Kano Suni So Juth Sab #9

What is the mark of a Sadguru? And what is the mark that true satsang has happened with the Sadguru? What is the sign that you have become a true disciple? Upon what touchstone will you keep testing? On which scales will you keep weighing that the direction is right, that the path is true?
Walking alone does not decide that you will arrive—because one can walk in a wrong direction too. Merely doing something does not guarantee success or fruition—because the doing may be in discord.
The road is dark; it is a dense new-moon night. You are journeying toward light—there must be some touchstones. Otherwise, perhaps you are entering deeper into the dark night. Even if the sun is not yet visible, at least be certain you are moving toward the East. Today the sun may not be seen—tomorrow it will be. But the journey must be toward the dawn; the eyes must be turned to the East—this much clarity is essential. Let the feet move toward the East—even if in darkness. You may stride swiftly toward the West—you will not reach the sun, you will only go farther away. And if you face the East—even if you move slowly, or even if you don’t move at all, simply stand facing the East—the sun will come by itself.
So whether the direction is right or not—this is utterly indispensable. You walk toward a garden—its green trees and shrubs may not yet be visible; you are still far. Yet certain signs begin to appear. The air grows cooler. The heat of the market begins to subside. The din of the crowd fades. Threads of fragrance begin to spread through the breeze. Sometimes a waft reaches you—the scent of flowers, the coolness of the garden—the wind whispers news: you are on the right path. The garden is not yet in sight—but you can be thrilled: if the path is right, you will arrive; you are, in fact, arriving. With each step you take, the goal takes a step toward you.
As you draw nearer, the air grows ever more cool, ever more fragrant. As you draw nearer, human voices, the market’s chaos, its haggling and hustle, fall silent—birdsong and the murmur of streams begin to take their place. These will be the signs. The garden may still be unseen—yet you can rejoice: sooner or later, you will reach.
Today’s sutras are touchstone-sutras. Today’s sutras are of great use—because we see it daily in life: many labor, very few receive fruit. It is not that people do not pray—but prayer bears fruit only if it reaches the Divine! Often, even as you begin to pray, you erect obstacles by which your prayer cannot pass at all.
There is a fundamental flaw in your prayer. Demand creeps into it. You pray in order to demand. You pray like beggars. Such prayer will not reach the Divine. The Divine hears only the voice of those in whom the inner emperor calls—not the beggar. Beggars are honored nowhere—least of all in the eyes of the Divine. How could it be otherwise? He has sent you as emperors—He has dispatched you to be sovereign. If you are less than that, you have deceived the Divine. If you are less than that, you have not fulfilled your responsibility. If you are less than that, you have gone astray.
You pray like beggars—and prayer misses. The moment demand enters, prayer dies; only demand remains. Demand is not prayer! And then, like a beggar, you flatter—you offer praise only to get your demand fulfilled.
Remember: praise offered for a motive can never become prayer. The Divine is not fond of flattery. If God were fond of flattery, then love would become impossible in this world; prayer would have no threshold to stand upon—everywhere flatterers would sit enthroned.
Do not flatter the Divine. Flattery means: exaggerate God, puff Him up, butter Him. As if God were a man like men—that you could cajole His ego; that, by seducing His ego, you would coax Him to fulfill your demands. Your very attempt has gone wrong. Prayer did not even begin—it died in the womb; an abortion.
Many pray—rarely does prayer happen to one. And it is not that people do not practice austerities. They do. But from their austerity a fragrance does not arise—stench does. From austerity, ego rises—“I am an ascetic, I am a renunciate.” This “I” is a noose on your neck. Because of this “I,” you cannot be. This “I” must go.
The highest austerity is that in which the “I” melts. This must be your touchstone: if the “I” is melting, you are on the right path; if the “I” is swelling, you are on the wrong path. If the “I” grows, you are oriented toward the world. If the “I” diminishes, you are oriented toward the Divine—you have become Ram-facing. If you stand facing Ram, can the “I” remain? The slightest remembrance of Ram and the “I” is lost. The memory of your true home arises—your real home. The place you were lodged becomes an inn in that very instant—the very instant your real home is remembered.
Kafas mein rota hoon main apne humsafiron ko—
Yeh kaun kehta hai muztar hoon main chaman ke liye.
The devotee does not weep to gain pleasures—he weeps for his own essence. He weeps to be what he truly is. He weeps to merge with his original source. He weeps to return to where he came from.
Kafas mein rota hoon main apne humsafiron ko—
Those companions of my being—my nature, my very form—that was lost, that home which slipped away—let it be returned to me.
Kafas mein rota hoon main apne humsafiron ko—
In the cage of this world, I weep for my fellow travelers who were left behind.
Yeh kaun kehta hai muztar hoon main chaman ke liye—
It is not heaven I cry for—not comfort. The devotee does not ask for heaven. He asks only this: return to me my own realm. Here, I am a stranger—a foreigner. This is not my home. Whatever I build here will fall. Even the grandest house, built of stone, proves a house of cards. Here all is momentary. Give me my eternal.
Mere wujood se mehfil udaas rehti thi—
Mera wujood museebat tha anjuman ke liye.
Chaman mein tha to kafas ke liye tadapta tha—
Kafas mein hoon to hoon betab main chaman ke liye.
Such is the human mind: you were with God—surely you longed to go far from Him; else how did you become distant?
Chaman mein tha to kafas ke liye tadapta tha—
Kafas mein hoon to main betab main chaman ke liye.
This is the human mind: wherever it is, it cannot belong. In the garden you did not belong to the garden—how will you belong to the cage? When you were free, you did not belong to freedom—and forged a thousand chains of your own making. If you could not belong even to freedom, how will you belong to this prison? If you could not belong to the Divine, and departed even from there—how will you belong to the world?
Yet, God has to be lost—before He can be found. There is no other way. Until you lose, you do not know the value. While the fish is in the ocean, it does not know the ocean. Once the fish is stranded on the shore—struggling outside the water—only then understanding dawns; only then memory awakens; only then gratitude arises for the ocean. When she falls back into the ocean, she knows: this is the Ocean—this is my home.
This may sound senseless to you—but to regain one’s home, one must lose it. To find oneself, one must lose oneself. This is all the meaning of the world: the fish, while dwelling in the sea, could not recognize the sea—she trembles upon the shore.
Chaman mein bias-e-rahát tha, aashiyan na raha—
Chaman na mere liye—ab na main chaman ke liye.
Yeh mukhtasar si hai—yeh ashk dastan-e-firaq—
Rahi hai waqf meri jaan gham-o-mihan ke liye.
This is the little story of our lives.
This brief tale—these tears of separation—
My very life has been pledged to sorrow and toil.
We wandered down unknown paths, searching out pain.
Rahi hai waqf meri jaan gham-o-mihan ke liye—
Our very life has throbbed for sorrow. Why? Why this thirst for suffering? Why have we manufactured misery? There is a reason: when suffering is created, the “you” is created. In happiness you are lost—in suffering, you become. In pain, the ego stands firm. That is why people cling to pain.
Thousands come to me—but seldom do I meet one who truly wants to be happy. You may be surprised—because they all say they seek happiness. They all ask: how to be free of suffering? Yet when I look into their eyes, touch their hearts—they do not want to drop suffering. They say so. Perhaps even this saying is a device to create a new sorrow: the sorrow of “I have no happiness; I want happiness.” This talk of wanting bliss is not really a longing for bliss—it is a way of brewing another sorrow: “I lack bliss.”
Contemplate this. Look closely. Do you truly want happiness? If you do—who can stop you? How could you be stopped even for a moment? Bliss is your nature. No sooner desired—than it is.
Let me tell you a strange thing: attaining happiness is very simple; attaining suffering is very difficult—because suffering is against your nature. Sorrow is not natural; therefore it is hard. You have accomplished the difficult—and you ask how to accomplish the simple! You have done the almost impossible: even the Atman, which cannot suffer—you have made it appear to suffer; you have deceived the very soul. And the cascade of bliss flows within. Bliss is not to be attained—only drop your clinging to sorrow, and bliss is. Do not imagine that this cage—the world—has locked you in. The case is reversed: you have shut yourself in with your own hands.
I have heard: in a mountain valley there was a small inn. Its owner kept a parrot. The innkeeper was a great lover of freedom—perhaps a pretended lover, otherwise why cage the parrot? People desire moksha and yet cage parrots—and teach the parrot “Ram, Ram,” the talk of liberation. At least set the parrot free! You will be freed when you are freed—why bind this poor creature? You are bound—and you have bound him too.
The owner, they say, was a great revolutionary lover of freedom. He had taught the parrot a single word: “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” All day long the parrot cried out—its voice echoed through the valley: “Freedom! Freedom!”
One evening, a traveler came to stay. At sunset the valley looked beautiful—the parrot was crying, “Freedom! Freedom!” Compassion arose in the traveler. He thought: poor parrot! It calls for freedom all day; no one pays heed. He rose—there was no one about. The parrot hung alone; the owner was occupied inside. The traveler quietly opened the cage door and went to his room, thinking the parrot would fly away. But after some time he again heard: “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”
He came outside—astonished. The door lay open; why does the parrot not fly? The parrot still clutched the bars from inside, crying, “Freedom! Freedom!” Great pity arose. Night had fallen; all had gone to sleep—the innkeeper too. The traveler returned and tried to take the parrot out—the parrot pecked his hand, drawing blood—crying still, “Freedom! Freedom!”
This is what you have done with every Sadguru. It is not easy to take you out of your cage. You cry, “Moksha! Bliss! Freedom!”—yet if someone tries to free you, you draw blood. Otherwise why did you crucify Jesus? Why did you give hemlock to Socrates? They were deceived by your voice. You shouted “Freedom!”—they thought, poor beings...
Yet that traveler was stubborn—Sadgurus are stubborn. You may bleed them, hang them—they return again and again; they incarnate again and again. You cannot kill them by killing them. The traveler paid no heed to the parrot’s pecking—he pulled it out and flung it outside. His hand was bleeding, yet he rejoiced: at least one life is free! At least one has received freedom.
He slept content. In the morning, to his amazement—the parrot sat in the cage, crying, “Freedom! Freedom!” The door still stood open—no one had shut it through the night.
Such is man’s state. You say “bliss,” you say “freedom,” you say “the joy of one’s own nature”—but looking at you, it seems otherwise. You clutch sorrow—you hold it fast—and you secure it from all sides.
Yeh mukhtasar si hai—yeh ashk dastan-e-firaq—
Rahi hai waqf meri jaan gham-o-mihan ke liye—
As if your very life is reserved for grief.
Bichhaye jaal jo baithe the—ban gaye gulchin—
Yeh unki fikr—badi fikr—hai chaman ke liye—
And thus it happens: the trappers, the deceivers, the cunning understand that your true desire is to remain imprisoned. So they say: “Come—these are the means to be free.” They give you such means that your prison grows larger—and you become pleased with them. They strengthen your chains; they deepen your fears; they inflame your greed—and you are grateful to them.
You worshipped pundits and priests—and you always abused the Sadgurus. Why such respect in your heart for the pundit-priest? And you well know they have nothing. How would you not know? You have eyes. However much you deny—when the man who comes to recite Satyanarayana Katha in your house—has he met Satyanarayana? Had he met Him, would he go from house to house reciting Katha for a fee? In that Katha there is neither Satya nor Narayana—nothing.
The one who performs your yajnas and havans—has a yajna happened in his own life? Nowhere do you see even the hue of fire. No revolution is visible. Those who lead you in prayer at temples and mosques—have you asked them: has their prayer borne fruit? Have they ever prayed? Your mullah, your pundit, your priest—are your servants; they have nothing to do with the Divine.
But you are happy with them—because they expand your prison; they do not disturb you. You talk of freedom—they too talk to you of freedom. You keep building your cell—they add four more bricks.
Dariya says: “Know the touch of the Paras by its touch.”
“What is the test that you have come near the Paras?” That your every limb turns—it becomes revolution everywhere. Freedom becomes the very conduct of your life. “That your every limb is transformed.” Not the intellect alone—not merely thoughts stuffed into the skull. Every limb! Your entire form changes. Your being is transformed from the root—head to toe. From body to the soul the same music sounds—one ektara, one song arises, one dance spreads. You are dyed in the color of the Beloved—total, indivisible.
“Know the Paras by its touch...”
What test reveals that you have come to the Paras? Iron turns to gold. If iron does not become gold, there are only two possibilities: either the one you took to be Paras is not Paras, or you do not come near—you remain distant. Even if Paras is there—you do not come close. Only two possibilities.
Either the one you have found is not a Sadguru—he is like you; no different. As you are fallen into pits, so is he. As you are sunk in delusion, so is he. As your life is entangled, so is his.
Then, even if you come close—nothing will happen. Or the other possibility: the one you have found is a Sadguru—but you fear to come near. To approach is fearful. To come close to a Sadguru is perilous. A priest poses no danger—they are like you; you can buy them. But near the Sadguru there is danger—the Sadguru is death. If you come near—you will die.
Gorakh has said:
“Die, O yogi, die—for death is sweet.
Die the death by which Gorakh beheld.”
Die as Gorakh died. Die in such a way that, dying, you see. “Die—death is sweet.” This is the Master’s entire message: come, dissolve into death; come, drown, melt, be lost.
“Die, O yogi, die—for death is sweet.
Die the death by which Gorakh beheld.”
And he teaches the art of such dying as he himself died—how he dissolved and attained; he says: you too dissolve, and attain.
Jesus has said: “He who seeks to save his life will lose it; and he who is ready to lose it—saves it.”
Do not clutch life. Clutching invites death. Dance with death—embrace death—and death disappears; only nectar remains. Nothing other than amrit remains.
“Know the Paras by its touch—that your every limb is transformed.”
But this happens only when you die utterly. If any fragment of you remains—the old remains there. If even a little of you remains—that part is decayed, of the past. Then there is no total transformation.
You agree with difficulty. You say: “Slowly, slowly—one step at a time—a little, a little, I will change.” But changing little by little is like dropping spoonfuls of dye into the ocean—nothing will come of it. Be courageous. This is the work of the brave. If the truth fits, why wait? Once understanding dawns—miss no opportunity.
“Know the Paras by its touch—that your every limb is transformed.
If every limb does not turn—your company is false.”
Sang is false in two ways: either the one you kept company with is false—or he is true, but you did not truly keep company. You stood apart—built a wall—kept your security—maintained a distance.
Those who come to me and go away without taking sannyas have preserved the distance. They came—and did not come. They came—and missed. They came—and stayed far. They will not get the chance.
People write letters, they ask me: “If we do what you say, without taking sannyas, will there be benefit?” There will be benefit—but not the supreme benefit. Do anything—you will gain something. But the whole being will not turn. You will repair some plaster here and there—prop up a falling wall—but a new temple will not arise.
We are speaking here of a new temple. Yes—you may use a few of my words to decorate your old house—write a saying above a doorway, repaint the walls. That will not do.
Sannyas means only this: you say from your side, “I am willing. As near as you call, I am ready. If you must kill me—kill me. Here is my neck—bowed. Lift the sword and cut. From my side I am unconditionally surrendered.”
“Know the Paras by its touch—that your every limb is transformed.
If every limb does not turn—your company is false.”
“Go and fetch the Paras—one in whom life is present in every limb.”
What gain is there in rubbing a stone? You will only gather distress.
“Go and fetch the Paras...”
Seek the Paras. When you find Paras—seek his satsang. When you find the Paras—do not run; come closer—ever closer.
The very word Upanishad means: to sit near the Master. Upasana too—upa-asana—taking the seat near. Upasana, upavasa, Upanishad—all three share one essence: if somewhere the Paras is glimpsed—stake your life.
“Go and fetch the Paras...”
If you must search, seek what has essence. Do not keep rubbing your head against stones. And once you find the Paras, do not fear the touch—let the touch happen. It will erase you—at least keep that much in mind beforehand.
The touch of the Paras will utterly efface you—that is certain. If iron fears: “I might be erased”—then it cannot become gold. If, after approaching the Paras, it trembles: “Let not my iron-ness be lost; I want to be gold and yet keep my iron”—that is the tangle. You have caught the arithmetic backwards. Iron must decide: I will be erased. As iron—I will not remain. Every particle will turn. Not a single grain will remain iron.
So you must drop attachment to iron. Till now, what you are—is iron. But consider iron’s argument: “I know only that I am iron. To lose even this! Who knows this ‘gold’? Maybe it is, maybe it is not. Till now, I have not experienced it. Others say so—true or false—who knows? Perhaps they are deluded. I have not known. Shall I let go what I know—for what I do not?” Common wisdom says: a half loaf in hand is better than a whole loaf in the sky. The eight-anna coin in hand is better than a rupee shining in the sky—because what is in hand can be used; that rupee may or may not be. Even if you reach—perhaps it will turn out to be only a glimmer, a tin shard shining.
Such worldly wisdom is useful in the marketplace, but in the realm of Truth it is a hindrance. There, a different madness is needed—wildness, ecstasy.
Ask this much: what is the worth of what is in your hand? Even if you keep it—what remains? If iron remains, it remains iron. What worse can happen? If this Paras turns out false—you will remain iron; no loss. And if the Paras is true—you will become gold. What is the difficulty? Why fear to come near?
This is your obstacle—the iron’s fear. You want to remain as you are—and still meet a Sadguru. This cannot be. This has never been. This will never be. It is not the law of life.
“Go and fetch the Paras—one in whom life is in every limb.
What will rubbing a stone bring? Only distress.”
Your pundits and priests have only increased your distress. Without them your life would have been simpler. Because of them, your life is entangled and saddened. They do not let you taste anything. They do not lead you toward the supreme taste—and they forbid you the ordinary tastes of life. They condemn the world—yet they know no path to the Divine; they cannot go, nor can they take you. They leave you in a cruel dilemma—a Trishanku hanging between two worlds.
They ruin you for the world—“Wife? What is in it? Flesh, bone, bile, phlegm!” Nothing in wife. About the Divine—they reveal nothing. “Husband? A sack of urine and feces.” Children? “Two-day playthings.” Do not become attached. But where to direct love? Love needs a path—where to take it? Ask of the Divine—they know not. They condemn everything—fill your mind with negation—without any positive vision. Whatever you do is wrong, according to them. What is right? Only: “Wrong, wrong.” All is wrong.
So they trap you everywhere. Even eating becomes a problem—taste is sin. In Gandhi’s ashram, a vow of “tastelessness” was imposed—eat, but do not taste. Why torture a man thus? “Rubbing and rubbing—distress.” Take the stone of Mahatma Gandhi and keep rubbing your head—distress will grow. I have never seen a Gandhian in rapture. “Do not taste”—they say. The knower says: taste so deeply that it becomes the taste of the Divine. Annam Brahma—the wise have said. In food, Brahman is hidden. “Do not taste”—such stones you have been handed. Rubbing will bring only distress. They are against everything. What are they for? No one knows. They leave you bitter toward the ordinary joys of life—and point not toward the supreme joy. You become like a washerman’s donkey—belonging neither to home nor to the riverbank—stuck in the middle. Such stuckness is the state of your so-called sadhus and saints.
A Jain muni told me: “I have been a monk for fifty years”—he was about seventy—“and I have found no joy, no Self-bliss. What can I do?” He was a good man—honest—otherwise he would not confess. He has practiced with great sincerity—no one can claim he failed for lack of effort. He has followed his sect’s rules to the letter. No lapse. Now, as death approaches, a doubt arises: “Perhaps I erred. Perhaps I should have remained a householder. At twenty, I renounced. Mother died, father became a monk—often people become monks thus. I had no other recourse—I too took initiation.”
For fifty years he obeyed every rule with devotion. I know him well—I have no doubt of his sincerity. Hence the matter is urgent—his guru too cannot say he made a mistake. Now, after fifty years, doubt rises. Can you feel his anguish? “Rubbing and rubbing—distress”—fifty years of rubbing, and wounds upon the heart. The world is gone—unexperienced. Who knows—perhaps joy lay in that experience. Sometimes even worldly men have a smile on their faces—sometimes a glow—while your so-called saints look utterly lifeless. The worldly man’s face sometimes blooms—you never see this on the faces of your saints. Their eyes are extinguished—no inner light burns. Empty temples.
They too must notice that worldly men are sometimes glad—granted, momentary; yet sometimes it is there. Here, nothing at all. For the sake of the eternal, the momentary was lost—and the eternal never came. This is distress.
Dariya speaks truly:
“Go and fetch the Paras—one in whom life is in every limb.
What will rubbing a stone bring? Only distress.”
Therefore, avoid those who fill you with negation—who say: this is wrong, that is wrong. These are not Sadgurus. A Sadguru scarcely speaks of the wrong; he says: this is right—do this. He says: do not fight darkness—light the lamp. When the lamp is lit, darkness is gone. He says: hold to the affirmative. Do not struggle to drop the momentary—seek the eternal. As the eternal comes to your hand, the momentary drops of itself. He who has real jewels does not carry pebbles in his pouch. If you must carry weight, carry the jewels—not stones.
You do not have to “leave” the world with a Sadguru—the world “leaves” you. With a false guru, you will struggle to leave the world—and never meet the Divine. You will battle darkness—and lie flattened. Rubbing and rubbing—distress. The lamp never lights—because that is no way to light it.
Dariya says: “The cat made a guru, looking at the bright crane—
As the devotee, so the guru—and the robe as well.”
A cat made the crane her guru? They say: after eating a hundred mice, the cat set out for Hajj! But even on Hajj she will seek mice—royal mice perhaps.
I have heard: at the recent Jubilee of the Queen of England, a cat from India also went to attend—the cats sent their representative, since humans were sending theirs; Morarji Desai went; the cats too sent a prime-minister-cat. When she returned, all asked what she saw. She said: “Amazing! Beneath the Queen’s throne sat a big mouse—royal!” What else will a cat behold? What is a queen to a cat? Under the throne—a mouse—that gladdened her heart.
Dariya says: “The cat made a guru.”
She will choose according to her own mind—where else can she bring mind from? Understand: this is your situation—not the cat’s. If your ordinary mind chooses the guru, you will err—because this is the very mind that has always misguided you—through wealth, position, greed, attachment, craving. This same mind will choose—it will tell you whom to follow—and it will mislead you one last time. You will pick the wrong guru.
See how it happens: you were mad after wealth—spent your life in it. You are fed up—now you will choose a guru who does not touch money—if anyone brings money near him he jumps as if from snakes. “Woman and gold!” You were mad after woman—now you choose a guru who does not even look at women. You become a disciple of the Swaminarayan sampradaya: “He has not seen a woman for forty years!” When they flew to England they had to hang curtains around his seat—lest air hostesses appear. At the airport he was carried in a closed car; seated behind a screen while luggage was inspected. The world laughs at such foolishness. The Jubilee was on—yet he could not see it, because the Queen is a woman. Nor on TV—yet the mind longs to see—so he sat in one room, the TV in the next, and a man shouted a running commentary! This is illness. Such a one needs treatment—his mind is poisoned by sex.
But if you have been obsessed with woman and have suffered—who has not?—you will quickly choose such a guru. This is your old mind still deciding—it tells you “This is the guru.” Your worldliness was a delusion—and now this guru too is your delusion—inverted, but still the same.
“The cat made a guru, seeing the white crane.
As the devotee, so the guru—and the robe as well.”
A black cat, weary of blackness, thought whiteness is the thing—she saw a shining crane, standing ‘meditative’ at the pond, and was impressed. She did not know this crane stood there to catch fish—more advanced than the cat! His ‘meditation,’ one-legged stance, stillness—all for the fish, so the water won’t ripple and the fish not flee. But the cat is deceived.
Your inner cat is deceived by such cranes.
“As the devotee, so the guru—and the robe as well.”
Like attracts like. Then arises the great problem: how to choose? Your only tool is your mind—and it is of no use here. How then to choose?
Thus the deepest scriptures unanimously say: the disciple does not choose the guru—the guru chooses the disciple. Only the guru can choose. The disciple can only offer himself: “I am present. If it be your grace—choose me. If you find me worthy—choose me. If you see any possibility—awaken it. Here I am. Do with me as you will.” Even to say “Choose me” is too much—ego. Only this much: “I am here.”
Two kinds take sannyas with me. One says: “I will think about it—decide later.” Whatever he decides will be his decision—fundamentally flawed. If he decides to take sannyas, it will be for wrong reasons; if he decides not to, again wrong reasons—because his mind knows only wrong. Had it known the right, he would long ago have attained the Divine. He still trusts this mind: “I will think.” With what will you think? What do you have?
The real sannyasin comes differently: “Here I am. If you accept me—accept me. If you refuse, I will weep and go. If I can ever be made worthy—give me the gift.”
You cannot choose the Master. You can only give the Master a chance to choose you. Understand this subtle difference—it is of great meaning. Always, the Sadguru chooses. When the disciple is ready—the Master appears.
Do not be proud: “I will choose.” Even to say “I surrender” is not surrender—how will the “I” surrender? Surrender means: I am no more. Here is my being—do as you will. From now on, your will is my will. Until now I trusted my mind; from today I trust your awareness. This is shraddha—trust. Shraddha is not the conclusion of your intellect; it is born when you bow to your own mind in farewell.
“As the devotee, so the guru—and the robe as well.
The difference between a true saint and a masquerader is as vast as falsehood and truth.
Many pearls look alike—one is gold, another is glass.”
Who is the true saint? He who has known—who has experienced—who has drowned in the Beloved and been steeped—who has become empty within, and by that emptiness has given space for the Whole to dwell. Where Truth has become alive—that one is saint—sant: where sat has become living.
But becoming a saint outwardly is easy—too easy. Mahavira stood naked—not because nakedness makes a saint. Otherwise all would be nude: then Rama too, Krishna too, Christ, Mohammed, Buddha, Kapila, Kanada—all naked. They were not. When Mahavira became a saint, nakedness arose as a natural flowering—he became childlike, innocent. If you “believe in” Mahavira with your mind, you will draw the conclusion: “Nakedness produces enlightenment. Let us go naked.” This is the mind’s arithmetic. You saw: Mahavira is naked—enlightened; he is silent—enlightened; he eats rarely—enlightened. You fit the math: “We too will fast, be silent, go naked, endure sun and cold.” Do all that—nothing will happen—only distress.
Mahavira was a Sadguru—but you missed. You concluded with your mind. Had you surrendered, something else would have happened: you would have linked with his inner being—not his outer form. As you drop the ordinary mind, another, deeper intelligence arises—prajna, an inner seeing. Then you would see: something happened within Mahavira—Samadhi, Truth. Because of the inner, the outer followed—not vice versa. And the outer differs in each. The inner is one. When Meera bloomed—she sang and danced. Mahavira did not—his personality had no such expression. The same inner lotus, different outer fragrance: Jesus in one way, Mohammed another, Krishna a third. Two awakened ones never look the same on the outside—only the pretenders look alike. You may find five hundred Jain monks identical—but not five hundred Mahaviras. You may find a thousand uniform sannyasins—but not a thousand Shankaras. I do not mean the pontiffs of Puri and Dwarka—you may find a thousand of those. I mean Adi Shankara—the happening is one-of-a-kind.
Still remember: what awakened in Shankara, Buddha, Mahavira—is one. Think of many vessels placed in a garden while rain falls. The same water fills each—but the vessel’s shape gives the water a form. Glass, pot, plate—the water takes that form. The rain is one—the vessels differ. Mahavira’s vessel was one, Krishna’s was another—and the Divine never repeats molds. He is not a Ford company stamping identical cars. He is original—always. No one like you has ever been made—or will be. He has no molds. Each is unique.
If you decide by the outer, you will err—because outer forms differ. You will see Mahavira and go naked; see Buddha and wrap a single robe; see Krishna and wear peacock feathers and a flute—mere play. See Rama and carry bow and arrows—Ramleela begins, not Rama’s life. Beware.
When you come to the Master, do not decide by your mind. Lay your mind at his feet—let him decide. Unconditionally. Not: “We will hear—and then think whether to do it or not.” If thought is yours—the decision remains yours.
“The difference between true saint and masquerader is as vast as falsehood and truth.
Pearls may look the same; one is gold, one is glass.”
“Five or seven sayings spoken—ten songs sung—”
Dariya says: do not imagine that speaking a few couplets or composing a few hymns makes one a saint. By such outer things nothing will happen—only bellies get filled. Your so-called holy men are only belly-fillers—nothing else. You feed yourself one way—they another.
“The banyan does not take hold of a banyan—only a seed takes hold of a banyan.
Become small—obtain the treasure of Ram’s Name.”
Sweet, honeyed words—nectar for the throat.
“The banyan never takes hold of a banyan—only a seed takes hold of a banyan.”
If you go to the Master as a master—you will not take root. Go as a seed—small, egoless, empty—and he will pour himself into you. If you go puffed up—with your knowledge, wealth, pride—you will miss.
“Become small—and obtain the treasure of Ram’s Name.”
If you would receive this precious substance—the surati of Ram’s Name—become a seed. Then a tree will arise in you. Whoever becomes a true disciple becomes, one day, a true Master. But one who, even as disciple, carries the burden of being-guru—was never a disciple; how will he be a Master?
“Maya, maya—everyone says—but none recognizes.
O Dariya, without the Name—all is maya.”
People chant “maya, maya”—this is maya, that is maya. Dariya says: other than Ram’s Name—everything is maya. No need to enumerate: wealth, status, envy, greed, attachment—list nothing. Only this: apart from the Divine—all is maya. If He is found—something is found. Otherwise, you wander in enchantment.
“Lord, Your Name is the wick;
This body is the lamp; pain is the oil—
What a wondrous harmony!
Coolness increases as the eyes grow moist;
The more the Name shines,
The less the pain remains.
Lord, Your Name is the wick;
This body is the lamp; pain is the oil—
What a wondrous harmony!”
As remembrance of the Divine grows—sorrow diminishes. Here remembrance deepens—there sorrow ebbs. As the Beloved enters from one door—darkness slips out the other—so pain, grief, distress depart.
“Coolness increases as the eyes grow moist;
The more the Name shines,
The less the pain remains.”
The day the Name sits within in full brightness—the day surati is total—the day remembrance is complete—that day everything is accomplished. Before that—all is maya.
“Who is the saint, the lover of Ram?—the one whose surati is tied to the Lord.”
Dariya says: the true lover is he who has fastened his surati—his remembrance, his constant inner recall—to the Beloved.
Yesterday I was reading an American psychologist who studied how often sexual thoughts move in the mind. He reports: at eighteen—every two minutes. He surveyed thousands of youths. At thirty-six—every four minutes. Near fifty—every six. At seventy—every eight, ten minutes. Look within—you will find your surati is tied to sex. When such constant remembrance shifts to Ram—there is revolution.
Sadguru means one who lives in surati of Ram—whose remembrance is soaked in the Beloved. Sit near him—and the waves of his surati begin to stir your heart. His remembrance becomes contagious. This is a sweet contagion—hence the great value given in the East to satsang, for centuries.
You saw—a beautiful woman passes—the mind is caught in beauty. Did you learn from this? Nothing. But when you sit by the Sadguru, gaze upon him—again and again your surati begins to fasten to Ram. As it fastens, and you become rapt—your mind will not cling to sex. Then you need not guard yourself for forty years from women like the Swaminarayan guru. Whether woman or man appears—once the Master’s wave has lit the remembrance within—whoever you see will remind you of the Divine: a woman’s beauty will evoke the Beloved’s beauty; a man’s strength—His power; flowers—His blossoming; birds singing—His song; streams, sea, mountain, sand—everywhere you will find hints of Him. Once the thread is tied within—you begin to see Him everywhere. The whole world is filled with Brahman.
“Who is the saint, the lover of Ram?—the one whose surati is tied to the Lord.
Face-to-face with the Beloved, colored by His company—she remains chaste.”
Once remembrance awakens—again and again the Beloved appears before the inner eye. Face-to-face—the meeting begins to happen. The Beloved’s color dyes you—you begin to sway.
“Face-to-face with the Beloved, colored by His company—she remains chaste.”
Then arises bhakti’s event: none but the Beloved is remembered—pativrata. One Lord, one Husband—the Divine alone.
As surati grows denser—your flame is fixed on the One. Waking, sleeping—only His remembrance. In joy and sorrow—only His remembrance. Every moment—only Him.
That psychologist says: at eighteen, every two minutes sex arises. When Ram’s remembrance begins, not even a single moment passes without Him. His note hums like breath.
“Face-to-face with the Beloved, colored by His company—she remains chaste.”
“Let us find some respite from endless troubles—
Let us set in order the temples of remembrance.
There were days when the sky rang with our laughter—
If we could, let us borrow those days again.”
Once—each one of you was in the Divine; all come from there.
“There were days when the sky rang with our laughter—
If we could, let us borrow those days again.”
Sit at the feet of a Sadguru—and those days are lent again. They were yours—but you missed. Now let someone awaken that memory, restore those ruins.
“Let us set in order the temples of remembrance—
Let us find some respite from endless troubles.”
Sitting near the Master—you are, for a while, freed of worldly entanglements. For a while, the world vanishes; in the Master’s shade—the world is forgotten; that forgetting becomes remembrance of the Beloved.
“We built the townships—you laid them waste—
Let us spend a few moments in these ruined quarters.”
Whatever you build, the Divine lays waste. What you build does not remain—yet the mind clings—wants to spend a few moments even in ruins. Beware this mind. First it builds; then it dwells; then, when all falls into ruins, it still does not leave—returns again and again.
“We built the townships—you laid them waste—
Let us spend a few moments in these ruined quarters.
If the Saki’s gaze is not met—we shall not take the cup—
And if it is met—we shall rush, mad, to seize it.”
Sweet words.
“If the Saki’s gaze is not met—we shall not take the cup.”
This is what Dariya means: “Face-to-face with the Beloved, colored...” Unless the Divine stands living before you—nothing will happen. Face-to-face.
Not with idols—if it worked with idols, temple-going would suffice. Not with scriptures—words are ink-drawn idols on paper. They won’t suffice. “Face-to-face with the Beloved...” The living Presence must stand before you. Where to seek the living God? If He has descended in someone—borrow a few moments from him. Bathe near him. “Colored by His company.”
“If the Saki’s gaze is not met—we shall not take the cup—
And if it is met—we shall rush, mad, to seize it.”
Unless eye meets eye—every cup is water, not wine. No intoxication there. You will go to temples and return empty. To scriptures and return empty. Has anyone drowned in books?
“If the Saki’s gaze is not met—we shall not take the cup—
And if it is met—we shall rush, mad, to seize it.”
When the Beloved’s eyes meet yours—immediately you are drunk.
“There is a fire in the heart, smoldering every moment—
If you wish, pour it into song and ghazal.
A whole lifetime of tears lies reserved for sorrow—
Come—let these few moments be spent in laughter.”
Do not clutch grief so tightly. Do not make the bars your own. Go to the Master—if only for a few moments!
“A lifetime lies before us for sorrow’s tears—
Come—let these few moments be spent in laughter.”
If anywhere you meet the source of life—sit there a few moments and learn to laugh. Once you learn the sovereignty of laughter—it never leaves. Wherever you are—the spring flows.
This is the meaning of: “Face-to-face with the Beloved, colored...” You are dyed in His hue. The moth drowns in the fire—becomes the color of fire. These ochre robes are that fire’s tint.
“...she remains chaste.”
“Now the world’s opinions mean nothing—
As the river dissolves in the sea.”
Once merged—what care for shores and ghats—Banaras or Prayag? What care for passers-by praising or condemning on the way?
“Now the world’s opinions mean nothing—
As the river dissolves in the sea.”
“As the fish, once back in the ocean—wherever it looks, there is water.”
So is the devotee—the pativrata. Only the One is seen. Nothing but Him.
They say: when Meera went to Vrindavan, the head priest of the great temple admitted no women. Meera danced past the guards—her ecstasy melted them. She reached the sanctum and danced before Krishna’s image. The priest, angered, came: “Woman! It is a great sin—a woman may never enter here!” Meera laughed: “I thought—other than Krishna there is no man at all. Oh! You too are a man? You are not yet a pativrata?” The priest was drenched in that sentence—and fell silent. Meera danced on. “Other than Krishna—who is a man? Show me—I wish to see! Are you one? Your delusion has not ended? We all love that One alone.”
“As the fish, once back in the ocean—wherever it looks, there is water.”
Now there is only One—everywhere. The Imperishable alone.
“The net of time and death cannot reach here—
This is the fearless abode—so alluring.”
Now she has entered fearlessness—what death remains? Union with the Supreme—she has bathed in amrit.
“In the forest of sandalwood the bumblebee arrives—
Wherever it sits—there is fragrance.”
Carve these words in gold upon your heart. The bumblebee, after wandering, reaches the sandalwood grove. Now wherever it sits—fragrance. In the world, the bee searches this flower and that—rarely one has a little fragrance—and even that fades. But in the sandalwood forest—fragrance everywhere. No need to choose; wherever it sits, the same scent—one and the same.
“Leaving flight, it sits still—
Day and night, in delight.”
Why fly now? In the world, it had to flit—because fragrance was fleeting. Every joy was transient—each flower hid thorns. Now—why move? Where to go? This stillness is called Samadhi. Krishna called it sthitaprajna—steady wisdom.
“Leaving flight, it sits still—
Day and night, in delight.”
“Brother Dariya says: by Ram-bhajan illusions and cravings are lost.”
This is what happens—to one who drowns in Ram-bhajan. Slowly, the gate opens—the sandalwood forest appears.
“Brother Dariya says: by Ram-bhajan illusions and cravings are lost.”
Understand this sutra. One who knows will always say: call Ram first—delusion and craving will fall away. One who does not know says: drop craving first—then Ram will come. Make this your touchstone—the difference between true and false is as between earth and sky. If someone says: “First leave the wrong, then the right will come”—know he knows nothing. The knower says: “Turn to the right—why wrestle with the wrong? There is nothing in the wrong—how will you gain by it?” Accumulate wealth—nothing is found. Even if you “leave” wealth—nothing is found, because there is nothing in it. How then do they say: “By leaving wealth you will find”? Then it is still about wealth! What of Kabir—what of Dariya—poor men? Mahavira found by leaving wealth—Buddha by leaving a kingdom. How did Kabir find? Dariya was a carder of cotton; he said: “Granted I am a carder—still, Ram, I am yours.” Whether a king or a poor carder—what difference if one is His?
“Brother Dariya says: by Ram-bhajan illusions and cravings are lost.”
Everything is lost—except surati of Ram. As remembrance deepens—bhajan arises. Ram becomes breath. Of itself—the world of fantasies and desires falls silent.
“By the touch of the Paras, iron becomes gold—
Never again can it be iron.”
Once iron becomes gold by the touch—there is no way back. On this path of knowing—you cannot fall from where you truly arrive.
“By the touch of the Paras, iron becomes gold—
Never again can it be iron.”
Let this revolution happen once. Come near some fire—come near that great death called the Master. Once you drop the clinging to your iron-ness—once you are ready to be erased—
“By the touch of the Paras, iron becomes gold—
Never again can it be iron.
Know the Paras by its touch—that your every limb is transformed—
If every limb does not turn—your company is false.”
Enough for today.