Man Hi Pooja Man Hi Dhoop #5

Swami Krishnananda Bharati has sent this song—
Prana-beloved! grant me divine eyes,
so that I may behold you.
Though the eyelids be closed, O Heart’s Darling!
may I still behold you!
Let me wash with tears, and offer at your feet
the lotus of my life born of love.
As the sweet songs of love—my Beloved!—
let me dissolve within my own heart.
Strike the melodies of life,
let me, O Beloved, play the flute.
Today, in the midst of the madhuban, O Dear One!
let me weave the raas with my Beloved.
Found you, the Beloved found—
paradise found—what else could I desire?
Let me hum these songs of the Beloved
upon your own lips.
I am far from you, my Love!
but the songs are already sounded in the heart.
It is you who dwell in this throbbing heart—
only, these eyes still cannot see.
Prana-beloved! grant me divine eyes,
so that I may behold you.

Songs arise in the devotee’s heart—countless songs arise! As in spring only flowers bloom and every branch bends under their weight—so too the devotee’s heart rains melodies. Unheard tones break forth! Notes never before heard now sound; a form never seen bathes the eyes and the heart!

Yet, says Raidas, even this hour is still a distant hour. Nearness has not yet happened. This too is an hour of separation. Duality still remains. Devotee and God are still two. Oneness is not yet consummated.

You are the song forever sprouting on my lips;
you are the tears that ever spill from my eyes;
in every hue of song, in every mode,
O Beloved ache!—you alone flow and take shape.
You are the adornment, the instrument of life;
only you are the one image of love.
Thirst of life, ache of the heart, my Love!
only you are the one hope of life.
Leaving you, I desire nothing else;
you alone are the thirst of life.
The tears of the eyes, the smile of the lips,
the heartbeat—O you are my very world.
Beloved, dwell within my heart at every moment;
what shall I say, O Heart-stealer!—you are my every breath.
Whether I call or not—still you are;
O ruthless Beloved! why do you hide?
Beloved, dwell within my heart at every moment;
what shall I say, O Heart-stealer!—you are my every breath.

Even the breath seems to sway with him—but still there is a distance. Raidas’s sutras are to be understood. Ordinarily people think that once this ecstasy comes, once the humming of song arises, once the feet begin to dance—then the goal has arrived. These songs are indeed a sign that the goal is near, but one has not yet entered the temple. Perhaps you have reached the steps. But do not forget: people have reached the very steps and yet turned back. Remember: some have knocked at the door of the temple—and turned back. Even when his hem was about to fall into the hand—it slipped away. Forget this not for even a moment. Many times it seems we have come close—and then the distances become infinite. For “closeness” too is still a distance; “nearness” is only another name for farness.

What must be attained is unity, not mere closeness. Closeness is not enough. It is beautiful, it is sweet, it is honeyed—but not sufficient. Do not stop until the devotee has become God, until God has become the devotee. Until then know, you are still in a wayside inn, at a halting place. Rest awhile beneath the shade if it is noonday—but do not forget and make it your home. You must still walk on; the pilgrimage is not yet over.

You are the song forever sprouting on my lips;
you are the tears that ever spill from my eyes;
in every hue of song, in every mode,
O Beloved ache!—you alone flow and take shape.

These are good omens. As monsoon clouds begin to gather—now the rains will come. Now, now! The parched earth will be quenched. But it is not necessary that the clouds must rain. The winds may scatter them. They may arrive and then be torn apart. Until the union is complete, stay alert.

Often when the goal draws near, people become so assured—“Now we have arrived”—that their feet grow lax. When far, they walk with speed; when near, they forget to move. Those who have walked miles, when the goal comes close, sit to rest—trusting “What fear now? We have arrived!” For miles they walked and did not tire; they covered leagues and did not tire, because a distant star kept calling. Now the star is in hand—about to arrive—and even the act of extending the hand seems difficult. Even this little effort appears hard.

And often people do not fail because of the distance—they fail because of nearness. This will surprise you. Those who are far may perhaps arrive; the very near—there is danger, peril. The mind has a strange arithmetic; it whispers: “Now the matter is in hand.” The moment you say this—danger is near.

Light the lamps of the temple,
apply collyrium to the eyes,
wash your eyes with tears,
seat the Beloved within your lashes.
As the songs of love, he is singing
upon every lip.
Upon every heart-string
his resonance is spreading.

It is an auspicious hour—when the Lord becomes your song; when he rises upon the strings of your heart; when the drum of your life begins to beat; when you fall into rhythm with his rhythm, into metre with his metre, into movement with his movement; when your feet move with his steps! Beautiful—immensely beautiful! Rare indeed are those moments when your hands dance. But remember: drown in it. If you only dance, a distance remains. Even if he holds your hand, there is still a gap. And a hand held can yet be lost. What is needed is oneness consummated.

Today Raidas’s sutras are very rare—sutras of unity. Raidas says: these things do not satisfy the true seeker—that ecstasy has arrived, bliss has come, intoxication descends, a fragrance of freedom arises, a glimpse of the Divine is had. No: a true seeker does not stop here. Rather his pace quickens, because now the danger begins. Very few boats sink midstream. Boats are sunk when they strike the shore, when they strike the bank. Midstream people are alert; storms demand vigilance. When waves leap to touch moon and stars, when the ocean is distraught—then every hair of you is awake, you keep watch, the oar is firm in your hands. But when the storm has passed, the midstream has been left behind, danger of drowning is no more, the shallow shore draws near—there it is! now—now!—then your hands on the oar grow slack. That old aliveness slips; awareness grows drowsy, sleep befalls you. Now danger! The boat can strike the very shore.

Such foolish happening has occurred many times. People saved themselves from midstream and were wrecked at the bank.

The day of Mahavira’s death arrived. His chief disciple, Gautama, had gone to the nearby village to give discourse. Mahavira had sent him knowingly. Mahavira had been unwell for six months; the lamp flickered—no one could say when the flame might fly off. All the disciples had gathered from afar to have Mahavira’s last darshan. And Gautama—who had been with him all his life like a shadow; who had served Mahavira with such tireless devotion as perhaps no one ever has—one day earlier Mahavira said to him: “Gautama, go to the village nearby. Beg alms, and also give discourse to the people.” Mahavira sent Gautama knowingly—deliberately, as a device.

Gautama went to the other village—and Mahavira left the body. While Gautama was returning, travelers on the way said to him, “Where are you going now, for whom are you going? The lamp has gone out. The cage lies there— the bird has flown. The flower has fallen to dust; the fragrance has merged in the sky. Where are you going?”

Gautama was hurrying. Mahavira was ill. He had to obey—beg quickly, speak quickly, and run back. He sat there and began to weep. He asked those travelers only one thing: “Tell me this—at the last moment, did he remember me? And if he did, did he leave any message for me?”

The message is very important; it is a great help in understanding Raidas’s sutras today.

The travelers said: “Yes, the last message was for you alone. He said: ‘I have sent Gautama away because, by staying so close, he had forgotten that he must become one. He was so near he forgot that even nearness is a kind of distance. I sent him away to remind him—distance too remains. Tell Gautama my sutra: O Gautama, you have swum the entire river; why cling now at the shore? You have crossed; now let go of the bank as well. Leave even the shore.’”

As if someone crosses to the far bank and then holds the bank and remains still in the river—thinking, “Now I have found the shore—what more is there?” But he is still in the river, clinging to the bank.

The meaning of Mahavira’s message was: “Gautama, you left everything—household, family—and came with me. Now you have clung to me. You think, ‘Now nothing further to do; the Sadguru has been found; let me serve him. My work is complete.’ Now you remain clinging to the bank. Leave me too!”

For whatever you cling to outside is bondage. Ultimately, even the Sadguru can become a bondage. The Sadguru frees you from all chains—and in the end, he frees you from himself as well. That alone is a true Master.

Hearing this word, Gautama attained Samadhi. That Samadhi which had eluded him all his life blossomed in a single instant. The blow fell deep; the shock must have reached the innermost core of his being.

Understand today’s sutras with full heart.

Having sung and sung—what now shall I sing?

Raidas says: I have sung so much—sang on and on—but now what shall I sing? This is the supreme state; the ultimate condition—Nirvana. Until now I sang; now even words cannot be found to sing. Words fall small, shabby. The song one longs to sing cannot fit them. Words are tiny vessels—song is an ocean. How will one pour the ocean into a pitcher?

Having sung and sung—what now shall I sing?

How much I have sung! Raidas says: A whole life has gone dancing, singing, spreading his intoxication, scattering his light; but now all words begin to seem too small, all songs a clutter. The tones cannot reveal the soundless. Words cannot reveal the wordless. Language is helpless before that vast silence. Even if the veena wished, it has no strength to sound the anahat. Every tone of the veena is struck sound—ahata nada.

Understand “ahata” and “anahat”! Ahata nada means that which arises by striking something—touching, plucking. Touch the strings of a veena—sound is born. This is ahata nada. Tap the drum, sound is born—ahata nada. Blow into a flute, a shock falls upon the reed, the note arises—ahata nada.

Ahata needs two. One to strike, and one to be struck. There must be a veena and a veena-player—then ahata arises. However beautiful, duality remains—the gap remains. The player has not become the veena; the veena is other, the player other.

Therefore the mystics of China have an old saying: when the veena-player becomes fully consummate in his art, he breaks the veena; when the archer becomes perfect in archery, he breaks the bow. For even that little duality is no longer borne; it jars, it offends.

This is the pain of love. Lovers want to become one, and cannot. Hence quarrel. If they could become one, quarrel would vanish. Lovers across the world live in ceaseless conflict. Moments of love come rarely; quarrel is the rule. In the long night of quarrel, a small lamp of love glimmers for a little while, then goes out—and again the dark night.

The agony of love is this: lovers want to be one, but a basic error keeps working—so oneness is not attained. The lover wants the beloved to be one with him; the beloved wants the lover to be one with her. “Let me remain—and the other dissolve.” Hence conflict. Both desire the same—how can it be fulfilled? Impossible. Each wants “I shall remain, you disappear.” Thus quarrel.

Prayer differs here. Lovers wish the other to be effaced; the one who prays wishes, “Let me be effaced.” That is why I call love the inverted state of prayer, and prayer love made straight. Prayer is the culmination of love. Love, when it receives eyes, becomes prayer. They say love is blind—yes, but it can also receive eyes. The day love has eyes, prayer is born.

Love is standing on its head—doing a headstand; so it cannot walk, has no movement. Stand it upon its feet—movement comes. And a single step, once it is taken, can cover a thousand miles—for it is not step-by-step; in one step the all is taken. Lao Tzu has said: even a journey of ten thousand miles is completed step by step.

If prayer is in disarray, its name is love; if love becomes ordered, its name is prayer. Love is like a novice plucking at a veena; prayer is the same veena in the hands of a master.

The pain of love is this: both want to be one, but the longing is wrong—“let the other drown into me.” The taste of prayer is this: prayer too longs to be one, but the arithmetic is different—“let me drown, let me vanish.” Lovers wish to erase the other. The husband wants the wife to be his shadow; for ages husbands have preached to wives: “I am God; become my shadow, surrender to me, retain no private self.”

But how can one lose oneself by force? And when someone insists “Lose your self!”—losing it becomes even more impossible. The wife moves to defend herself; she begins her own maneuvers. A politics begins. Love, which could have become prayer, turns into politics, into quarrel, into struggle.

If love becomes prayer, the householder is a sannyasin—remaining at home, he has become a renunciate. Then there is no need to search elsewhere for sannyas.

Ahata nada is sound born of duality. Two exist—and where there are two, there is collision. Love is ahata; prayer is anahat. Anahat means: where there are not two; veena and player are one. As if the veena is playing itself! As if it resounds of its own accord—no one playing! As if the arrow flies of itself—the archer is not; or the archer alone is, and the arrow is not; or the player alone is, and there is no instrument. Say it as you will—but mark this one thing: nonduality—one remains, two are dissolved.

Within this one, the music that arises is called anahat, Omkara. This is existence’s own music. How to bind it in language? How to pour it into songs? How to shape it into verse or prose? How will it fit metre and measure? Impossible!

Therefore Raidas says: Having sung and sung—now what shall I sing? What can I do now? The tongue falters—and the life too stumbles. The Infinite has come into hand. Who can pour the Infinite into the finite? The formless has been tasted—how express it in form? And even if I want to sing—there is no name left. Whose songs shall I sing now? Before, I sang the songs of Ram, of Krishna, of Allah. But whose songs now? After knowing—whose songs? He has no name, no address, no place. And now knower and known are one, singer and the sung one are one—who will sing, and who will hear?

First, the devotee sings—he must. Bhakti begins with song. The path of devotion is strewn with songs, not stones. On both sides of the path, the trees bear songs.

I shall rely on the lament of my own heart—mine alone will carry this task;
what need has the morning breeze to carry my message to him?

The devotee says: I must sing; I must trust my own voice. The winds will not carry my message to him. Who will carry the message of my love?

What need has the morning breeze to carry my message to him?
I shall rely on the lament of my own heart—mine alone will carry this task.

In the beginning, in the first steps, the devotee becomes a hum, a dance; he ties bells to his feet; he takes up a flute, or an ektara. But this is only the beginning. Soon, the flute is lost, the bells fall silent, the veena no longer speaks, the ektara is quiet. Until Meera becomes a Buddha, something remains incomplete. Meera is a beautiful beginning—but the end is Buddhahood.

Having sung and sung—what now shall I sing?
Shall I call the singer of my songs “near”?

I sang again and again, saying “God is near.” Now how shall I say, “He is near”?

For “near” is still a relationship of distance. Some are two miles away, some two yards, some two inches—but all are distance. Even if two inches are left between devotee and God, the gap is infinite.

Shall I call the singer “near”? How can I say he is near? Earlier I said, “Very near—call and he will hear; cry out and he will run to you.” Now how can I say “near,” for now he sits within. Who will sing his songs now? for now he has become me. How shall I praise myself—Aham Brahmasmi! When it is known “I am Brahman,” what praise, what prayer remains?

Kabir has said: “Uthun baithun so parikrama”—my rising and sitting itself is the circumambulation. I do not go to circle a temple; my very getting up and sitting down is the parikrama. I do not go to offer food in the shrine: “Khahun piun so seva”—when I eat or drink, that itself is service. For it is he who eats and drinks within me; it is he who rises and sits in me. Where is Kabir now? Only he remains.

As long as hope of this body remains, so long does one call and pray.

Raidas says: As long as you are crying out, praying, beware—behind it some desire, some wish, some hankering will be hiding. Prayer is beautiful, unparalleled; but there is also a beyond of prayer. Through prayer you will rise and meet the Divine; if you remain stuck in prayer, you will not meet him. Yet without prayer too, you will not meet him. Prayer is a stair—climb, and then descend. When the stairs have risen you to the floor, their work is over. Prayer is a boat—get in on this shore, but do not forget to step out on the other. Do not say: “How can we leave the boat that brought us so far, that showered such grace?” Do not cling to the boat.

Prayer is a means; meditation is a means; yoga is a means. Remember—do not clutch at means, else you will miss the end.

As long as hope of this body remains.

Raidas is right. Look into your prayers, examine them, analyze— and you will find, somewhere within, a wish is hidden: subtle, invisible. You may be saying to God, “O Lord, let thy will be done”—but inside is the belief that his will will be what yours is. How else could it be? He will not will wrongly. Inside remains the feeling—what I desire will happen, how else will God think? Does he not know? He knows even the innermost recesses. However much you say “May your will be done,” he will look into the life of your lives!

Watch your prayer. When you say, “Thy will be done,” still there is your will.

It happens here every day. Sannyasins write to me: “Whatever you say, that we shall do.” They face a choice. A letter comes from home—“Come back for a month.” Shall I go, or not? They ask me: “Go or not go—whatever you will!” I ask: “Tell me the truth—if even a little of your will remains, declare it.”

They say, “No, no—your will!” Then I tell them what they do not will. Their faces fall immediately. I say, “Leave it—no need to go.” Within two days a letter arrives: “Mind is restless, disturbed. It keeps feeling we should go for a few days—though, of course, your will!” Until I say “Go,” their minds find no rest. Then what is the point of asking? Their point is: “Say what we want; then two gains will be won—our will fulfilled, and we may still enjoy the taste of surrender: ‘See how surrendered we are!’” And when I do say what they want— their self-congratulation is worth seeing. They pat their own backs: “See such surrender!”

Man is cunning—so cunning that he cheats not only others, he cheats himself.

Peer into your prayers. Are they pure thanksgiving—or is there some desire hidden somewhere, in some dark basement of the mind, sliding within? Is there some craving? Some wish? Do you want to achieve something? To use God for something?

Raidas speaks from experience: as long as hope of this body remains, prayer continues. As long as some hope in this body, this mind, this world abides, prayer continues. The day all desire falls thin, prayer is dissolved— a silence descends. Then silence itself is prayer; emptiness is offering— there remains nothing to say.

If there is a heart—it is his; if there is a liver—it is his.
Let one spend oneself in love, completely ruined.

Spend yourself wholly. This path of love—this ishq—is the path of madmen, of moths. Have you seen the moth dance by the flame?—that is devotion, that is prayer. Dancing at the flame, the moth draws near; nearer to death; nearer to erasing himself. Soon the wings will burn and he will fall as ash. Yet some ineffable allure, some incomprehensible charm, pulls him. He sees something more valuable than life.

If there is a heart—it is his; if there is a liver—it is his.
Let one spend oneself in love, completely ruined.

Your soul will be born only then; your heart and courage will be truly yours only when, like the moth, you squander yourself upon the path of love—truly! Not with some secret hope. Not with the inner thought: “If I erase myself, I shall gain this and this—such heavenly joy, such paradise.”

Why, at the heart’s insistence, did you pray out of season?
Had you applied a little restraint, a little patience…

Whenever you ask, you proclaim your impatience, your lack of trust. Palatu says: “Why so impatient?” Your prayer is the expression of impatience—“Hurry up! O Lord, it’s getting late; the dishonest rush ahead; the unrighteous sit on thrones, and see me, religious, devoted— empty-handed! Have you forgotten me? In your realm too has injustice begun? They say delay occurs, but darkness not. But now even darkness is seen!” These conversations go on in your mind. People come to me and say: “All life we lived by principle and propriety—what did we gain? The cheats and thugs sit in high seats, garner honor—what have we received? We lived by Dharma, not wavering even an inch—what is our attainment?”

Then they say to me: “We doubt now whether God even exists. And if he does, he must belong to those who can bribe him. There is not only delay—now we suspect there is darkness. And if here it is so, what is the guarantee of the other world? After all, this world too is his. If dishonesty succeeds here, perhaps it will succeed there as well.”

There is great impatience, and the inner demand stands. And from the corner of the eye you watch—when will it be fulfilled? Though outwardly you say: “I have come to ask for nothing.”

Why, at the heart’s insistence, did you pray out of season?
Do not trust the mind’s chicanery.
Why, at the heart’s insistence, did you pray out of season?
Had you applied a little restraint, a little patience…

The true pray-er exercises restraint, patience. He waits quietly. Whatever he will do, he will do. And whatever he does—that alone is right. The question is not that he should do right; whatever he does is the right.

He gave a heart, gave pain, and in pain gave savor—
what treasure my Allah has bestowed!

The heart filled with prayer is grateful for all.

He gave a heart, gave pain, and in pain gave savor—
what treasure my Allah has bestowed!

What more is needed? There is no question of asking for happiness. He is grateful even for this—that he gave a heart, gave the capacity to feel pain, and in pain he gave a prasad, a savor, a beauty. For had there been no pain, there would have been no heart; and without heart, you would have been stone. If there is heart and pain, you are not stone—you are life, you are alive. Sensitivity dwells within you—and your sensitivity is your one possibility for growth.

He gave a heart, gave pain, and in pain gave savor—
what treasure my Allah has bestowed!

True prayer is thanksgiving, gratitude. There is no demand. When there is no demand, what need of words? When there is no demand, what is there to say?—bow down. A silence that bows has known the secret of prayer. He has learned to make sajda.

When mind met—and hope of body was no more—who remains to sing?

Raidas says: When the mind is united with him, when the desire to attain is no more, when body and mind are forgotten—then who remains to sing? What to sing, why to sing, for whom? Then a spontaneous silence descends. From this spontaneous silence one becomes muni—not by conduct, not by any external arrangement.

People ask me: “Why don’t you give your sannyasins detailed rules of conduct—how to sit, how to stand, what to eat and drink, what not?” They do not understand me; there is no dialogue. For centuries only conduct was given—what happened from it? I do not trust conduct; my trust is in the inner. Let a lamp of awareness be lit within you; then, in that light, do whatever seems right. What you do in that light will be right. If the lamp is not lit, you may live by rules, place each foot with caution—and the result will be only stupidity.

In Buddhist texts there is mention of thirty-three thousand rules for a monk. To remember them is itself hard. Why so many? Because if every little thing must be regulated from outside—who will drink Coca-Cola, and who will not?—it must be written. Then Fanta—what about that? Man is such a cheat: tell him, “Don’t drink Coke,” and he says, “Fine—I’ll drink Fanta.” Save him from Fanta—he’ll drink Limca. You keep guarding; he keeps inventing devices. If rules are to be made, thirty-three thousand will be too few. Rules cannot work; only awareness can work—only awakening can cooperate.

I have heard: a villager, Shri Bhondumal, was going to a big city for treatment. His friends advised: “Ask the doctor everything in detail and do as he says—don’t act on your own.” Bhondumal took their words to heart. He reached a famous doctor, told all his troubles. After examination the doctor gave him four pills: “Take these with milk.”

Bhondumal asked: “Sir, shall I gulp all four together, or one by one?”

“As you wish,” said the doctor. “It makes no difference.”

“I’ll take all four together,” said Bhondumal. “Tell me one more thing: should the milk be hot or cold?”

“Lukewarm will be good,” said the doctor.

“Then please also tell: is buffalo’s milk more nourishing, or cow’s?”

“Whichever you get,” the doctor snapped, “that’s the best.”

“No, doctor-sahib, say truly: which milk is strengthening?”

“All right—cow’s milk.”

“Should I drink it from a glass or a bowl?”

“In a lota!” the doctor burst out.

“As you command, sir.” He felt it proper to ask everything in detail. “Doctor-sahib, shall I drink the milk standing or sitting?”

“Have I other patients to see or only you to bother with? Do as you like!”

“Don’t be angry, doctor-sahib. One more thing—but I feel shy to ask.”

“What is it?” the doctor asked, curious.

“Should I drink the lota myself, or should my wife hold it to my lips? There is no harm if she gives it, is there?”

“No harm.” The doctor laughed. “Now give me my fee, ten rupees, and go!”

“Shall I tie it up or give it loose?”

The doctor’s temper shot to the seventh heaven. “Now run from here! Keep the fee—and take these ten rupees from me—only leave me alone!” He pushed two five-rupee notes into Bhondumal’s hands.

“Please tell me: shall I go on foot or by rickshaw? Any danger?”

“No danger—go by rickshaw. But go quickly—don’t eat my head. Give five rupees to the rickshaw, and buy the pills with the other five.”

Taking both notes, Bhondumal happily left. The doctor wiped his brow, swallowed a pill for headache, and thought, “The trouble is gone.” But two minutes later—Bhondumal again, face worried and confused. “Don’t be angry, doctor-sahib. I am only a village bumpkin. I thought it best to ask everything in detail. One last doubt—please solve it. Tell me— which five-rupee note should I use to buy the medicine, and which should I give to the rickshaw?”

If a man’s conduct must be managed inch by inch, madness will arise. And that is what has happened. Humanity is sick, unbalanced—because your religious leaders gave rules for every petty thing. You need light—your own inner light. Then live by that light. Your conscience must be awake; then it will guide you.

The work of the Sadguru is to awaken the sleeping guru within you— that is all. When your inner guru awakes, the Sadguru’s work is complete. If he then keeps arranging every inch of your life, your life will never come into order. New doubts will arise every day; new obstacles will come. And if you live by rigid rules, life changes daily—your rules will be fixed, never synchronized with life. You will find yourself in trouble: what to do now? Life has changed, the rule is old—made when you rode a bullock cart, used now when you fly by aeroplane. You will only become more entangled. Hence a true Master gives you not outer regimen but inner awakening.

Raidas says: When the mind has met—and the body’s hope is no more—who remains to sing?

Let your mind meet the Divine—then the work is done. Then there is no song, no singer, no question of singing. Then there is nothing to say. Then you live a spontaneous life, nothing superimposed from above—everything flows from within.

As long as the river has not merged into the ocean, so long its clamor grows; and so long, its haughtiness.

“Hankara” has two meanings: clamor, and ego. Two sides of one coin. Until the river merges into the ocean, it makes much noise—and swells with ego. The more the ego, the more the clamor; the more the clamor, the stronger the ego: “I too am something!” They say camels dislike going near mountains— hence they live in deserts. If a camel goes near a mountain, the ego is hurt. In the desert it is the mountain, itself.

The river becomes alert only upon reaching the ocean—“What is my status?” Far from the ocean, it can make clamor, can strut, can boast— can huff and puff—much ego.

As long as the river has not merged into the ocean, so long its clamor grows.
When the mind has met the Ocean of Ram, then this calling is dissolved.

And when a person falls into the Ocean of Ram, when a river merges in the sea—all calling is erased, all asking is erased, all prayer is lost—who remains to sing? Whose songs to sing?

“Josh”—on the chessboard of longing, death is the real life;
win the game of love—by losing the game of life.

If you would walk the path of love, if you long to meet the Beloved— then you must show readiness to die. For his vision, you must pass through the fire of death.

On that path, dying is to gain true life.

Win the game of life in love—
by losing the wager of lifespan.

There you must lose everything—even life—then the game of love is won.

When the mind has met the Ocean of Ram, then this calling is dissolved.

What is needed is readiness to dissolve. “Devotee” means one eager to be effaced; one who has begun to sense a life larger than life. He longs to immerse his tiny life into the vast Life. He has recognized himself as a drop and now longs to enter the sea—for without entering the sea, there is no way to be the sea.

As long as there is hope of bhakti, of mukti—hearing of the Supreme, one keeps on singing…

If in you there still remain hopes—that you will gain bhakti, that you will gain mukti—till then your calling will continue, prayer will continue, worship will continue. You will sing, you will praise—you must—because as long as there is asking, your dealings with God are like a beggar’s with a rich man. The beggar praises, saying, “O Giver!”—though he cheats: the praise is flattery, buttering, trying to fool you—perhaps you will be swayed.

Mulla Nasruddin was passing by. A man on the roadside called out: “Great sir, have pity on this blind one—give me two annas!” Mulla looked closely: “You blind? One of your eyes seems fine.”

“Then give me one anna at least,” said the man. “But give something— if not exactly blind…”

Another story: Mulla was going to the cinema. Outside, a beggar stretched his hand, “Give something to a Surdas.” Mulla was in a hurry. He dropped a ten-paisa coin. The “blind man” examined it closely: “This coin is fake.” Mulla said, “Astonishing! You are blind, and you can tell the coin is counterfeit!”

The man said, “Let me not hide from you: today I’m sitting in my friend’s place. My friend is blind.”

Mulla asked, “Where is your friend?”

“He’s gone to see the movie. I’m actually deaf.”

A beggar’s behavior is the pray-er’s behavior—the supplicant’s. You praise because you want something. Devotees make great clamor in temples: “O purifier of the fallen! We are sinners and you are the forgiver of sins; your compassion has no end!” They are saying, “Let’s see if your compassion can forgive our sins.” They try to press God: “Now your honor is at stake. We have sinned, keep sinning, will sin—because we trust in you, O Parvardigar, you are Rahim, you are Rahman—you are the Great Compassionate! We trust so much in your kindness—look, we will go on sinning! Our sins?—petty! Your compassion—endless! Do you count such trifles?”

You are arranging to deceive even God. And remember: God is not some person who can be deceived; he is not outside you who can be fooled. He sits within the deceiver and laughs—watching your trickery. When you dip in Mother Ganga he says, “O 420! You would deceive even me!”

As long as there is hope of bhakti, of mukti—hearing of the Supreme, one keeps on singing…

Each blood-splash upon these walls is the date of some madness;
look closely at the living prison-walls of life.

Look at the blood-splashes on the walls of this prison of life—how many came and went! How many were formed and unformed! Understand the history of existence. For a few days you too will make some noise; then a few splashes of blood will remain, and all will depart. Ash will remain; the ember will go out. In this short life, what commotion you create! Not only do you create disorder—you also arrange how to be forgiven. Not only do you sin—you arrange yajnas, havans, poojas, paths— these are tricks of a sinful mind. He sins—and does yajna too. Both are two accounts of the same mind.

Wherever this mind places hope, there—there—it gains nothing.

And the irony? Wherever you place hope, there you never gain. Hope in wealth—your hand meets ash. Hope in body—ash. In fame, position, prestige—wherever hope is bound, nothing is found. From afar it seems the horizon is here—now, now—but none has ever reached the horizon.

Wherever this mind places hope, there—there—it gains nothing.

Nothing is attained; yet in the mind’s stupor you keep running. When will you awaken?

Mulla Nasruddin once drank heavily at dusk. Drunk, he stood by the road. A policeman passed: “Nasruddin, why are you standing here?”

“Standing!” said Mulla. “I’m watching for the road to my house.”

“I don’t understand,” said the cop. “Standing here—watching for your house?”

“At this moment,” said Mulla, “the whole city is revolving before my eyes! As soon as my house appears, I’ll enter it. Why waste walking? I’m just waiting for my house to come.”

The mind too is intoxicated. For what are you waiting? The house will not come to you. And every house the mind has shown you has proved false. When will you awaken? How many times you fall into holes—escape a well, and fall into a ditch; escape a ditch, fall into a well! When will you be saved from falling?

Flowers smile and show the world the wounds of the heart;
there are myriad forms of expressing sorrow and pain.

Flowers smile, saying: “Understand!” They show their heart’s scars while smiling—“Look!” There are countless forms of grief, a thousand faces of pain. The flower is close to withering—now, now. Morning has come— how long to evening? Birth has come—death will come. Youth arrives—old age has already set foot. These are all forms of sorrow. You awaken from one form only to be deceived by another. Sorrow abides here in infinite masks. Therefore countless lives pass—and still people do not awaken.

My days gone by passed just so, O friend:
I had merely painted a face of happiness—what joy was there?

Ask those who have known, those a little ripe, whose life has gained a little maturity—they say: “My past went by just so, O friend— in such delusions. I had only kept a painted face of happiness; there was no joy. There was no bliss. Yet out of ego I kept showing: ‘I am blissful.’ To whom could I confess my sorrow? And what use in crying?” Out of ego you show you are happy, very happy—only to show others; why expose your wounds? But your entire past—what is it but a garland of wounds? On Diwali, people light rows of lamps; you have lit rows of wounds. Those wounds, these too could have been lamps. The same energy that became sorrow could have become bliss—but you never learned the art. That art is religion.

Wherever this mind places hope, there—there—nothing is gained.

Give up hope: in hopelessness is the Supreme State—then there is true happiness.

This is religion’s art: give up hope; in hopelessness lies the Supreme State—then happiness indeed becomes certain. Raidas says: I assure you—certainly there will be bliss! I am witness, I am testimony. Do this one thing—give up hope. These hopes of the mind, these webs of mind, these fantasies, these dreams—drop them. In the state that will arise—without hope, without desire, without craving—that is the Supreme State, that is Nirvana.

Then happiness becomes certain indeed.

Says Raidas: he who has known thus—nothing remains for him to do; the Supreme does all.

God and the boatsman together might drown me—that is possible;
the storm alone cannot be the cause of my downfall.

No mere storm can drown my boat. Yes—if my helmsman, my God, collude…

God and the boatsman together might drown me—that is possible.

But why would the helmsman, why would God drown you? He wishes to save you. You are his kin. What mother, what father wants to drown their child? If you drown, it is by your own hand. You bore holes in your own boat.

Mulla Nasruddin went fishing with some friends. When the boat reached midstream, where he sat he began to cut a hole with his knife. His friends were alarmed. Chandulal said, “What are you doing?” Dhabbuji said, “Are you mad?”

Mulla said, “I’m doing it in my own place. No need for you to interfere. Do what you like in your place.”

Chandulal said, “That may be. Dhabbuji said, “That’s logical. He’s making a hole under his seat. Why should we speak? What is it to us?”

Here one man makes a hole—and who knows how many drown! The reverse is also true: here one man fills a hole—and who knows how many are saved! Life is interlinked, conjoined—we are not separate. Therefore when one person attains Buddhahood, a wave of Buddhahood spreads through the whole world.

When in India Buddha arose, at the same time Mahavira arose; at the same time Makkhali Goshal; at the same time Prabuddha Katyayana; at the same time Sanjaya Belatthiputta—known and unknown Buddhas blossomed here and there. And not only in India—a wave swept the whole earth. In Greece, Socrates, Pythagoras, Heraclitus; in Iran, Zarathustra; in China, Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Lieh Tzu. A wave arose, lamps were lit here and there. One lamp was lit—and a row of lamps appeared!

Whatever you do—know that its result is not only for you. Whatever you do affects the whole. Once you see all hope gone, all hope futile, and you become “hopeless”—do not fear the word, for in your mind “hopeless” has a negative meaning. You say, “He is very hopeless”—meaning sad, defeated, extinguished, suicidal. We gave “hope” a positive value, so we made “hopelessness” negative.

But Buddha said: “Blessed are those who are hopeless, for the Supreme belongs to them.” Raidas echoes: give up hope—in hopelessness is the Supreme. All Buddhas repeat one another; truth is one.

Hopelessness does not mean tired, extinguished, bored. It means utterly radiant—for when no hope remains, there is no cause for sorrow. Hopelessness means supremely happy. Buddha called it great bliss; Raidas too uses Buddha’s word.

Give up hope: in hopelessness is the Supreme; then happiness indeed becomes certain.

Happiness will be—certainly! But you must do one thing: drop the delusion of hope. Hope is negative, for nothing is gained by it. Hope is a mirage; therefore hopelessness is not negative—it is creative. Only Buddhahood knows what hopelessness is. The supreme state of meditation is hopelessness—the Supreme. He who has known this has known all.

The heart is mortgaged to longing; and longing is mortgaged to despair.
To destroy the house—we still go on building one.

Our heart is pawned to desires—and desires are pawned to disappointments. What shall we do? Life is such that we go on building— though we know all will be ruined. We build houses of sand—we know they will fall. We build houses of cards—we know a gust will flatten them. Our life is a house of cards. What else? But what to do? At least hopes keep us busy, entangled. At least the illusion remains that something is happening, we are doing something. Nothing has happened, nothing is happening, nothing can ever happen. He who knows this is a sannyasin.

Do not call me a devotee of Ram; nor a servant doing service.

Revolutionary words. Raidas says: Now I cannot say I am a devotee of Ram. Where now is devotee—and where God?

Do not call me Ram’s devotee…

Leave me from saying “I am a bhakta.” That is gone—duality gone.

…nor do I serve as a slave.

Do not take me for a servant either, for I serve no one now—not even God. The servant is no more. Servant and served have become one; slave and master one; devotee and God one.

I know nothing of yoga, of yajna; therefore I remain udas.

I do not know yoga—what need of yoga now? Yoga is a process, a method for union. Yoga means “to join.” But for the one who is joined— what yoga?

I know nothing of yoga, of yajna—
now even yajna is nothing to me—
therefore I remain udas.

Mind “udas” too. As “hopeless” is not negative, so “udas” is not negative. Ud-as—one who has no hope. Udasin—who has dropped hope and become steady. We have spoiled these words. We call “udas” the man who sits like a corpse, flies buzzing on his face. Such a one is sick, not udas. He cannot even wave flies away—lazy! Udas is not our meaning. It is not laziness, not negligence, not sloth, not inaction. Udas is one who has seen hope through and through, recognized its net, and slipped out of it.

Become a devotee—people will praise.

Do some yoga— the world will honor you. Turn upside-down in postures—the world gives respect.

Become skilled—people will call you virtuous; the virtuoso thinks himself wise.

I have no attachment to all this—affection, delusion—for I have seen all this passes away. How many have come strutting with twirled moustaches—no moustaches, no men. How many strutted as Alexanders, flourished swords—where are the swords, where are the conquerors? Dust to dust. See this—and wake from the illusion.

I see no charm in Maya, Moha, Mamatā. No butter comes by churning these; only death.

Heaven and hell I take as equal—both I have renounced, brother.

Raidas says: For me heaven and hell are the same. Why? Where there are two—there is trouble. Where duality is—there is danger.

Therefore I have renounced both—heaven and hell. I am absorbed in Ram, and have allowed Ram to be absorbed in me.

I looked closely and saw—the root of all trouble is “I.” I cut the “I” from the root. I did not go on cutting leaves—wealth, position, prestige. Cutting leaves does not fell a tree; it grows denser. I cut the root.

I too say to you: cut the root. For ages you’ve been told to cut leaves. Some say, “Do not be angry”; some, “Once a week, don’t eat ghee”; some, “Give up salt”; some, “Don’t drink water at night”; some, “Filter your water”; some, “Tie a cloth over your mouth.”

Acharya Tulsi runs the Anuvrat movement. I once said to him: “What Anuvrat! If you must run a vow—run Mahavrat.” He asked, “What is Mahavrat?” I said, “Cut the root.” That is Mahavrat. Why trim leaves?

Anuvrat appeals to people—no revolution in life is needed. It means “do a little bit”—ranch-matra—and you are an anuvrati. What vow? “I shall not drink water at night”—an Anuvrat! What great revolution is that? Two or three days you feel thirst, then you get used to it. Another says, “Once a week I shall not eat salt”— great kindness to salt! Another, “I shall fast on Ekadashi.” Petty things. Yet Acharya Tulsi is called the lawgiver of Anuvrat. Petty things of no worth—two a penny.

A gentleman, seventy years old, whose home I visited, was a devotee of Tulsi. By chance he fell into my hands. He asked, “What is your opinion of Anuvrat?” I said, “Tricks and deceptions. Man desires cheap devices.”

At first he was hurt, then he said, “Your words shock me—but they are true. For I took the vow of brahmacharya at seventy. It is a deception; the mind is not celibate. And to tell you the truth, I have taken the vow four times before.”

“How can you take a vow of brahmacharya four times? It can be taken once. Four times means it keeps breaking. Will you take it again?” “No,” he said, “for it brings shame; whenever it breaks, I feel guilt. But people clap. Whenever I take it, they say, ‘Ah! He took Anuvrat—brahmacharya!’”

Cut leaves—and leaves—and leaves. The root is one: wherever mind has bound hope, there it met ash. Cut the mind. Cut the root. Break the stupor. Then this tree of worldly life vanishes— as if it never was.

I call meditation the Mahavrat.

I looked and saw the world—and cut the root of “I” and “mine.”

When the mind and “mine-ness” become one with the One—only then is the One, brother.

Only when oneness with the One has happened, know that the One is. Before that, repeat as you will—“God is One, Allah Ishwar tere naam, may God give right mind to all”—repeat and go on chattering. But until you experience the One, until you become one with him—these are words, and a delusion.

Krishna, Karim, Ram, Hari, Raghav—until you see them as one…

Until all these appear one to you—know the Truth has not been known.

Veda, Kitab, Quran, Purana—the easy One is not seen.

You may read the Vedas, the Bible, the Quran, the Puranas—there is no essence—until the easy, simple One is seen. When does this easy state come? When the mind holds no memories of past, no desires of future—then the easy, natural state dawns.

Whomever you have worshipped—each of those was raw; only the easy, natural state is true.

Hear Raidas: I worship only That whose place and name are none.

He whose name is none, whose place is none; who is not found in Kaba or Kashi; who is not known as Ram or Rahim; the Nameless, indefinable, inexpressible—how will you worship That One? There is one way to worship him: drown yourself in him, erase yourself! Become a moth, become mad in love.

Until you become a moth, a madman, the Divine—whether far or near—is far. The day you dance like a moth and draw ever-closer to the flame—and that last moment when the moth leaps into the flame and is reduced to ash—just as the moth is erased— the Divine appears.

Erase yourself—and you are God. Your being is the obstruction. You are the wall. Let “you” go—the wall falls, the door opens. Other than you, there is no lock at all.

Enough for today.