the judge must only see the book. He need not see why the man stole. Perhaps his wife was dying and there was no money for medicine. If he cut someone’s pocket—and that of one who has plenty—five or ten rupees less makes no difference. But his wife is saved. He has little milk-sucking children; if the wife died, what would have become of them! They are saved. Is this theft of five or ten rupees a great theft? Should this be called sin, a crime?
If only the book of justice is to be seen, there is no place for compassion. Justice is very hard. In justice there is no mercy.
Compassion is very soft. And with compassion, pure justice cannot be.
Jesus gives many references to this. One famous parable: the owner of a vineyard sends his servants. The grapes are ripe; they must be gathered quickly or they will rot; ‘Bring as many laborers as you can find.’ The servants go and bring as many as they can. But they are not enough.
By midday the owner feels the work will not be finished by evening; he says, ‘Bring more if you find.’ So they go at noon and bring more. Still it seems the work will not finish by evening; he says, ‘Bring more.’ They go again and bring more laborers. The last batch arrives at about sunset.
When the work is done, at night when wages are given, the owner gives everyone the same pay—the ones who came in the morning, those who came at noon, and those who came in the evening. Naturally, those who came in the morning protest: ‘This is injustice. We have worked since the morning; some came at noon, they too get the same; some came just now, did almost nothing—and they too the same. This is injustice.’
But the owner laughs: ‘What I gave you—was it not sufficient for your wages?’ ‘Yes,’ they say, ‘for our wages it is sufficient—but what of these?’ He says: ‘To these I give from my abundance. For your work you received what was due; there is no lack in that. Those who came at noon I give thus because I have plenty to give. Those who came in the evening I give the same, because I have plenty to give. With them I am doing mercy; with you I am not doing injustice. You received what you ought to have received.’
Jesus says: God will do justice with the knowers and mercy with the devotees. This is a strange statement. The knowers are those who began in the morning; the devotees may come at noon—or at evening—or not even come. God gives to them from His abundance. With the knower there is no injustice; this is true. The knower gets what he has done. But let him not think that those who did nothing will get nothing.
When did the Bhil ever do any good—you Yourself know.
Malukdas is speaking of those who came in the evening…
When did the Bhil ever do any good—you Yourself know.
When did the elephant become a disciple—of whom?
When did the vulture touch even the edge of the book of knowledge?
The hunter and the butcher—You saved them; where is the justice in that?
…What justice is this? In which court shall I take it? Where is justice here?
When did the elephant ever take a rosary and sit in worship?
When did Gajendra ever pray? When did he sit with a rosary and chant?
When did the elephant ever take a rosary and sit in worship?
I too was struck by Ajamila’s case…
And Malukdas says: since You liberated Ajamila, jealousy has arisen in me; that case still pricks me.
Ajamila’s story is unique; even Jesus might be a little worried—for those who came in the evening at least came! Those who came at sunset did something, however little. If nothing else, they came and went! Ajamila did not even do that much.
Ajamila never took God’s name his whole life. He had nothing to do with God. He was atheistic. On his deathbed, as he died, he called out loudly to his son; his son’s name was Narayan.
In old days, all names were God’s names. Whatever names there were were all God’s names. This too was thoughtful—that in this way, at least, there would be remembrance. Someone Ram, someone Vishnu, someone Narayan, someone Krishna. In Islam too, nearly all names contain God—Abdullah (of Allah), Karim, Rahim, Rahman—all names of the Divine.
Hindus possess a unique book—Vishnu Sahasranama—the thousand names of God; only names are given. All names used to be God’s, for all forms are His, so the names too should be His. It is meaningful.
In all forms He appears, so all names should be His. And then, at least by this, remembrance goes on. Call out ‘Ram’—his remembrance happens; call out ‘Narayan’—his remembrance happens. Who knows at what moment, in which auspicious instant, the arrow may strike—who knows!
Sometimes a blow lands unexpectedly, without any design. But let God’s name resound in the air on all sides. Who knows from which corner His remembrance may enter us! Such is Ajamila’s incident.
Ajamila is dying. He does not believe in God; but his son’s name is Narayan—perhaps kept by accident, for there were no other kinds of names then. Dying, he calls his son: ‘Narayan, where are you?’ His breath is breaking; he calls the boy—perhaps to tell where the treasure is buried; to explain some accounts; to share some secret. Death is near—he must tell his son.
But the son did not hear; who knows where he was. Calling out ‘Narayan, Narayan,’ Ajamila died. The tale is that, above, Narayan—God—felt that the poor fellow had called so much! He called me so much! And Ajamila, dying, attained the supreme state.
This tale is unique; it goes even beyond Jesus’ parable. Ajamila did not even come at evening. When he called ‘Narayan, Narayan,’ even then he had no concern with the Divine.
Now, did God get deceived? Did God not have even this much sense—that he is calling his son, not Me? Does God have so little awareness? Can such a deception be?
If such a deception can be, it is only because God is ready, by any excuse whatsoever, to pour His compassion. He has abundance; He wants to give—any excuse suffices. Even this excuse suffices. When giving is the intent, what does it matter whom he is calling—his son or me! Good—this peg is enough; God will hang His grace on it.
Malukdas says:
When did the elephant ever take a rosary and sit in worship?
That Gajendra never turned a rosary. Never did he sit and worship, pray, or offer. Let that be—leave it…
I too was struck by Ajamila’s case.
But Ajamila—there the limit was crossed! That shock still remains with me: what, then, is my fault?
Malukdas is saying: if justice of this sort has happened with all these, then why is there partiality with me? I feel a rivalry with Ajamila.
You have forgiven the misdeeds of so many astray ones—
then why this wrath upon me, this casteless Maluk?
So why are You so angry with me? What is my fault? I have not done such great evil. And one thing is sure—I am calling You, not my son!
And even Ajamila was liberated! You are seated only to liberate—then why this discrimination with me?
This is the lover’s quarrel. It can happen only in supreme love. An ordinary man cannot dare to speak to God in this way; only an extraordinary Avadhuta can. The ordinary will fear lest God be offended. The ordinary always says, ‘You are the purifier of the fallen; I am a sinner,’ and says all the customary things. He calculates accounts: ‘Perhaps thus He will be appeased.’
But Malukdas says something very unique. He says: ‘You are angry at me because I am casteless? Then who has a caste! Granted my karma are not in order—then whose are? Granted I may not have called You with full feeling—but what is Your thought regarding Ajamila?’
He reminds the Divine of all these events; it is a profound prayer of love, a rare entreaty.
‘Why are You angry with me? What displeasure do You keep? What sin could I have committed? Sins You have been forgiving; the astray You have been forgiving! All right, I am astray; and I am very guilty. But why are You so angry? Has Your compassion run dry? Has Your love dried up? Or have Your old habits changed—that now Ajamila-like incidents no longer happen? Has Your heart withered?’
As a small child cries for the mother and thinks: why does she not come? A small child thinks the mother should be present at every moment when he calls. In the middle of the night he calls—she should be present. The child assumes the mother is there for him. It cannot occur to him that she may have a thousand other tasks! That she may be serving her husband; that she may be tired and asleep; that she may have gone to the market to buy provisions! There can be a thousand tasks. The child never raises such a question. He has one conviction: she is for me; I am for her. I am hers twenty-four hours; she is mine twenty-four hours.
Such is precisely the devotee’s feeling.
You may have a thousand tasks; you may be running the sun and stars; there will be great entanglements. But the devotee assumes the first right is his.
You have forgiven the misdeeds of so many astray ones—
then why this wrath upon me, this casteless Maluk?
The devotee has always trusted that Your love is boundless. And You do not donate by seeing who has done good and who has done bad. Is that any way! That would be a very human way—that he who has done good should get a little more, and he who has done bad a little less. To give happiness to the good, sorrow to the bad—this would be human justice; it will not be divine.
Man’s justice may be fine, but divine justice it is not. In divine justice there must be compassion—boundless compassion. What we have done—this is irrelevant. You have so much to give! All lies ready to be given! To whom will You give after all?
When clouds gather in Bhadon filled with rain, do they worry to fall only on fertile soil? They rain upon stones as well. They do not consider to shine only upon the good; the sun does not keep darkness for the wicked. When the fragrance of flowers spreads, it does not seek only the nostrils of saints.
All receive—this is the devotee’s trust. All receive—without cause. If it were to be given by cause, it would be stingy; and God is not stingy.
The doctrine of karma is a doctrine of stinginess. It says: he who does will receive; he who does not will not. It is a petty, narrow doctrine.
The devotee says: what is this—do not put such mean blemishes on God. And you know well; all life proves what Malukdas says. Look at the sun; the moon and stars; the winds. This gust of wind that arrived—does it come only to the good? The wicked bathe in it the same. There is no discrimination. Existence does not discriminate.
Does a mother distinguish between the son who obeys her and the one who does not? The condition is always this: the one who disobeys receives more. The troublesome sons receive more of the mother’s love and pity. Naturally so. She feels more tenderness: ‘Poor thing, he is troublesome; he is buffeted everywhere; wherever he goes he gets into trouble.’ For him more pity arises.
The virtuous is honored everywhere. Wherever he goes, he is respected. He lacks nothing of honor.
But the son who is a bit astray, disobedient, rebellious—he will find love nowhere else; if the mother too does not love him, he will remain deprived of love.
There is a unique law of nature: in the end everything balances; all are equalized.
So if others do not give love, the mother gives.
Have you noticed? You praise the obedient son; you condemn the disobedient. But love…?
Jesus has another story; and his stories are unique stories of the path of love.
Someone asks Jesus: ‘I am not worthy. I am lost; I am a sinner. Will God redeem me too? Should I call? Will my call reach Him?’
Jesus said: ‘Listen.’ The man was a shepherd. So Jesus spoke the shepherd’s language: ‘Sometimes it must have happened to you—when at evening you gather your hundred sheep to return home and suddenly, on reaching home, you find that there are only ninety-nine; one has strayed somewhere in the wilderness. What do you do?’
He said: ‘I leave the sheep there and rush into the wild to find that one—lest a wolf devour it! A wild beast may eat it! I leave my concern for the ninety-nine; my whole feeling runs to that one. In the dark night I shout across forest and hill and bring it back.’
Jesus asked: ‘And one more thing—how do you bring it back?’ He said: ‘How do I bring it? I bring it upon my shoulders.’
Jesus said: ‘Do you think God will not show at least that much love for you?’
Jesus says: He drives the righteous to come; He carries the sinners upon His shoulders—the lost, the astray…
The scripture of love is unique; its trusts are unique; its direction is different. If the scripture of love did not exist, man would have no future. Man is so weak—by a thousand efforts he becomes hardly virtuous. By a thousand efforts, how often does he become a saint? And if ever one among thousands does—will grace fall only upon him, and the rest remain without rain, dry, never green? Nature would become very sad.
No—look around. Understand the language of the sun; the language of the moon and stars; the language of the winds. All receive equally. There is no difference of good and bad. Though in your mind there is difficulty—because the obstacle is your ego. You think: ‘If all receive equally, why should I be good?’
You feel: ‘All receive equally? The wicked too?’ Envy arises. These are your obstacles. Do not weigh God with these obstacles. Malukdas says:
You have forgiven the misdeeds of so many astray ones—
then why this wrath upon me, this casteless Maluk?
What are You doing today, sitting like this? We heard that You carry lost sheep upon Your shoulders! Here stands Malukdas. I am a lost sheep—now lift me upon Your shoulder. I make no claim that I am a realized saint. I am a lost sheep. Where are You? Where is Your shoulder?
You say: I never turned a rosary—never. But did Gajendra? You say: I did not read the Veda or Koran—ever. Did Jatayu? You say: Malukdas, you did not even take my name properly. Malukdas says: then what is your intention? Change the story—what about Ajamila’s tale? ‘I too was struck by Ajamila’s case.’ And the blow I received then has not healed yet. And until you lift me… Without cause lift me—only then will the wound heal.
Understand the devotee’s feeling-state:
Lift me without cause. I have no cause by which I can claim. All that is bad is mine; whatever is mine is bad. From that side there is no claim. But however I am—good or bad—I am Yours.
If the world forsakes me, it matters not—
if You forsake me, love will not be.
Among jewels You alone are Kaustubha;
among stars You alone are the moon;
among rivers You alone are Ganga;
among fragrances You alone are night-jasmine.
As in the lamp the flame and the wick,
You are companion to my very breath.
If body parts, it matters not;
if You part, there is no adornment left.
If the world is angry, it matters not—
if You are angry, love will not be.
Malukdas says: why are You cross with me? Let the whole world be cross—fine; but You do not be. Let the whole world say I am bad—fine; but You do not say so. It does not befit You.
There is a line of Omar Khayyam. Some mullah told Omar Khayyam: ‘If you persist in drinking, you will rot in hell.’ Omar Khayyam laughed: ‘So what do you say—has God ceased to be Rahman? Is there no mercy left in Him? You are putting a blot upon His mercy! You say His compassion has run out! Leave me as I am—good or bad. I place my trust not upon myself; I trust in His compassion, in His being Rahman, in His being Rahim.’
The devotee’s trust is not in his ego. The knower’s trust is in his personhood. The devotee’s trust is in His grace. The knower’s, in his effort; the devotee’s, in His prasad. Whenever the devotee finds some obstacle, he prays. He says: ‘What is this! I live in Your world; I am Yours—and I suffer!’
Soaked, I still burn—
ah, in the rain;
Is there honey in these clouds,
or is it a cool fire?
Touching the body constantly
there is a sweet burning.
The cloud has even veiled the moon’s face
with its tresses.
I, in this foreign land,
how alone I am in the night—
soaked, I still burn—
ah, in the rain.
Think of it.
Such a spread of sadness,
heavy eyelids, moist eyes—
and yet this ache of your memory
is no less either.
Thus it goes on—
each gust cuts through me;
like poison has dissolved
in the western rainfall.
A song swells in the heart,
but it cannot be sung yet;
so wounded is the mind
it cannot be soothed.
It feels as if the song’s bees of sound
have been imprisoned
in the water-flowers of silence.
When, shyly, the lightnings
smile like you,
you do not know how they
burn me.
Rain falls—
but the chatak heart thirsts.
You are not here—
only your memory is with me.
Soaked, I still burn—
ah, in the rain.
Here in a foreign land,
how alone I am in the night!
Spare a thought.
The devotee’s whole insistence is: You do something. How much more must I fall to receive Your compassion? How much must I wander so You set out to seek me? How deep in the pit, how far into the darkness must I go, that a ray of Your light, as grace, comes seeking me?
The devotee says: if You will, all will be. By my willing nothing is.
Had You tied a thread, had You strung my songs,
I would have been heir to the Vedas.
So much You have filled in me—that if only a little sutra is strung, a little order arranged, what I say would become Veda.
Had You tied a thread, had You strung my songs,
I would have been heir to the Vedas.
The soil has ever thirsted;
from birth You kept it parched.
Daily, rejected, it wept,
lying desolate in the wastes.
The destined sun somehow
broke its breath in the dark;
You became grieving—you
sighed a cool sigh.
Lighting a lamp each time,
You left me utterly orphaned.
If You had fed me drop by drop with love,
by now I would have become the sun.
Lighting a lamp each time,
You left me utterly orphaned.
If You had fed me drop by drop with love,
by now I would have become the sun.
Had You tied a thread, had You strung my songs,
I would have been heir to the Vedas.
Earth remained neglected by You,
seasons returned insulted.
Never did You bring to the garden
Ganga and Jamuna of labor.
Never did You ask the flower’s welfare;
never fondled the branch;
never knew the grass-blade’s sorrow;
never caressed the dew.
It is just a little of Your negligence
for which spring did not arrive in the garden.
Had You nursed the buds,
flowers would have become lotuses.
Had You tied a thread, had You strung my songs,
I would have been heir to the Vedas.
If You had fed me drop by drop with love,
by now I would have become the sun.
Lighting a lamp each time,
You left me utterly orphaned.
The devotee says: You are responsible, for You are the Master. You are the Creator; I am Your creation.
Think of it thus: a statue calls to the sculptor: ‘What are you doing! Strike your chisel a little more; refine me—polish me; let me shine.’
This will not make sense to you if you walk with doubt. Then leave it; it is not for you. Baba Malukdas is not for you.
If the thread of shraddhā hums in your heart, then all these words are very straight and simple; there is no difficulty.
A world of pain—look this way once.
We ask for nothing else—only look once.
The heart that Your sorrow has made a friend’s heart—
turn your glance for once to that heart.
The devotee goes on calling: ‘Turn your gaze to me.’
Those who don the robe of a fakir but cannot bring the mind into their hands—
if the heart becomes a fakir,
the Lord is with such as these.
The first garland of sutras is concluded—where Malukdas reminds the Divine: ‘Look into Your books. You have already performed acts of compassion in a thousand ways; now there is no need to be miserly.’
The other point—addressed to the devotee:
Those who don the robe of a fakir but cannot bring the mind into their hands—
if the heart becomes a fakir,
the Lord is with such as these.
Those who become fakirs only in appearance, externally, and inwardly no fakiri enters; within there is no humility…
Understand.
The knower is never able to be humble; the karmayogi is never able to be humble. His karma keeps his ego lit.
See the difference. Look at a Jain muni and a Sufi fakir. In the Sufi fakir you will find a humility that you will not find in the Jain monk. The reason is clear. The Jain monk has no reason to be humble. He is purifying his every act, making it clean. With each purification, his stiffness grows—‘I am something.’
The Jain monk will not even fold his hands to you. You may fold yours—he will not. How can he? How can he bow to ordinary householders? There is much stiffness.
The Sufi fakir may even touch your feet—leave aside the bow. When you arrive, he may touch your feet. He has known only the Divine—has seen the Divine in you as well. Every foot is God’s foot. This is true fakiri.
Fakiri means: I am not.
Those who don the robe of a fakir but cannot bring the mind into their hands—
if the heart becomes a fakir,
the Lord is with such as these.
Those who are fakirs outwardly, yet are not masters of their own mind; whose master is still the mind, the ego…
Those who don the robe of a fakir but cannot bring the mind into their hands—
if the heart becomes a fakir,
the Lord is with such as these.
So—having quarreled a little with God—he now tells his disciples: take care, mere outward fakiri will not do. Inner fakiri is needed. Within, the feeling must be: I am nothing.
Jesus’ famous saying: Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of God. Blessed are the poor—this is the definition of fakiri. Poor does not mean you have no money or house. If wealth made one rich, then lack of it could make one poor. Note this.
Since having a house does not make one rich, not having one will not make one poor. Since money does not make one rich, being without it does not make one poor.
When ego goes, a man becomes ‘poor.’ When ego goes, man truly becomes poor in spirit. He climbs down from the throne; he leaves it empty. Upon that very throne the Divine will be seated, where you sit enthroned.
If the heart becomes a fakir,
the Lord is with such as these.
Where the name of Ram is not loved,
do not even drink the water there;
leave that land.
Says Malukdas: where there is no singing of Ram’s name, where there is no remembrance of the Lord, where in the very air there is no fragrance of worship, where the atmosphere is not God-soaked, do not stay there. You will dry up. Do not halt there; there you will not receive the food of the soul; no nourishment.
Where the name of Ram is not loved,
do not even drink the water there;
leave that land.
Leave that land; do not even drink water there, for the water too is poison.
This is an indication toward satsang. Malukdas says: go where people remember Ram; where they sit and weep; where they hum songs; where satsang happens—bathe there. Only in that bathing will you slowly connect with that nectar whose name is the Divine.
Alone you will not be able to do it. Seek company. Alone you are too weak. Alone, the possibility to go astray is great. Seek companionship; seek satsang; seek the company of the sadhus—where the glory of the Lord’s words is sung; where people raise remembrance of the Divine; where, in remembering the Divine, people are ecstatic, they dance. Go there; live in that air; breathe there; drink water there; stay there; dwell there; then perhaps you too will catch the tune.
Have you noticed: where ten or twenty people are dancing, your feet begin to tap. Where someone plays the drum well, the veena well, your hands begin to beat the rhythm. What happens?
Carl Gustav Jung found a fitting word: synchronicity. Something parallel begins to happen. Seeing a sad man, sadness arises in you. Because we are not separate; we enter one another; our waves interpenetrate. Seeing a sad man, sadness comes to you; seeing a joyous man, a ray of joy begins to break in you.
We are not separate; we are in one another’s company. Where ten men are laughing, you forget your worries; you begin to laugh. Later you wonder: how did it happen? I was so worried, burdened—how did I laugh! However much you go laughing to where ten people sit like corpses; where the air carries death, not life—you will suddenly find your laughter halts. It becomes difficult to laugh. The sadness of ten people stands like a wall; your lips close. You suddenly find yourself sinking into that darkness in which those ten were sunk.
Human beings are linked; each other’s heart-waves move within one another. Therefore the value of the company of sadhus.
Where a few madmen like you gather to seek the Divine, sit with those intoxicated ones; those mad ones. Take out at least an hour in your day. From there, slowly, relish will arise. From there, thirst will arise; from there, challenge will rise within you.
Where the name of Ram is not loved,
do not even drink the water there;
leave that land.
Leave even that country where people have forgotten Ram. Leave that society where people do not remember Ram; do not even drink water there. Water given by those hands is dangerous.
Gurdjieff used to say: you are as if locked in a prison. If you try to come out alone it will be very difficult; but if ten or twenty prisoners get together, it will be easier. Still, if only the prisoners try together, there will be difficulties. If these prisoners form ties with some free man outside, it becomes easier.
If one prisoner wants to escape, there are fifty guards. If a hundred prisoners want to go together, united, the guards become few. For one there were fifty; fifty times. If a hundred want to escape, the guards are too few—halved. But still there is difficulty. The guards have guns; all the means. The prisoners are without means. But if the prisoners inside connect with someone outside who has means, who is free; who knows when the guard shifts are changed; who knows which wall is weak from outside; who knows which corner to slip through; who knows where to climb—he can examine the prison from outside. Then it becomes easier.
And Gurdjieff says: if the man outside has never been in prison, it will not be as easy. But if there is some prisoner who was inside and is now free—if you connect with him—it becomes very easy. He knows inside and outside. He will be of great help to you.
This is the meaning of sadguru: one who, like you, was once in prison and is now out; who knows the inside and the outside. He is free. He can inspect everything. He can send maps inside; tell where to escape easily; at what time it will be easy; when the guards sleep; which gate is weak; or which guard has been won over and a door will be left open at night. All this can be arranged.
Sadguru means this much: one who has risen from the world and become one with the Divine; who is outside the prison of the world—tie a bond with him. And with those friends who long to be free—tie bonds too.
Therefore satsangs arose in the world. Thousands gathered around Buddha; thousands around Mahavira—satsangs formed.
Here there are millions of prisoners—but they have no longing for freedom. If you keep company with them, they will only teach you new techniques of bondage. They will say: ‘Stand in this election.’ Or: ‘Open a new shop; there is great profit in this trade.’ They will speak to you what they can. It is not their fault.
Do not even drink the water there—says Malukdas—leave that land. Slowly move away from such company.
Those who don the robe of a fakir but cannot bring the mind into their hands—
…It will not do from the outside alone.
If the heart becomes a fakir,
the Lord is with such as these.
It is an inner matter. A matter within.
Where the name of Ram is not loved,
do not even drink the water there;
leave that land.
And if you begin to immerse yourself in satsang, you will find: the Divine begins, slowly, to enter you.
In the courtyard a soft dawn wells up;
the rose-petal trembles.
The body is painted by the leaves of henna;
in the eyes the delicacy of the evening star.
A light touch—moment to moment—
like the fair night recognized;
every pore is dyed by this spring—
and knots of speech loosen.
Now nothing remains impossible;
all belonging is ours.
In this fair of colors one color—
that grass sprouts upon stone.
Is this too not much?
Such is our trust—
and alongside, your shadow.
A soft dawn wells in the courtyard;
rose-petals tremble.
First the Divine will come like a shadow; but even that—what less is it!
Now nothing remains impossible.
Have you seen grass sprouting upon stone? If grass can sprout upon stone, will the Divine not sprout in man’s heart! Here, the impossible happens.
Now nothing remains impossible;
all belonging is ours.
In this fair of colors one color—
that grass sprouts upon stone.
Is this too not much?
Such is our trust—
and alongside, your shadow.
In the courtyard a soft dawn wells up;
the rose-petal trembles.
The Divine will come slowly—like dawn comes to the courtyard and the rose blossoms. You too will blossom so.
Seek satsang; seek the company of the sadhus; then you will not even know when, by what stealth, the Divine enters you.
What we had heard as ‘love’—perhaps it is this;
of itself a fine hesitation settles in the heart.
Enough for today.