Kan Thore Kankar Ghane #7

Baba Malukdas is a great poet. Not merely a poet—a seer, a rishi. A poet knows how to arrange metre, measure, language. The poet knows only the outer form of poetry. The rishi knows the innermost, the soul of poetry.
Ordinary poetry is but a body, without the dwelling of breath. The devotees’ poetry is alive; it is poetry that breathes. Hence it can happen that devotees are not accepted as poets at all—for they care not for polished language, nor for metre and measure, nor for grammar. Their vision does not fall on the secondary. When the inner breath has appeared, who bothers about ornamentation!
A being like Mahavira—even standing naked—is supremely beautiful. We adorn the body because we are not confident of its beauty. It is the ugly who ornament the body; the beautiful is sufficient as it is.
Look: the trees have no worry about adorning themselves. Nor do animals and birds. What ornament hangs upon the moon and stars? There, poetry stands open and naked.
A rishi simply speaks as it has happened within him. He does not confine it, does not labor to arrange it. Therefore, many times it happens that a rishi is not even counted as a poet. To know a rishi you too must have eyes.
The body is grasped even by the blind; the soul—where does it appear even to those with eyes?
So when I call Malukdas a great poet, I mean this: perhaps the outer contrivances of poetry are not present there, but within the anahat’s resonance has sounded; a spring has flowed from the depths.
And springs do not flow along railway tracks! They flow as the whim comes. A spring is no train. A spring flows free.
The rishi’s metre is free verse. His beauty lies less in the word and more in the unspoken hidden within. Less in the shell, more in what is concealed inside. Do not look at the ragged wrapper; within, a diamond is hidden—seek that.
Thus, often the truly great poets are not counted among poets. And those unworthy of even being called poets are hailed as great poets. The world is strange: here rhymesters become poets, great poets. And those who sing the metre of the soul—no one cares for them.
It is like this: as in a land of the blind a one-eyed man becomes king. People’s hearts lie parched. There, even a rhyme seems as if someone has brought a pearl. People have forgotten what greenery is. No flowers bloom in their lives, so plastic flowers appear as real flowers.
And where blooms have never blossomed… Think for a moment of a desert, where no flower has ever blossomed; if someone were to place even a plastic flower there, the desert would be delighted.
Plastic flowers do have certain advantages over real flowers. Plastic flowers last. Real flowers—come in the morning, gone by evening; just arrived—already gone. A real flower cannot be locked away in a safe. A fake flower—you can lock it in a safe; nothing will happen to it.
Upon the real flower a thousand calamities fall; upon the fake flower none. No animal will graze the fake; time will not efface it. Upon the real flower each moment there is a crisis.
Our hearts have dried so, that we mistake rhymes for poetry. Granted—those rhymes may fulfil every rule of measure and metre. There are only rules there, only proprieties—arrangement, contrivance, effort—but nothing within. The temple is empty; the deity is not there. The temple is lavishly decked, made of gold and silver, but the deity does not reside, the throne is vacant. Yet who goes as far as the throne! And even if we find the throne empty, having no acquaintance with the deity, we will take the throne itself to be the deity. If it is of gold, we will bow to it.
Because there is no acquaintance with the deity, false deities get worshipped. Among the blind, the one-eyed becomes king. Among the deaf, sing with the sweetest throat as you may—who will hear? The deaf will consider him a singer who conveys something by gestures of the hand. Only the gestures of the hand will the deaf be able to grasp. The voice of the cuckoo is meaningless to them.
Thus we are deaf. Rhymesters appear to us as poets, and the true poets we do not even perceive. The true poet is one who has known the Paramatma, who has experienced the ultimate music of life; what flows out of that experience—this alone is the great epic. Without experience, what flows may look like poetry—body is body, a corpse is a corpse; lifeless; breath does not move. Even if the tomb is made of marble, nothing will come of it.
If a living person is in a hut, he is still of great value; and if a dead person is in a marble tomb, he is still worthless—no value at all.
In Malukdas’s poetry there is the tune of his inner music. Malukdas did not compose poems to compose poetry. Poetry flowed—just as when, in the month of Ashadh, clouds gather, the peacock dances. This dancing of the peacock is not for display. This is not a circus peacock. This peacock does not dance upon anyone’s demand. This peacock is not part of a drama.
When clouds gather, when the monsoon clouds call him from the sky, his feathers open, he intoxicatedly dances. The sky pours rain; streams and rivulets swell and brim; floods arise; exactly such a flood arises in the heart when there is the vision of the Paramatma. Flood means—so much comes into the heart that it cannot be contained, cannot be held; it begins to overflow. The embankments break; the banks and shores are lost.
You have seen a river in flood, have you not; the devotee is such a flood-river; the saint is such a flood-river. Then what does a flood-river do—with so much rush, so much roar—ultimately it gathers all and offers it to the ocean.
These songs of Malukdas are steps lifted in flood; these are waves of the flood; and all of them are dedicated at the feet of the Paramatma. All are poured into the ocean.
I call the saints great poets—even if they have not composed poetry. Though seldom has it happened that saints have not sung. This cannot be accidental. All saints—at least the saints of the path of bhakti—have sung. Saints of the path of dhyana may not have composed verse, for poetry has no direct relation to them. Yet if you attend to their speech, a quiet undertone of poetry will be heard.
Buddha did not compose poetry; but one who searches closely will find poetry in Buddha’s words. How could Buddha’s utterances be bereft of poetry! Even if he spoke prose, not verse, within the prose a hidden prosody will be.
But the devotees—all their utterances are sung.
Bhakti is love; love is song, love is dance. The devotees have danced; the devotees have hummed. When God descends into the heart, how will you remain without humming? What else will you do? What else can be done? When the Vast enters your courtyard, will you not dance? You will dance. It is natural; spontaneous. Will you not weep? Will you not let the tears of bliss flow? Tears will flow; they will not be stopped.
In these poems, in these small songs there is Malukdas’s dance—there are the tears of Malukdas; there are the feelings of Malukdas’s heart. Do not weigh them like a pundit. Do not analyze them like a scholar of poetics. They will not come into the grasp of analysis. Drink them; hum along with them and dance—only then will there be recognition.
If you would connect with Maluk, you must become, a little, like Maluk; otherwise no bridge will be made.
The experience of the devotees is that existence is made of music, made of nada. Every fiber of existence reverberates; in every particle a song is hidden. The devotees’ experience is that the fundamental substance of this world is music. Therefore the devotees have given it many names. Someone has called it Anahat Nada; someone has called it Omkar. But it makes no difference.
Behind this whole lila, in some deep beyond, everywhere, a perpetual cascade of music is flowing. If you listen a little attentively—you will hear. If you sit quietly a little, then in the wind passing through the trees, in the current of the running river, in the birds’ chirping, in the silence of moon and stars, in the speech of men, in the laughter of children—everywhere you will find: music is hidden.
Existence is made of music; you are deaf, hence you do not hear. You have stuffed your ears with doctrines, scriptures, words; therefore you do not hear. Otherwise, all around the Paramatma is singing; all around the Paramatma is dancing. The very moment you understand this, how will you remain still; you too will dance; you too will sing.
I yearn to sing a song
yet feelings cannot find voice.
Each day the eyes have seen dreams—
yet the fever of the heart does not abate.
Bliss is not always sweet, cool, fluid;
somewhere within it lies a sharp poison.
Until the pearls of pain are found,
tears cannot be strung into garlands.
Whenever I feared destiny
I bound my feet with my own chains.
I think even helplessness can be good—
life burned within it as a lamp.
Until the breast of the ocean is scorched,
clouds do not gather and surge upon the sky.
Who will show the unfamiliar feet
this road that leads to the village of sorrow?
Only when the rays of heat delight me
might I one day, like a flower, scatter and fall.
Without recognizing the hues of sun and shade,
the secrets of life cannot open.
Is the price of gold only a smile?
Is an ‘ah’ but the dust of the cremation ground?
When the flowers of breath scatter fragrance,
shall we then call that love?
Until we learn the language of separation,
we do not come to understand the meaning of union.
Life is a poem—but the art of understanding, of listening to this poem must be learned. The Paramatma could be met this very moment—but the language of viraha must be learned. You have not called Him, you have not wept.
Until we learn the language of separation
we do not come to understand the meaning of union.
You have never wept. You have never called from the fullness of the heart.
Until the pearls of pain are found
tears cannot be strung into garlands.
Until the breast of the ocean is scorched,
clouds do not gather and surge upon the sky.
Without recognizing the hues of sun and shade,
the secrets of life cannot open.
We are living timorously; we are living half-dead. We have bound ourselves in chains. We have stopped living. We are only searching for security—and security is death.
Life is in insecurity. Life is: ‘Without recognizing the hues of sun and shade, the secrets of life cannot open.’ Life is in joy and sorrow; in losing and gaining; in meeting and parting; in wandering and arriving. The secret of life opens when, in this world of duality, you descend free of duality.
Frightened, you sit; you bind chains upon your feet lest you wander—and thus you go astray; you will never arrive. One who feared to wander has never arrived. People arrive by wandering. To reach one’s own door, one must knock at a thousand others’ doors.
A man came to Ramanuj and said, “Let me meet the Paramatma.” Ramanuj said: Good man, have you ever loved anyone? The man said: I have not fallen into this trouble. Leave talk of love and such; let me meet God. Ramanuj said: Then I am defeated. If you have never loved, how will you pray? He said: What has loving men to do with praying to God? That is the trouble; this love of men is trouble. I have kept away from it already.
It is said: tears came into Ramanuj’s eyes. He said: One who has not loved men will never understand prayer to God either.
These men are lessons. This is the alphabet of prayer. Yes, there are many thorns—true; and among a thousand thorns somewhere a hidden flower—this too is true. But the effort to find the flower, the effort to live this flower—and in this effort, a thousand thorns piercing—this is the way movement comes into life; this is the challenge. From this very challenge one rises.
The devotees say: Do not run from love; expand it, make it vast. Do not let love stop at one; let it spread—over many, over the infinite. Love is not bondage—the devotees say: bondage is love with the limited. Love in itself is not bondage. Where love stops, there it becomes bondage. My love stopped with someone, and I believed that all is finished—then it is bondage.
Let my love not stop; whom I love, may I go beyond; whom I love, may he become a step, and I climb one more step of the temple; the more you love, the nearer you come to the Paramatma. As your love becomes greater, so many steps you have crossed. Without this, do as you may, the song within will not burst forth.
I yearn to sing a song
yet feelings cannot find voice.
Love is the first ray of the Paramatma. Love is the first ray of Samadhi. In love the entire secret is hidden. Do not take love to be only as much as you have known; love is far bigger than that. What you have called love may not even be love. Perhaps, in the name of love, you have been sitting with something else altogether.
When have you loved? Even when you speak of loving, have you ever truly loved? Or in the name of love have you been doing something else? Jealousy, envy, hatred, possessiveness. There is much politics in your love. There is much quarrel in your love. Where is music in your love? Where is Anahat Nada?
Have you ever sat holding someone’s hand such that in that moment there is no quarrel, no snatching? Has there ever been a moment when, sitting near someone, you became silent and the silence of both your hearts began to merge into each other? As two lamps come close and their flame becomes one—has this ever happened? Then love has happened. From this love you will receive the first news of the Paramatma. In this love the Paramatma has called you for the first time. Your ears will hear His first tune.
The Paramatma is not found by seeking in scriptures. The remembrance of the Paramatma comes; and remembrance comes through an experience. And the nearest experience that can be available to man is the experience of love.
Granted—love is far from God… Just as the first step is far from the deity in the temple. But placing your foot upon the first step, you can place it upon the second, the third—gradually you reach the temple.
In dreams, upon the eyelids, in the eyes, in the tears, remembrance came.
In dreams it quivered
upon the eyelids it stirred
in the eyes it brimmed
in the tears it streamed—
it spilled and slipped, remembrance came.
In the dark garden it cooed like a cuckoo
in the empty noon it moaned like a pain
in black clouds it swelled and rolled
on silver nights, as a gaze—mute, remembrance came.
Like cuckoo, like pain, like dark monsoon clouds remembrance came.
Upon the threshold of the temple,
on the waves of worship,
it paused like reverence,
spread everywhere like incense—
remembrance came—
standing still, deep, remembrance came.
In the leaves of fall,
in unslept nights,
at unknown ghats,
in unforgotten talks—
remembrance came—
in nights, in words, remembrance came.
Like a morning bird it chirped in the courtyard,
like a wandering breeze it teased the scarf,
like strings of jasmine it perfumed the breath,
like a moonbeam it flamed in the life-breath—
remembrance came—
chattered in the courtyard,
flirted with the scarf,
fragranced the breath,
flamed in the life-breath—
remembrance came, remembrance came, remembrance came.
The remembrance of the Paramatma comes. But how to let remembrance come? How to be recalled? Memory does not arise from scripture. Even if you batter your head against scriptures—doctrines are caught, definitions of God are caught, but remembrance does not come.
For remembrance, some living device is needed. Other than love, what device does man have? And if a glimpse of love begins to come into your life, then news will begin to arrive from every direction.
In the dark garden it cooed like a cuckoo,
in the empty noon it moaned like a pain.
It will come from everywhere.
Like a morning bird it chirped in the courtyard,
like a wandering breeze it teased the scarf,
like strings of jasmine it perfumed the breath,
like a moonbeam it flamed in the life-breath.
From every side—it is this fragrance of jasmine floating upon the wind, that the Paramatma will come in. Only a slight hold of love is needed within you. This cuckoo calling coo-coo—within its coo-coo His nada will begin to be heard. You need sensitivity within. Love makes you sensitive. One who is not in love becomes hard, harsh, stony. Love softens your soil; upon that soft ground, when the seed of life is sown, the sprouting of the Paramatma happens. Only after this sprouting can someone sing songs like Malukdas.
These songs are offerings of Malukdas’s life-breath. What the Paramatma has given within Malukdas, Malukdas is giving to you. What, in reaching the Paramatma, Malukdas has received, riding upon his words it is reaching you.
Love is distributed; love never shrinks; whoever receives it is compelled to share it.
First sutra:
All instruments play within the heart, love’s pakhawaj and strings.
One need not go seeking the temple—the player has been found.
All instruments play within the heart…
Says Malukdas: ‘All instruments play within the heart.’ Whatever music there is in life, wherever music is, whatsoever music is—its entire arrangement to be played is within the heart.
All instruments play within the heart…
No need of a veena, nor a mridang. In your heart is the instrument of all instruments, the string of all strings is hidden. The Paramatma has sent you furnished. On this unique journey of life you have not been sent without provisions. All has been arranged and sent. It should be so. A mother sends her son on a journey—say, a pilgrimage—and she arranges everything. For the road she gathers provisions; arranges the meal. Ties everything in a bundle. Whatever may be needed, she considers it.
There was a camp of little school scouts; the little ones went to camp. When everyone’s bedding was opened at camp, in one child’s bedding an umbrella was also found. The teacher asked: An umbrella was not on the list! It was told what all to bring. Why the umbrella? And there’s no need for an umbrella; there is going to be no rain now.
The little boy stood and said: Sir, did you have a mother or not? The teacher said: What has that to do with it? He said: It has to do with the mother. I pressed a hundred times, but—you know mothers! I said a hundred times that there is no need of an umbrella. She said: Son, don’t you worry. It will be useful. And if not, it will return home. I explained a lot that it is not on the list; she said: I did not make the list; the teachers made it—what do teachers know!
The child said: Did you not have a mother? Your experience seems less, otherwise you would understand why the umbrella is there.
If we have come from this existence—we have; from nowhere else could we have—then surely everything must have been placed within; the provisions gathered at the time of departure.
Nothing is lacking in us. Another matter is that we never open the bundle. Another matter is that we never feel within the bundle. And we keep complaining against the Paramatma; and the bundle that is with us—we do not even look to see what has been placed in it.
That bundle’s very name is heart. And in the heart is everything; whatever man needs—everything is there. Whatever might ever be needed—that too is there. There is no situation in which you could feel that the Paramatma has sent you unprepared.
All instruments play within the heart, love’s pakhawaj and strings.
Love’s music also plays there; pakhawaj, mridang also resound there; strings and sitar also play there. Love is the real instrument—and all else are transformations of love—mridang and pakhawaj, sitar and veena—they are all transformations of love; different expressions of love.
One need not go seeking the temple—the player has been found.
And not only is a veena placed in your heart, not only a mridang—the player is also hidden there.
So it is not that provisions have been tied into your bundle and the Paramatma has forgotten you. In your bundle the Paramatma Himself sits. All the instruments for playing are there, and the one who plays is also present. Seek a little, feel a little—untie your knot a little; open the doors of the heart. All sadhana is nothing but this: how to open the knot of our heart.
One need not go seeking the temple…
Says Malukdas: There is no more need to search for the temple. The temple has been found within. Not only the temple has been found, not only the veena has been found; the veena-player has also been found within.
In the moment someone opens his heart, a new birth happens—that which I call dwija, twice-born; a new birth happens. For the first time you understand you are not alone—the Paramatma is with you. For the first time you understand you are not a stranger upon this earth—this is yours. And for the first time you understand that existence is not averse to you. Existence has shaded you from all sides; has protected you in every way; has given security in every way.
For the first time it becomes known that existence is not your enemy; there is no need to fight. Existence is the beloved of your life-breath, and existence’s love flows toward you. Let your love flow toward existence—there will be a union of both. In that great union the devotee is born. Devotee means the twice-born.
New year,
new joy,
new flowering of life.
New surge,
new waves,
a new episode of life.
New longing,
new path,
a new flow of life.
New song,
new love,
a new way of life.
A new dharma of life.
A new victory of life.
Everything becomes new. A new year, a new beginning. You begin again. Till now the way you have lived, it is life in name only—not real life. Till now you have lived like this: as if you had the capacity of an ocean and lived as a drop. As if you had the capacity of the Vast, and yet shrunken, shrunken, lived locked in a small prison.
Till now you have lived like a seed—closed; closed from all sides; no window, no door. When it could have been a great tree—under whose shade travelers would rest, find shelter; the weary would be rejuvenated; birds would build nests; the winds would frolic; the sun would come to converse; the moon and stars eager to meet; flowers would bloom; fruits would ripen. You could have been a vast tree, but you have lived as a seed until now. You cannot become a vast tree, because you are not yet ready to dissolve.
The scripture of love can be told in a single word: dissolution—the scripture of surrender. As a seed dissolves into the earth—on the day you consent to dissolve, to drop the seed of ego, that very day the sprouting happens. It does not take time; in that very instant the new year arrives.
New year,
new joy,
new flowering of life.
New surge,
new waves,
a new episode of life.
New longing,
new path,
a new flow of life.
New song,
new love,
a new way of life,
a new dharma of life,
a new victory of life.
That day life is victorious. The day you are defeated, that day life wins. The day you die, that day birth happens—the real birth. The day you dissolve, that day the Paramatma comes and abides within you.
All instruments play within the heart, love’s pakhawaj and strings.
One need not go seeking the temple—the player has been found.
Beat the pakhawaj of love, pluck the heart’s strings.
Make love into a mridang; make the heart into a sitar.
Let the mind dance, intoxicated—his vision is boundless.
And let the mind dance. Listen: ‘Beat the pakhawaj of love’—let the beat fall upon love’s drum. Let the mridang of love resound. ‘Pluck the heart’s strings’—strike the strings of the heart so the veena vibrates; the sleeping veena—sleeping for centuries—awakes.
Music is asleep; only a little plucking is needed. Will you not even pluck? The veena has been given—but it will awaken only if you pluck. At least do this much; open the bundle.
Let the mind dance, intoxicated…
And let the mind dance—around love, around the mridang. Along with the veena, let the mind dance.
Baba Malukdas’s speech is the speech of song, dance, music. It is a call to music, song and dance—a challenge. This speech is not to make you melancholy; it is to intoxicate you with joy.
And the path to the Paramatma is not walked through gloom; the path to the Paramatma is walked laughing, smiling, dancing. And the path that can be trodden dancing—why walk it sad!
It often happens: the melancholic become interested in religion. Look in temples, in mosques—you will rarely find dancing people there; rarely will you find those mad with joy, who have made love into a mridang, and the heart into a veena, and have freed the dancer of the mind—you will rarely find such people. There you will find the dead—ready to die, or already dead!
This often happens… People come here, and naturally they expect that as other ashrams are, so is this. They become very uneasy. Some have even said to me—We thought this ashram would be as an ashram should be… indifferent…! But here dance, song, music—such a blossoming mood of love, men and women dancing together, hand in hand, embracing—what is happening?
They are themselves dead; they want to kill others too. They have become corpses; their stream of life has dried; they do not want to see the buds of others bloom. Like a dry tree, saying to the tender shoots: What is there in this? Become dispassionate.
The devotee does not speak the language of vairagya. The devotee says: Become supremely raga-filled; make your love with the Vast. Not non-attached—gather attachment to the Paramatma. Then non-attachment comes: non-attachment to the futile—not to the meaningful. Then gradually you begin to rise.
Right now when you dance and sing, naturally your dance and song will be on the plane where you are. But if the dance continues, the dance will change your plane. If you begin to drown in the dance, you will begin to be transformed. One changes by drowning. If even for a moment you dissolve—while dancing—then in that very moment your limit will become the Vast. For a single moment the Paramatma will peer through you.
When the dancer disappears and only the dance remains, then the event happens—the event of revolution happens.
Here there is no place for the dead; for the dead there is the graveyard.
And ashram does not mean indifference. ‘Ashram’ means: a place of rest. You have come weary from life—sad, afflicted, troubled; where you become fresh again; where you learn to dance again; where movement returns to your feet; where sound returns to your life-breath; where you can take anew enthusiasm, new upsurge.
Beat the pakhawaj of love, pluck the heart’s strings.
Let the mind dance, intoxicated—his vision is boundless.
And Malukdas says: only his vision is boundless who fills you with dance—with song and singing. Only his vision is boundless; only in his vision is there the possibility of the infinite, the vast—who fills your life with ever-new springs.
If the Sadguru does not gather over you like monsoon clouds and your peacock-mind does not dance—he is not a Sadguru.
The east wind has lifted a song, nature’s scarf is swaying.
Love swells within the sky’s breast, falling as rain.
Love-drenched earth stretches her rivers’ arms, caressing.
Far away a flute’s melody—kohl begins to sway.
Nature’s scarf is swaying.
Waves pluck the ektara,
the cuckoo has called.
Vines are adorned, in the village
virgin anklets ring.
In the mango grove, gently, gently
a shy heart sways—
nature’s scarf is swaying.
Holding the mirror of raindrops the buds
adorn their beauty.
Upon every leaf the fairies of spring
offer body and soul.
The earth’s green skirt covers flowers—
skirts are swaying.
At home Radha danced in the fields
Krishna swayed.
At the door the neem laughed, by the well
pitchers overflowed.
The courtyard scented, the myna fluttered—
the cage is swaying.
Nature’s scarf is swaying.
The east wind has lifted a song, nature’s scarf is swaying.
Dharma is spring, the month of honeyed bliss. Dharma is the festival of supreme delight. But if you wish, even in the festival you can remain sad. If you wish, even in the festival you can remain untouched and aloof.
If you do not wish to drown, no one can drown you. Even the Paramatma is defeated by you. He keeps singing, keeps humming—but you have taken a vow that you will not even raise your eyes.
All around the Paramatma’s eternal dance is happening—and yet you sit enclosed in your gloom! You have pulled your veil down; you do not see what is happening all around!
Beat the pakhawaj of love…
Begin to see. Make the mridang of love. If only for human beings—make the mridang of love first. If only for trees and birds—still, make it. Today the mridang may resound for man—if it begins to resound once, how long before it resounds for the Paramatma? Today perhaps the string of your heart will vibrate for ordinary humans. Let it vibrate; at least understand that the heart’s string does vibrate; let it vibrate by any pretext; all pretexts are suitable. Once it vibrates, you will not be able to stop. And when for ordinary men it brings such joy, then for the Paramatma how much joy will there be!
Once this arithmetic enters your awareness, you will not be able to stop. And further—and further—the string will pull you onward.
Let the mind dance, intoxicated—his vision is boundless.
Malukdas says: Only his vision is boundless, only he has the taste of dharma, who makes your love into a mridang, who makes your heart a sitar, and who teaches your mind to dance.
If such a few madmen increase in the world, the Paramatma is not far.
If there is love in your vessel, do not go on proclaiming it.
The Indweller knows—He knows the heart’s innermost feeling.
And Malukdas says: Do not say again and again—I have much love, I have much love. Not a matter of saying—dance. Not a matter of saying—live it. Not a matter of saying—become love. The Paramatma will recognize.
The Indweller knows—He knows the heart’s innermost feeling.
But what do people do; they say—and do exactly the opposite of what they say. And are exactly the opposite of what they say. You also go to the temple and say: Paramatma, I have great attachment to you; I have a great longing to attain you. But have you seen—how false your words are. They spill from the lips, not from the heart.
Have you seen: you are busy deceiving even God! Deceiving men, you have become so skilled that now you attempt to deceive the Paramatma too! Do you truly want to attain?
What are you doing to attain? What arrangement have you made for attaining? For what journey have you prepared yourself? What price are you ready to pay for attaining—what are you ready to lose?
The boat is tied to the shore. And you hammer the peg deeper and tie the boat tighter—and you say: I want to cross to the other shore! O Lord, when will compassion be! And at the same time you drive in the peg; and tie the boat tight!
You say: I want to attain the Paramatma—but you strive to attain wealth—not the Paramatma. You say: I love the Paramatma—but you strive for position—not the Paramatma. You say one thing; do another; are yet another. Such falsehood fills life; such dishonesty fills life.
Therefore Malukdas says:
If there is love in your vessel, do not go on proclaiming it.
Now there is no need to say it. Let it reveal itself; He is the Inner Knower—He will know, He will recognize. He sits in the innermost of your heart—will He not know?
When your mind dances in ecstasy, when your heart’s veena plays, when you beat love’s mridang—will He not hear? The Paramatma is not deaf.
Kabir has said: The mullah shouts from the mosque-top; shouts loudly. Kabir said: ‘Has your God gone deaf!’ Has your God become deaf that you shout so loudly! Does your God not hear? God hears even silence—there is no question of words. Words are but a device for dialogue between man and man. Between man and the Paramatma there is no need of word; there, silence—there, the unspoken is enough. Silence is the language there.
If there is love in your vessel, do not go on proclaiming it.
There is a great psychological truth here. It often happens—you have noticed in life—that when love is not there and you wish, out of duty, to convey that it is, then you go on saying it.
A husband tells his wife again and again that he loves her…
An influential American writer, Dale Carnegie, has written in his books: whether love is there or not, a husband should say it ten or twenty-five times a day—“I love you very much.” It keeps softness between the two; the possibility of conflict decreases.
Have you observed: when you repeatedly say “I love you,” perhaps you say it because now it is not there. If it were, there would be no need to say it—it would be evident. When it was there you did not even say it. You would come home and the wife would know you had come for her. You would not even reach home—knock at the door, and the wife would run—knowing that you had knocked for her. Then your eyes said it; every pore said it; your every gesture said it. When you looked at her, she knew; when you took her hand, she knew—everything said it; there was no need to say.
But since it has been lost, now you take the support of hollow words. By these props you hide the fact that it is gone.
In the early moments of love lovers do not say much to each other, “I love you.” When love has gone, and when it is understood that now love is no more; old assurances, old vows, the bonds born of them—what to do now? How to keep this going? Then “I love you”—this people begin to say.
Have you noticed that when lovers are in the first surge of love, they speak less; they sit silent. Hand in hand; arms around necks—they sit silent.
Husband and wife never sit silent. If now they sit silent, it will be obvious that love is over. Now, through language and speech, by speaking anything…
I have been a guest in many homes; I have heard the talk of husbands and wives. Futile talk! The husband knows there is nothing to say. The wife knows—there is nothing to say. But if they say nothing, the emptiness becomes heavy.
After the whole day, the husband comes home and says nothing… The wife has waited all day; and in the evening he comes, and nothing is said—then it seems that nothing remains now. There is no bridge between. So they say anything. Any pretext, useless—something not worth saying—they search and search and say something to each other—gossip of the neighbourhood. After a bit of talking they feel—a relation still remains; with the support of words a little illusion of relation remains.
Husband and wife cannot remain alone for long.
A friend of mine turned fifty; his wife is about forty-eight; they are wealthy. They decided—my talk appealed to them—that now enough, now no business. Now rest. He is a man of courage. The very day he told me, he stopped going to the shop. He told his accountants: wind up everything. In six months to a year, settle all. For me, it is over—but you wind it up. Now I will not do it.
But that night he came to me and said: There is one thing. Leaving work gives me no trouble—but now we two will be alone together; it will be heavy. I kept tangled in work, we met for a couple of hours, we could talk—it was fine. But now, twenty-four hours at home. There is nothing to talk of; for years there has not been. We keep it going. Leaving the shop gave me no difficulty—I left it, as you said. But now? Now what will happen? You stay here—stay in my house. We will take care of you. If you are here, all will be fine; else I must invite some friend to come stay—if we two are left alone, it will be very heavy. Silence will deepen and a weight will descend and press.
I said: Wait. For two or four days, I am here.
On the second or third day the wife said to me: Otherwise all is well—that you freed my husband from the shop; I am also happy. There was no need; he kept running about fruitlessly. But now what will happen to us? Now we will be left with each other!
She is educated. He stays in his work; I in mine; to meet for a little while is fine. But now, twenty-four hours together… and we have been together many years—thirty years; now nothing remains. Only some old memory. Now no new buds of love sprout. There is not even the wish they sprout. But the old illusion should remain; as it runs, let it run peacefully. Life has mostly passed. These last few days—let them not become burdensome.
I understood.
I have persuaded a friend; he has begun staying with them.
It is difficult. When love has left between two people, only words remain.
If the devotee truly loves the Paramatma, then silently gazing at the sky is enough. Silently, eyes closed, gazing at the inner sky is enough. Yes, if there is a wish to dance, dance. If you want to hum a song, hum. If you wish to beat the mridang, beat it. If you wish to pluck the sitar, pluck it. If nothing is to be done, remain silent; drown in the sitar of stillness. But there is no need of words.
If there is love in your vessel, do not go on proclaiming it.
The Indweller knows—the heart’s inner feeling.
The breeze of Chait blows, the mango groves dance.
Upon the mind’s mridang, remembrance strikes a beat.
Anklets are tied to the life-breath, on the cords of breath;
at the ends are knots of coaxing and pride.
Radha of the heartbeats has heard the flute—
The breeze of Chait blows, the mango groves dance.
The rangoli of imagination, in the courtyards of desires;
on the balcony of the mind, lamps of the eyes as means;
fingers of hope have urged the wick to flame—
Spring of Chait blows, the mango groves dance.
Filter with eyelashes, bring the soma nectar to your lips;
lie down in the garden of drowsy songs and sleep;
as upon a pressed arm the hidden line appears—
The breeze of Chait blows, the mango groves dance.
In the colored season of betrothal, devotion’s ardor mounts;
in an emerald plate the earth stands as bride.
Like a bathed, adorned bride the memory shines—
Spring of Chait blows, the mango groves dance.
When the breeze of love blows you become dancing mango groves. Nothing to say; nothing to tell; nothing to speak; nothing to display. Your heart itself will be your petition. You yourself will be your petition.
Count not the beads; with the tongue I do not even say ‘Ram’.
Hari Himself remembers me—I have found repose.
This is a most unique sutra—among the most unique. Only a madman like Malukdas can dare to say such a thing. One in whose very heart the Paramatma abides—only he can say this.
Count not the beads…
I do not even count the beads within, nor do I roll a rosary in my hand.
…I do not say ‘Ram’ with the tongue.
He says: With the tongue I do not even say Ram. What is there to say! What can the tongue say? Will something happen by the tongue’s saying? The tongue itself is mortal; whatever arises from it will also be mortal. The tongue is momentary; tomorrow it will lie as dust; it will be lost in the ashes; or it will burn upon the bier. From a tongue which has no eternal life—how will the name of the Eternal arise.
That which is born of the tongue cannot be more valuable than the tongue. Therefore—‘With the tongue I do not say Ram’—I do not say Ram with the tongue.
There are four depths to taking the Name, four planes. One plane: loudly say with the tongue: Ram-Ram-Ram—as people often do. That is the shallowest plane. Then the second plane: the lips remain closed, the tongue does not move, and within, silently, you say: Ram-Ram-Ram. This is deeper than the first, but still not very deep. Even now, there is the utterance of a word. Then the third plane: do not even say; only the feeling remains: Ram-Ram-Ram. Do not say; let there be only feeling. This is deeper than the second. But still, there is feeling. The fourth is that even the feeling does not remain. You become utterly empty. In this fourth state an unprecedented happening transpires. Nanak called it ajapa jap. There is jap, yet there is no jap—ajapa jap. Not even feeling remains. In such a moment the unsurpassed event transpires: Hari Himself remembers me—I have found repose.
Says Malukdas: Now God Himself is remembering me—what am I to do! I have found rest.
Count not the beads; with the tongue I do not even say ‘Ram’.
Hari Himself remembers me—I have found repose.
I have had my holiday. I have taken rest. Now a delightful thing is happening: ‘Hari Himself remembers me’… God is saying: Maluk, Maluk.
Kabir too has said such a thing—that I used to seek, used to shout. I did not find you. And now I have come to such a state that I neither seek nor shout—you chase after me, saying: Kabir, Kabir. ‘Hari runs behind, saying Kabir, Kabir.’
When the ‘I’ is lost, when the ‘I’ becomes empty, you hear that the Paramatma has always been calling you; this is not a happening of today; it is eternal. He has always been calling you. But you were so full of words, so full of noise, that His soft call could not be heard.
Hari Himself remembers me—I have found repose.
In such a moment a fragrance will come into your life. In such a moment a light will appear within your life. Now you are no more; now you have become transparent. Now the flame of the Lord will burn within. Now your very sitting and rising has become remembrance. Now forget birth—if even death stands at the door, you will hum a song—for what is death now!
What is there about it—yes, I am going, I am going now;
let me sing once more, swaying, one more song—and then I go!
Even if death stands at the door, you will say:
What is there about it—yes, I am going, I am going now;
let me sing once more, swaying, one more song—and then I go!
The gaze is astray, the night is deep;
the path is tangled, the direction dim;
stars stand silent, doors lie fainting;
shivers the ray, the dawn is tipsy.
Let not song be defamed, let not life become a dusk—
let me turn a few fading lamps into a sun, and then I go.
What is there about it—yes, I am going, I am going now;
let me sing once more, swaying, one more song—and then I go!
The reed flute is ill, the shehnai lies broken;
offended anklets have sworn never to ring.
All are silent—no echo, no resonance;
and this when the moon has a wedding tonight!
Lest sleep here turn into the death of the Ganga—
let me raise a little uproar in this sleeping garden, and then I go.
What is there about it—yes, I am going, I am going now;
let me sing once more, swaying, one more song—and then I go!
Those who remain here after me to sing,
those who, with pats of sound, can lull the mountains;
in desolate gardens and lonely wildernesses,
who, with the fragrance of metre, can make flowers bloom—
may the blisters upon their feet not burst;
let me clear a few thorns from their path, and then I go.
What is there about it—yes, I am going, I am going now;
let me sing once more, swaying, one more song—and then I go!
Those who stand kissing the hot forehead of the sun;
those who, in the storm, carry the boat around;
like the swelling cloud of the full monsoon,
those who, striking the rock, go swaying;
leaning on the arms of new histories—
let me seat them upon the peacock-throne—and then I go.
What is there about it—yes, I am going, I am going now;
let me sing once more, swaying, one more song—and then I go!
These shy glances of drunken buds,
this naughty tinkle of singing anklets,
these wells, these tanks, this waterside, this confluence,
this world, this earth of Ayodhya, this restless Vrindavan—
who knows whether in heaven again there will be sight of these or not.
Let me lift a little of the earth’s dust upon my head—and then I go.
What is there about it—yes, I am going, I am going now;
let me sing once more, swaying, one more song—and then I go!
Then even death is but an occasion for a song.
Let me sing once more, swaying, one more song—and then I go.
Then life is song—and death is song. Then happiness is song—and sorrow too is song. Success is song—and failure too is song. Then the meaning of the whole of life is musical.
We have called this musical life ‘saintliness’. Saint means: one in whose being, day and night, song resounds; causelessly, music resounds.
All instruments play within the heart, love’s pakhawaj and strings.
One need not go seeking the temple—the player has been found.
Count not the beads; with the tongue I do not even say ‘Ram’.
Hari Himself remembers me—I have found repose.
As many Atmans as you see, so many Shaligrams.
Worship the one who speaks—what use the stone?
And Malukdas says: When such a song begins to play in your life-breath: ‘As many Atmans as you see, so many Shaligrams,’ then wherever you see Atman, wherever you see life—you will see the Paramatma there. In trees and mountains, in birds and beasts, in men and women—wherever you see life: ‘as many Atmans, so many Shaligrams’; so many Paramatmas will be seen. Every body is a temple, and in every body a lamp is lit. If there are eyes to see—other than the Paramatma there is no one. Only He is present; all presence is His presence.
As many Atmans as you see, so many Shaligrams.
Worship the one who speaks—what use the stone?
And Malukdas says: What is there to worship in a stone, in an idol; ‘worship the one who speaks’—the one who is alive, who sees, who hears, who tastes… Life is a synonym of the Paramatma; life is the Paramatma.
Your conception of the Paramatma is as mistaken as your other conceptions. You are deluded; thus all your conceptions are deluded.
When you remember the Paramatma, what do you remember? Sometimes the son of Dasharatha, Ram; sometimes Krishna; sometimes Buddha; sometimes Mahavira… You have made even the Paramatma very narrow. Or when some idea of God arises, you remember the God of the temple, or the mosque, or the church, or the gurudwara. You have made the conception of God very small.
God is the name of all life. The name of aliveness is godliness. In these trees, what is green, what has risen and awakened in them, what has blossomed like a flower—who is it? In the throats of birds, what rises like song—who is it? In the moon and stars, that which moves—who is it? Within you, that which breathes… peer into your child’s eyes—peer into your own child’s eyes—who is sitting there, staring at you, who is he?
Paramatma is life; life is Paramatma. If this equation is remembered, then no need to go to temple or mosque. No need to read Veda or Koran. Then, all around where life is spread—toward life, an attitude of reverence…
Albert Schweitzer placed his whole philosophy in two short words: Reverence for life. Reverence toward life, respect toward life. Whatever you see living, wherever you see something alive—keep an attitude of reverence toward it—this is enough religion; you will arrive; then no obstacle remains.
But you have made strange conceptions. Someone is eager to have the darshan of Ram! You can have them one day; strive hard—darshan will happen. But that will be your imagination—a net of fantasy. And not to speak of the small—those whom you call great, even their conceptions are strange.
They say: When Tulsidas was taken to Krishna’s temple in Vrindavan, he refused to bow. How can a devotee of Ram bow before Krishna’s idol? Such narrowness! They say he said: until you take bow and arrows in your hand, I will not bow.
This is rich! It is as if God must follow your condition for you to bow. That God too—if eager for your bow—must obey your condition! ‘Take bow and arrows in hand—then Tulsidas will bow.’
When, even with Krishna, Tulsidas’s head could not bow—what of ordinary men. Leave aside animals and birds. Where then is reverence for life? This is a very narrow conception. And if it be in someone like Tulsidas, what of the rest!
Therefore I call Tulsidas a poet—not a rishi. He is a poet. A unique artist of language. But in being a rishi, something is lacking. This narrowness has fractured the whole.
One who has recognized Ram—by Ram I do not mean, nor does Malukdas mean, the son of Dasharatha. One who has recognized Ram—Ram means: the energy hidden in this Vast, from which all these waves arise—one who has recognized that, he bows everywhere. Whether he bows or not is not the question. His bowing is intrinsic. His forehead is already bowed. And he will not set conditions: take bow and arrows; tie on a peacock feather; or stand naked—be Mahavira—then I will bow.
If you maintain such stubbornness, you will have no relation with the Paramatma; you will go on repeating your mental conception again and again—so often that you become hypnotized. Seeing daily—Ram standing with bow and arrows—daily doing tratak upon his idol; closing the eyes and remembering him; gradually your imagination will become strong and a dream will arise that you are seeing Ram. And you can make the dream so robust that when you speak, your dream will reply from within you; you say something; Ram answers you. That answer is yours. The one who asks is you; the one who answers is you. Both are you. But the deception becomes immense.
This is not called awakening. This is not called knowledge. This is not called realization.
Be cautious of fantasies. On the path of bhakti the greatest danger is to fall into imagination. If you fall too much into the net of imagination, then you will begin to see what you think. And when you begin to see, you will think that what I believed, I believed rightly; now it has begun to appear.
The experience of Ram is not the experience of the son of Dasharatha. The experience of the Paramatma has no form, no color. It is the experience of the nirguna and the nirakar. And when the experience of the Paramatma happens, it will not be that—here is God. It will be: Ah! All is only God. How foolish I was, that what was present everywhere—I remained deprived of seeing!
Our condition is like the fish. A fish in the ocean does not know the ocean. How would she know—there is ocean on all sides. When born—born in the ocean. Played and grew—grew in the ocean. One day she will die—in the ocean. How would she know that all around is ocean?
Just so, the Paramatma surrounds us. We are the fish of God’s ocean. Kabir said: It makes me laugh—fish in the ocean is thirsty! The ocean is on all sides, yet we are thirsty! Drink from anywhere—there is only God. Whatever the ghat, do not mistake the ghat’s differences for the Ganga’s difference. The Ganga is the same. In heaven it flows, on earth it flows. In all directions is its abode. The day a small glimpse arises in you of this equation—life and Paramatma are one—that day know:
Lo, once again have come
the days of meeting, beloved!
The days of meeting, beloved!!
Once again the bees have come,
the garden hums and sings;
the musk-deer fawns of fragrance
bring the wealth of musk.
Some fair, some dusky,
flowers have gone mad—
Lo, once again have come
the days of blooming, beloved!
The days of meeting, beloved!!
Once again restraint trembles,
mantras become sweet;
Fagun’s tingle, in every atom,
stirs spring’s sap.
Shell-like eyelids,
drunk dreams spill;
Once again the wounds of vows—
come, for peeling, beloved!
The days of meeting, beloved!!
Once again the breaths warmed,
brought embers along;
To clasp sandalwood bodies
the arms ache again.
In every limb, the limbless god
strums waves of water—
Once again the torn mind—
come, for stitching, beloved!
The days of meeting, beloved!!
Lo, once again have come
the days of meeting, beloved!
The day the equation—life is the Paramatma—settles in your mind; the day you see the Paramatma in all; the day every ray—His ray, every breath—His breath—this realization becomes dense; that day know:
Lo, once again have come
the days of meeting, beloved!
Lo, once again have come
the days of blooming, beloved!
Once again the wounds of vows—
come, for peeling, beloved!
Once again the torn mind—
come, for stitching, beloved!
The days of meeting, beloved!!
Lo, once again have come
the days of meeting, beloved!
The Paramatma is near; not far. Closer than the nearest. Mohammed has said: nearer than your own heart is the Paramatma. You are not as near to yourself—Mohammed said—as the Paramatma is near to you; nearer than you. You are at a slight distance; you are outside yourself; the Paramatma is within. The Paramatma is the life of your life. And as He is the life of your life, so is He the life of all.
Trust in the memory of this transcendental Paramatma; let remembrance awaken.
It will not happen by scripture; not by words; not by doctrine. You will have to risk your life! You will have to pay the price—by dissolving yourself. And the art of dissolving—its very name is love.
The day you are ready to dissolve, that day your moment of being has arrived. The day a river enters the ocean, that day it becomes the ocean. It must be afraid; before entering it hesitates; perhaps it looks back. All those travel-paths—from the Himalayas to the sea—thousands of memories, events, reminiscences; praises and condemnations, flowers set afloat, lamp-boats launched—thousands of memories—the river too must be afraid: to descend—or not to! There will be a fear surely: now the banks will break. With these banks I was a river—a particular river—Ganga, Yamuna; with these banks I was Narmada; because of these banks was my particularity; these were my personality. Now these banks are leaving; now I am entering the sea. Will I survive? The sea looks immense—will I not be lost?
She will certainly be lost—but in losing is the finding. Losing, she becomes the sea.
Man too is afraid. Coming to God’s shore again and again, he returns. Many times he reaches the door and returns; panic arises: definitions will go; my ego will go; my personality will go. If I enter, there is no return. If I go in, I am lost. What is the gain in being lost? Better to be as I am; at least I am.
A man’s ego pulls him back even from God’s door. But remember: if the seed does not dissolve, there is no tree. If the river does not dissolve, there is no sea. If a man does not dissolve, there is no Paramatma.
All instruments play within the heart, love’s pakhawaj and strings.
One need not go seeking the temple—the player has been found.
Beat the pakhawaj of love, pluck the heart’s strings.
Let the mind dance, intoxicated—his vision is boundless.
If there is love in your vessel, do not go on proclaiming it.
The Indweller knows—He knows the heart’s inner feeling.
Count not the beads; with the tongue I do not even say ‘Ram’.
Hari Himself remembers me—I have found repose.
As many Atmans as you see, so many Shaligrams.
Worship the one who speaks—what use the stone?
Awaken this memory, this smaran, this remembrance. Upon the strength of this remembrance alone is Samadhi attained.
Enough for today.