Man Hi Pooja Man Hi Dhoop #7

The leaves did not stir
The petal did not open
A heavy, mute span of time has passed
Who has given such a curse?
No file of herons, a bare sky
All the promises of the seasons missed
All directions are mute
All roads are empty
Time endures—oh, what torment!
What sin was done?
Even the winds are sealed, all colours are pale
Forgotten the raga, the festal song, the cymbal and the drum
Where do colours flare?
Where do the feet falter?
Time, stricken by silence, keeps trembling
What serpent is this that has sniffed it out?

What has happened to man? Raidas is lost, Kabir is lost, Nanak is lost. In this garden of man the flowers have stopped blooming! As if spring no longer arrives! As if the human heart has turned into a desert; and not even a desert meditation. No shade of green trees remains. No trees on which distant birds might come to roost. No eyes left that can look to the sky. No ears left that can hear the anahata. What has happened to man?
A heavy, mute span of time has passed
Who has given such a curse?
Time endures—oh, what torment!
What sin was done?
Even the winds are sealed, all colours are pale
Forgotten the raga, the festal song, the cymbal and the drum
Where do colours flare?
Where do the feet falter?
Time, stricken by silence, keeps trembling
What serpent is this that has sniffed it out?

An accident has happened, and it is necessary to become alert to that calamity; otherwise your own search will not be possible. And the one who has not known himself has known nothing. He lived and yet did not live. He did not live—he merely died. Between his birth and his death nothing happened. If between birth and death the Divine does not happen, know that nothing at all happened; you came empty and went empty. Perhaps you even lost something, earned nothing.
An accident has happened. And that accident is: man’s consciousness has become extrovert. Over centuries, slowly, slowly—gradually, gradually. Man’s eyes have become fixed outward; they have forgotten to turn in. So even if one gets bored with wealth—and one will, someday; even the post, the position, bores—and it must, it is all hollow! How long will you deceive yourself? Illusions, if they are illusions, will break. How long will you take shadow for truth? How long will the enchantment of maya keep cheating you? How long will you remain stuck in dreams? One day or another it becomes clear—everything is futile.
But then a new trouble arises. Those eyes which have become fixed outward still keep seeking outward. They no longer seek wealth; they seek God—but outwardly. They do not seek position; they seek moksha—but outwardly. The subject changes, but your direction of life does not change.
And the Divine is within; it is an inner journey. Bhakti that binds you to a God outside is also a deception.
Mind itself is worship, mind itself is incense.
The journey is inward! Mind is the temple! In the innermost chamber of that very mind the Master sits hidden.

Persons are being uprooted in the storm of questions.
The conscious is being devoured by the unconscious force.
Clanging voices cut through all boundaries.
In astonishment they distribute the fever of smallness.
The banks are drifting far from decision.
The masts of the mind are sinking here and there.
Suns are shrinking in the fog of doubt.
The trumpets of words seem parasitic.
Groups split upon the smallest bases.
The strength of a generation hangs upside down.
The serpent of distortion has bitten the very form.
Moments are crushed in the coils of confusion.
Foundational vows look dwarfish.
Systems are mazed like a Chakravyuha, mantras sting like scorpions.
Offspring of venomous serpents go searching for amrit.
Sky-smiles—broken references.
Pregnancies melt upon the slopes of time.
Wings are quenched in the glare of night.
Imported seem the claims of experience.

As if man’s pregnancy miscarries; his Atman is never born.
Pregnancies melting upon the slopes of time.
And man is entangled in the storm of questions!
Persons are being uprooted in the storm of questions.
The conscious is being devoured by the unconscious force.

This is the accident. For the first time man has asked so many questions—and he has not a single answer. It is a shower of questions—only questions, questions everywhere. Life stands like a question. God is a question, love a question, prayer a question. We have learned the art of turning everything into a question. And answers? We have lost all sense of them. We have lost even the sense of direction. In what direction will the answer be found—we have forgotten even that. We wander in ten directions, we ask a thousand questions. And there is an eleventh direction too—the way that goes within oneself. We stand with our backs turned to it.
Man has turned his back on himself—this is his misfortune. Raidas reminds: Turn back, turn toward yourself. Mind itself is worship, mind itself is incense! Leave temple, mosque, church, gurudwara. They are all man-made. Seek within your own consciousness, for that alone has come from the Divine. That is the one ray of light that can lead to that Supreme Sun—because it streams from that Supreme Sun. That is the bridge.

The sutras of Raidas—
Listen, brother, such is bhakti: when bhakti comes, pride goes.
He says: Hear the first sutra of bhakti. Let bhakti come—let it come today—but are you prepared to lose your bigness? Is there a readiness to lose ahankar? For when bhakti arrives, ahankar departs. As light arrives, darkness goes. You will fear to light a lamp if you are too attached to darkness. If all your vested interests lie in darkness, you will talk of lamps—but never light one. It can even happen that you hang pictures of lamps in your dark room; but the picture of a lamp does not give light.
A painted scene cannot erase the ache of the heart.
A mirror may hold the water, but it cannot give you to drink.
Gaze as long as you like at a picture!
A painted scene cannot erase the ache of the heart.
Hang your beloved’s portrait upon your chest, place your lover’s large picture on your wall—what will come of it? The ache of the heart will not be soothed. And what are your idols? Pictures of that Supreme Beloved! And what are your temples?
A mirror may hold the water, but it cannot give you to drink.
Yes, a mirror holds water—looks watery—but it will not quench thirst.
And what are your scriptures? Mirrors in which water is described. Pictures—and charming pictures. But what will pictures do? Perhaps you can entertain the heart for a while. Perhaps you can forget yourself for a moment in these pictures, in these colours. But again and again it will return to you that a picture is but a picture.
Listen, brother, such is bhakti: when bhakti comes, pride goes.
And why have you hung these pictures? Why so many temples upon the earth? Why so many pilgrimages?
Because of man’s dishonesty, his craftiness, his hypocrisy. Man wants to deceive himself—and so very subtly, so delicately. Man wants the deception that ‘I am religious’—without being religious. So he will read the Gita, the Koran, the Bible. He will escape Mohammed, escape Krishna, escape Jesus. If a man like Jesus becomes too insistent, he will hang him upon the cross, and then for centuries read the Bible and hang Jesus’ words upon the wall. He will not listen to Krishna.
Arjuna barely listened; and there is doubt whether he even listened at all. He kept raising questions one upon another. What will you hear, when even Arjuna perhaps did not? If Krishna stands before you, you will evade him. You will raise a great whirlwind of questions—philosophical, spiritual questions. You will raise so much dust around you with your questions that Krishna’s face will cease to be visible. You will raise such smoke of thought—and you are very good at smoke. If the wood is wet, you cannot produce flame; only smoke will rise. You cannot burn, you can only smoulder.
You know why smoke rises from wood? Not because of the wood, but because of the water hidden in it. If the wood is completely dry, smoke cannot rise. If a hundred percent dry, smoke is impossible—only flame arises.
Our minds are wet with desire; therefore they smoulder. They do not burst into light. We are mad for outer things. That very madness fills our life with darkness. We are even afraid that light might happen. If, by chance, a luminous person crosses our path, we turn our back. We shut our eyes.
And there is a great fear—the greatest fear—that whoever has invited God has had to prepare to be effaced.
Kindle in annihilation the lightning of burning, O nightingale—
These sighs—are these sighs? These lamentations—are these lamentations?
Immortal life has fallen to the share of the risk-takers;
Those who live forever are precisely those who know how to die.
In love do not be so heavy-footed from fear of the robbers;
Those who are looted upon this path are the truly fortunate.
This path of love—this bhakti—do not be afraid of the bandits upon it.
In love do not be so heavy-footed from fear of the robbers.
Do not be so flustered by the bandits. Upon this path none can proceed without being robbed.
In love do not be so heavy-footed from fear of the robbers;
Those who are looted upon this path are the truly fortunate.
Here, it is rare to find a true robber. The Satguru is a robber. That is why we have named the Divine ‘Hari’—the One who snatches, who plunders. You have nothing of substance—only hollow notions, false imaginations. Yet even those must be stolen. So it is right—
Those who are looted upon this path are truly fortunate.
Immortal life has come—amrit has showered.
Immortal life has fallen to the share of the risk-takers.
But only to those who have gambled their life—this life, this fleeting life. It is like a wager: the transient is staked, the eternal is won. A game of throwing all into the fire.
Immortal life has fallen to the share of the risk-takers;
Those who live forever are precisely those who know how to die.
Those who know how to die attain to the eternal life; they live forever. This is the greatest fear: that should God come, I might be effaced. And this fear is natural. If the ocean comes, how will the drop remain? If the drop is bent on keeping its pride, it will have to stay far from the ocean. A drop is a drop; even if rivers want to preserve themselves, their ahankar, their bondage to their banks, their own flags flying, they must remain far from the ocean. Only those who come near the ocean are effaced.
But that effacement is no effacement; that losing is gaining. And remaining a drop—even if you survive—what survival is it? It is the loss of the ocean. For when the drop loses itself in the ocean, it becomes the ocean.
Listen, brother, such is bhakti: when bhakti comes, pride goes.
All bigness departs. Raidas warns in advance: only if you are thus prepared should you set your foot upon this path.
What is the point of dancing or singing?
Without this preparation, however much you dance, however much you sing, nothing will happen. And in truth—how will you dance? Can ahankar dance? Ahankar is paralysis. How can the ego dance? It is rigid. Dancing needs suppleness. Where is suppleness in stiffness? Dancing needs fluidity—where is fluidity in ego? Dancing needs the art of dissolving. When only the dance remains and the dancer is lost, then the dance is complete. But if the dancer stands stiff, do not mistake his hopping for dance. And sing as much as you like—if ego is inside, it will poison all your songs. If the vessel is filled with poison, whatever flowers you float in it will perish.
What is the point of dancing or singing? What is the point of austerities?
Do as much tapas as you like—nothing will happen. If the basic condition is not met, neither dance nor song nor austerity nor vow will help. The fundamental condition is one: let the ego go.

Someone has sown the seed—
Let us raise the tree.
Breaking the aridity of the desert,
The scattered fragments of beauty—
Let us gather them in one gallery of images.
The Ganga that streams from Shiva’s brow—
Let us become Bhagiraths and carry her to every heart.
Someone has uttered the word—
Let us hum the song.
Leaving the river of sound to the ocean,
Let us woo the drowsing village with calls of love,
And bring her, coaxed and pleased, up to the city.
Let us carry the softness of sunlight,
The weaving of colour,
Into hearts brimming with dusk.
Someone has poured the foundation—
Let us raise the mansions—
Brick by brick, building life.

The seeds have been given. The entire past of humanity is lit by the gifts of the Buddhas. Lamps upon lamps have been lit—but we sit with eyes closed. Seeds have been given to us, but we do not let them reach the soil of prana. The Gita and the Koran remain stuck in our skull; they do not touch our heart. If the Koran touches the heart, you will not remain a Muslim. If the Gita touches the heart, you will not remain a Hindu. If the Gita touches the heart and you remain a Hindu, it is as if the Ganga were to reach the ocean and the banks remained! Impossible.
Upon this earth the descent of a religious man is not happening; because here there are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists, Sikhs. They are obstructions—definitions, limits. Where there are many boundaries, how shall the Boundless descend? How will you bring the sky into a courtyard? Break the walls!
The scattered fragments of beauty—
Let us gather them in one gallery of images.
The Ganga streaming from Shiva’s brow—
Let us become Bhagiraths and carry her to every heart.
But first, let the Ganga descend upon you—then you can carry her to everyone! Let your thirst be quenched, and you will quench uncounted thirsts. Let your lamp be lit, and you will light uncounted lamps. From flame to flame the flame leaps!
Someone has uttered the word—
Let us hum the song.
Let the river of sound be offered to the ocean.
Let yourself vanish so that God may give you the song. Step aside and let His fullness fill your emptiness. Then hum. Then there is joy in humming. The songs must not be yours. The songs His—humming yours. The Ganga His, the prana yours. You dance—but in truth, it is He who dances. If you can do this, the first step of bhakti is complete. If not, life is wasted.
Those ears are ears that have heard Your voice.
Those eyes are eyes that have seen Your splendour.
Remember, you are blind if you have not seen the Divine. Deaf if you have not heard the Divine. Lame, crippled if He has not danced in you. Dead, if He has not lived in you.
Those ears are ears that have heard Your voice.
Those eyes are eyes that have seen Your splendour.
In this world what else is worthy of seeing—if not His splendour! And there is only splendour—everywhere His festival! Song upon song being hummed! Flower upon flower blooming! Star upon star rising! But you are blind. A stone lies upon your eyes—the stone of ego. Remove this stone!
What is the point of dancing or singing? What is the point of austerities?
What is the point of washing the feet of the Lord, so long as you have not recognized the essence?
Until you have recognized the tattva hidden in your very innermost, whose feet are you washing? Stone idols! What will come of bathing these feet? These are inventions of pundits and priests—methods of exploitation. In such ways your necks have been cut for centuries; they are still being cut, and will be cut in the future.
And right next door you can find people. To find Buddhas one must go, for such an unprecedented event happens only once in a while—where sky and earth meet, where they are bound in embrace. Buddhahood happens rarely—but pundits and priests will be found in every lane. Even if you do not seek them, they will seek you. Seek one—find a thousand. In truth, even if you do not seek at all, thousands will seek you. And what is near at hand satisfies us. We lack the longing for search inside; there is no aspiration to set out upon a great quest.
The foundation of the ascetic’s castle of striving is this alone—
The mosque was very near; the tavern was far away.
Many thus sit in the mosque. The reason is only this!
The foundation of the ascetic’s castle of striving is this alone—
Many have become renunciates in the temples, have become ascetics in the temples, fasting and vowing. And the total reason? Only this—
The foundation of the ascetic’s castle of striving is this alone—
The mosque was very near; the tavern was far away.
The mosque was next door, and the tavern must be sought. Even to be moved by the tavern you need a touch of madness.
Only drunkards recognize taverns. Those who have sipped a little, to whom a faint taste has come. That taste, from wherever—whether from the morning sun rising, or from the night sky strewn with stars; whether in someone’s love, or in music, in beauty; wherever a glimpse of that taste has been received—those who have tasted, only they can recognize the Buddhas.
Who will know, who will understand the secret of this tattered robe?
O people of insight—among you, is there even one madman?
The poet asks the pundits:
Who will know, who will understand the secret of this torn garment—my madness, my frenzy?
O people of learning!
Among you, O learned ones—do you have even one madman,
So that I might speak to him, something might happen, he might hear and understand?
Pundits cannot recognize Buddhas; simple-hearted people do. The straightforward recognize them. The learned miss; the unlearned recognize. The virtuous miss; the sinners recognize. Why? The virtuous have ego; the sinner’s head is bowed. He is weighed down by his sin. He finds himself helpless, a culprit. He longs for the Lord’s forgiveness. His mistakes are so many—on what strength can he be proud? But the so-called virtuous—who have fasted, vowed, built temples, gone to pilgrimages, bathed in the Ganga—have an ego bejewelled, glittering. They cannot understand.
What is the point of washing the Lord’s feet, so long as you have not recognized the essence?
What is the point of shaving the head? What is the use of pilgrimages and vows?
None of these will do. The root cause must be found. These are surface treatments—plasters and bandages. Your wound is within. Your prana are diseased, your soul lies in a faint. These surface doings cannot heal the within.

The crowd of the town keeps swelling;
The tall pines of resolve keep growing dwarfish;
Nights hang half-naked upon the walls of rooms;
Knots of age twist into ungainly tangles.
Why does this happen day after day?
The cause must now be searched.

A tinned morning and a brass-plated dusk;
A fevered cuckoo and a barren mango-grove;
Wings skinned raw by the desire for freedom;
Winds fumbling like Dhritarashtra’s blind eyes.
Where has the lustre of life gone?
We must search.

Where has man lost his dignity? Where has his lustre gone? The root cause must be sought. And it is not difficult to see. Just a little digging within yourself and the roots of the problem will be found. There is one root: we have become disjoined from ourselves; broken from ourselves; strangers to ourselves!
And one who is a stranger to himself becomes a stranger to all. One who has recognized himself recognizes all. For him even the stranger is no longer stranger, because he sees within the same wave, the same consciousness, the same flame! The lamps may be different, their shapes and colours different; but the flame is one.
But the one who has not seen his own flame—how will he see the flame in another? To him there are moving corpses. He is dead himself and others too seem dead. He lives in a township of corpses.
You may become master or servant, but without recognizing the Supreme Essence—what then?
You may call yourself master and slave before God, beat your head and say, I am Your slave, You my Lord; I Your servant, You my Master—nothing will happen. The recognition of the Supreme Essence has not yet happened. Why? Where that recognition is, there is no difference of I and Thou—who is slave and who is Lord? Who is devotee and who God?

In the temple, while worshipping, Ramakrishna would sometimes offer the bhog to himself. When this became known, people said: What kind of priest is this! This is a sin! The trustees met. They called Ramakrishna: We have heard you, while offering to the Lord, eat the offering yourself! While garlanding Him, you garland yourself! What manner of worship is this?
Ramakrishna said: Does worship have a manner? What a thing to say! Worship is mannerless. It is love. Has love a method? It is a mad delight. When I begin to see that within me and within Him there is only One, then who is garlanding and who is being garlanded—who keeps accounts? He is the one who wears and the one who adorns. He is the one who offers and the one who receives. I am no other, no second.
But who will understand? Some madman might. Someone who has known this frenzy of love might. When such oneness happens—that is bhakti.
Raidas says: Your bhakti is still far; only the very fortunate attain it.
Keep serving, keep calling yourself a slave; keep washing feet—but let me tell you, your bhakti is still far away. The goal is far. You have not taken even the first step. You have not learned to lisp. The journey has not even begun.
Only the very fortunate attain it.
The very fortunate come to bhakti. But the one whose ego has fallen—he delays not. For the fall of ego means: there is no longer any I, nor any Thou.
In the West, Martin Buber wrote a famous book: I and Thou. Among Jewish thinkers of this century he was the greatest; the book is unique in its way. And yet, a fundamental error: Buber believes that prayer is a dialogue between I and Thou. That is the mistake.
Buber is a great thinker, but not a bhakta. If this were said to Raidas, he would laugh: Prayer—a dialogue between I and Thou? Where is there an I and Thou in prayer? There remains no I-Thou; the question of dialogue does not arise. Where there is dialogue, there can be dispute as well—remember. Where there is I and Thou, there can be I-versus-Thou at any moment. As long as I and Thou exist, the possibility of conflict exists. Dialogue can turn into argument in no time. They are not far apart; two faces of one coin.
No—Raidas speaks with more depth and truth than Buber.
Raidas says: Your bhakti is still far; only the very fortunate attain it.
Abandon pride, erase I and the Other.
Drop the pride, drop the I. Erase I and Thou. Centuries before Buber, Raidas declared: as long as ‘mine-ness’ and ‘otherness’ exist, bhakti is not; you are not yet fortunate.
Abandon pride, erase I and the Other; become an ant and pick the sugar.
Have you seen the ant—so small! Mix sugar and sand—the elephant cannot separate them. Place sand and sugar before an elephant; he will stand like a fool. But the ant will separate them, one from the other. The secret of the ant is that she is small—so very small. Her smallness gives her the capacity to see the subtle. In her smallness is the eligibility to recognize the minute.
Where ego is gone, we become as nothing; the ant is still something. Even the ant is, but the bhakta is not even that. Therefore the bhakta gains the capacity to sift the essential from the non-essential; the meaningful from the meaningless; tattva from the non-tattva.
He points out new roads, shows new ways—
I do not know whether this tyrant Love is a robber or a guide.
A question arises before the bhakta: On the path of love upon which I have set out—is it a bandit or a guide? Sometimes it seems a robber, for it is plundering. Whatever wealth I thought mine, whatever I thought I was—it is being looted. And sometimes it seems a guide, for wherever I step aside, some ineffable descends!
He points out new roads, shows new ways.
I do not know whether this tyrant Love is a robber or a guide.
In the beginning the dilemma will remain. It is natural. But if a few steps are taken with courage, with love, you will know: its being a robber is precisely its being a guide. It is a bandit, therefore it is the path-leader.
Abandon pride, erase I and the Other; become an ant and pick the sugar.
Become small—the Divine is for you. Become utterly effaced—and the Divine in its wholeness is yours.
Now we have truly found our homeland and home.
Says Raidas: Thus effaced, I found my home—my very own. A truly abundant home—the home that cannot be snatched; once found, forever. The home that is beginningless and endless.
Now we have truly found our homeland and home. Always my heart loved the highest peak.
It may seem paradoxical, but it is true. Truth is paradoxical. First Raidas says: be utterly effaced. If you are thus effaced, the highest place in existence will be yours.
Always my heart loved the highest peak.
That village highest of all is what my heart has always loved. The summit of Kailash in life, the summit of consciousness beyond which nothing remains—that has always enchanted my heart. The way to it is: become so low that there is nothing lower; then you become so high that there is nothing higher.
The name of that city is Begampur.
He says: The place I have found, the village that is now mine—the name of that village is Begampur—the City-Without-Grief—where there is no sorrow, only bliss.
No worry, no anxiety in that village.
There, in that Divine, there is neither worry nor anxiety, no fear. Fear of what? There is no death. All fears are tethered to death. Anxiety? All anxiety is from insecurity—will what I have today be there tomorrow? Or what I do not have—will I get it? From this anxiety is born. But one who has entered the Divine has gained all—and in such a way that even if you want to lose it, you cannot. The Divine alone is such that once attained, it cannot be lost. So what worry, what fear?
There is no affliction, no curse, no blow.
No regret, no error, no flare of cravings.
Neither does the mind yearn for anything, nor do new entanglements arise. Gone are the days of complications and cravings, of crying and begging. Having met Him, you are made emperor of existence. By losing, you have gained all. By becoming shunya, you have become entitled to the Poorna.
No coming, no going—only Mercy and Being.
There is neither coming nor going there—no birth, no death.
No coming, no going—only Mercy and Being—where the Generous Himself dwells as the Beloved.
There the Divine Himself dwells. There is no coming and going. Being reveals itself in its plenitude. The infinite flower of existence blooms there. A continuous rain of bliss descends—day and night.
Whatever He does, that alone is pleasing.
And now whatever God makes happen is what delights. And whatever you do—He makes it happen. Between you and Him there is no difference now. He causes, you do; you do, He causes.
Whatever He does, that alone is pleasing.
And whatever happens—pleases the heart. It never occurs that it should have happened otherwise. Whatever happens is beloved.
Who will stop you in the inner palace?
You are now the lord of that palace. None will block your way. No guard stops you.
Says Raidas: freed is the tanner of hides.
Says Raidas: Look, I was a pure tanner—and this happened to me; then surely it can happen to you. To me, poor as I was—whose only occupation was to stitch shoes, to haul away dead animals from the village and flay their skins.
Says Raidas: a pure tanner.
I was a pure tanner! Who more lowly than I? The last occupation I held. And yet, these hands touched the house of God—then trust, it will happen to you too.
Whoever enters that city becomes My friend.
But whoever enters that city finds the Beloved. At that gate no one asks whether you are Brahmin or Shudra. Only one thing is asked at the moment of entry: are you? If you say, I am, you fall. If you say, I am not, you also fall—for even to say ‘I am not’ there must be an ‘I’. If you remain silent, if you are silent—for there is none to answer, the question is raised but there is no one to reply—the doors will open for you.
O Ram, where shall I offer worship now?
Says Raidas: What shall I do now? Where shall I offer worship? Who is the worshipped, and who the worshipper? Distances have vanished, separations are gone, difference erased, duality no more.
O Ram, where shall I offer worship now?
O Ram, you tell me now—upon whom shall I pour this worship?
Fruits and unrivalled flowers I do not find.
Even if I wished to worship, where shall I find such flowers worthy of You? Where shall I find such incomparable blossoms?
Fruits and unrivalled flowers I do not find.
Who has entered the realm of the Whole by becoming empty—he meets such difficulties. These are matters far ahead on the path, but it is good to understand; someday they shall be useful. Tie them in a knot.
Know that one is witless and unaccomplished
Who returns sober from the wine-house.
He who returns sober from the tavern—count him unaccomplished, unworthy.
Know that one is witless and unaccomplished
Who returns sober from the wine-house.
From there one should return drunk, drowned, drenched through.
We kept seeing Him as long as we remained in forgetfulness;
Once sober, a veil fell upon our eyes.
To see Him one must learn a slumber, a divine intoxication.
We kept seeing Him as long as we remained in forgetfulness;
Once sober, a veil fell upon our eyes.
As soon as sobriety comes, ego comes. As soon as ‘I’ appears, He departs. So long as I am not, He is—only He is.
Raidas says: You have put me in great difficulty. Now that I have met You—upon whom shall I offer worship? All my life I worshipped! The mind refuses to be satisfied without offering. Earlier I would pluck any flower and offer. I did not know that there is no flower worthy of You. I did not know that the flowers upon the trees are already offered to You—why pluck them and place them at Your feet? Your own flowers, offered to You by me!
How now shall I bring flowers?
The milk at the udder—made impure by the calf.
Earlier I would offer milk; I would cook kheer and offer. Now a great difficulty: shall I offer to You milk licked by the calf?
He is saying: All second-hand utterances—what now? Earlier I would recite Vedic mantras—these are all second-hand; I would recite Gita—second-hand. And within me nothing arises—only silence, silence. Mantras I had learned—Gayatri and Navkar; how shall I offer them now? Those were taught—handed down, stale. How shall I offer You this stale food? Fresh is needed—and whence shall I bring fresh? Only You are fresh; all else is stale.
The flower is already sullied by the bee.
The water is befouled by the fish.
Even if it is Ganga-water, the fish continually defile it. How shall I offer You Ganga-water now? How flowers? The bees have already sullied them. Nothing is found that is not already second-hand.
The sandalwood mountain is besieged by serpents;
Wherever I see amrit, I see poison beside it.
Even the breeze that comes from Malay is venomous. Where there is sandalwood, there are snakes. Wherever I see amrit, poison stands beside it. How shall I grind sandalwood for You when serpents coil upon it?
Mind itself is worship, mind itself is incense.
Therefore now there is but one understanding: mind itself is worship, mind itself is incense. I shall neither offer flowers nor water, nor milk. Now everything is within, not without.
Mind itself is worship, mind itself is incense; with the mind alone I serve the Spontaneous Form.
Now, within, within, I shall serve You, because You are my very form; You are not other than I.
I know not worship and ritual, Yours;
Says Raidas: What will be my lot?
All prayers are forgotten, all the methods of ritual gone.
I know not worship and ritual, Yours. Says Raidas: What will be my fate?
You have entangled me well—says Raidas—what state You have put me in! I was an old devotee—worshipping, reciting, going to temple, offering flowers, waving lamps. What a plight You have made of me! It is a loving complaint—full of intimacy.
Says Raidas: What will be my fate?
This—What plight You have made of me! And also: What will be my destination now, for worship and the rest have ceased.
People sometimes ask me: What meditation do you practice? I think to myself: What will be my fate! I practice none; that is long gone. Whom shall I meditate upon? By what method?
Says Raidas: What will be my fate?
I understand Raidas. People must have asked him: Raidasji, your worship, your ritual—we do not see it; you do not go to the temple!
There is a Sufi tale of Bayazid. His whole life he went to the mosque five times a day to pray. Sick—still he would go. Fever—still he would go. No one had ever seen him miss even one of the five prayers. He never left his village—who knows whether outside there would be a mosque! One morning the villagers came to the mosque—Bayazid was not there. A single thought arose: he must have died in the night. The whole village rushed to Bayazid. He sat beneath a tree, playing a small drum. They asked: Bayazid, in this old age you misbehave? All your life you prayed—what is this now?
Bayazid said: That is exactly what I wonder—what is happening now! What is He making me do! Now, when I go to the mosque He laughs. He says: Going again? Still going? I am here—within you; where are you going? When I begin to pray, He laughs inside. While I did not know Him, I went to the mosque. Now that I have known Him, there is no going or coming. Now, wherever I sit—He is there. Whatever I do is worship. This little drum you hear—that is my namaz now.
The villagers said: He has become a kafir. To call drumming namaz! To say this is the Qur’anic ayah! Corrupted—seems senile.
They went away saddened: poor fellow. And Bayazid must have laughed: are these poor fellows or am I the poor one? When will they wake? When will they be freed from outer temples and mosques?
So this is a statement full of love:
I know not worship and ritual, Yours. Says Raidas: What will be my fate?
What will be my fate!

We must sign our names upon the roses of time,
Even if the palace of this season shatters.
How long will we draw rangolis of words?
In changing currents, everything will be swept away.
Across the sound, into the milky light,
How long will we keep singing with broken conch-shells?
We must inscribe culture upon those blank leaves,
Even if the definitions of the modern must change.
Showing helplessness does not lengthen age;
The sun does not climb the inner terraces.
Wax-plastered walls with ladles in hand—
The crowd wanders; nowhere does a nail find purchase.
We must unmask the sons of the sun,
Even if the sense of colour melts in these pictures.
Who will know the meaning of sickened words?
Who will heed the voice of an incarnate generation?
In venom-laden winds, through wheels of decision,
Who will dare to change the angle of vision and take up war?
We must christen the new crimson dreams,
Even if this realm of feeling goes elsewhere.
Across the sound, into the milky light,
How long will we keep singing with broken conch-shells?
We must unmask the sons of the sun,
Even if the sense of colour melts in these pictures.

How long will you keep blowing conches? How long will you sing man-made songs? How long will you repeat scriptures? All is stale! What is fresh is flowing within you. The stream of consciousness is within. The Ganga flows within. You are the Bhagirath! The Divine abides within you!
Raidas says: If You break the bond, Ram, I shall not.
He says: I do not know worship and ritual. Let whatever be my fate—but one thing I tell You: If You break the bond, Ram, I shall not. You may break the bond with me if You like—for I know no worship, I am a pure tanner; I know not ritual, nor meditation, nor austerity. If You wish, break off your relation with me.
If You break the bond, Ram, I shall not.
But let me tell You, I will not break it. Without my breaking, how will You break? You did not join us—how shall You break? He says this: I joined. Until I myself let go, You cannot break.
If I break from You, with whom shall I join?
Even if You try to persuade me—if I break with You, with whom shall I now join? Who remains? Wherever I look, I see only You.
Ask me anything but this reality—
Why I love You—ask me not.
If He remembers us—whom should we forget?
If we forget Him—whom should we remember?
Raidas speaks rightly: If You want to forget me, forget me—You must be very busy; there are many slaves of slaves. A limitless chain of saints—whom will You remember!
If He remembers us—whom should we forget?
If we forget Him—whom should we remember?
But Raidas says: You, if You wish, forget—You have much to remember; how will You remember my poor name! But for me You are alone. If You remember me, whom shall You forget? And if I forget You, whom shall I remember? For none remains other than You.
If You break the bond, Ram, I shall not; if I break from You, with whom shall I join?
Pilgrimage and vow I shall not do—have no anxiety on that score.
I rely upon Your lotus feet.
I no longer believe that through pilgrimage You will be found, or through vows, or austerities. My devotion is one: Your feet.
Either remain within as Your own home,
Or do not make my heart Your home at all.
A bhakta speaks directly to God; he keeps nothing back.
Either remain within as Your own home,
Or do not make my heart Your home at all.
But now it is too late. You have already taken residence. Now You must remain. And I shall not do worship; I shall not vow; all these procedures are beyond me.
Raidas says: I am a simple man; I cannot manage these saintly businesses. I shall keep stitching shoes and selling them—and rely upon Your lotus feet.
Wherever I go, it is Your worship.
Now please take it thus—if You still worry that I do not worship—wherever I walk, consider it Your circumambulation.
Wherever I go, it is Your worship. There is no god other than You.
I know this much: You alone are the God, the Divinity, the breath in this existence. Only this I know. Therefore wherever I go—it is Your worship.
I have joined my mind to Hari.
I have yoked my mind to the Robber.
Joining with Hari, I cut all other bonds.
And the day the mind joined You, it severed from all else—for none remained; only You.
At every hour I wait for You.
By mind, by deed, by word—so says Raidas.
I say it in my totality: twenty-four hours, only Your tune plays. Not that I remember You—it is that remembrance happens.
The veil rose from the Beloved’s face—
And after that there was no news, what to say of what I saw.
Only You are visible. Since Your veil lifted, I have found that You are the whole existence.
The veil rose from the Beloved’s face—
That much I remember: the veil lifting from the beloved’s face. This much alone remains in memory. The last thing remembered.
The veil rose from the Beloved’s face—
After that there was no news—no consciousness—I was not. What was seen cannot be said. This I can say: twenty-four hours You surround me; outside You, inside You. You are the ocean; I am the fish.

Do not thresh what is husk, O someone.
Whatever you thresh—let it be that which holds the grain.
This body is husk, this maya is husk.
Without Hari, life is wasted—husk.
A pundit who is husk, a speech that is husk.
Without Hari—every story is husk.

He says: Whatever is husk—winnow it out. Women winnow rice; rice remains; husk blows away.
Do not thresh what is husk, O someone.
He says: Let someone understand, at least one—what is husk, winnow it away.
Whatever you thresh, let it be that which holds the grain.
Let the futile go; save the kernel within. Save the soul within. Let Hindu go, Muslim go, Christian go—but save the soul of religion. Let Gita go, Koran go, Bible go—but save the voice of the inner being. Save Self-knowing.
This body is husk, this maya is husk.
Here the husk is abundant. The body is husk—here now, gone now. Soon ash. Do not clutch it. If you clutch husk—you remain husk. Whatever you clutch, that you become.
This body is husk, this maya is husk.
And the web you have woven of attachments and dreams—husk. Death arrives from one side; everything will lie here. How much calculation, how much bustle, how many quarrels—and all lies here!
I knew a gentleman whose life passed in court. Slowly, the court became his home. To find him—go to court. If any work—find him in court. Lawsuit upon lawsuit. Soon lawsuit itself became his habit; even if there were none, he would go to listen to others’ cases—what is happening today? What case? What verdict? He knew more law than the lawyers. He would tell the lawyers—this is wrong; this section applies. All sections by heart.
Then he fell ill, a heart attack. I went to see him. I asked: Tell me one thing: you will die—what of the court then? He said: What kind of question! I said: Will you come as a ghost to court? How will you leave it? And you have wasted your life in court—what are you taking with you? I asked: What are you taking with you?
Tears fell from his eyes. He said: Why didn’t you say earlier? I said: I did, but you did not listen. Many have said; whose did you listen to? You say—why not earlier? Now you are annoyed that I have come when time is gone.
And I said: You were such… People feared even to greet you, for if they greeted, you might later summon them as witnesses: On such a day in the morning, did you not greet me? Meaning—I was in town that day, not outside. People feared to greet him lest they be dragged as a witness.
People feared you so much. If I had told you—leave these lawsuits, leave this court-brawling, there is no essence, you are wasting your life, wasting others’ time, for every petty thing you raise a case—would you have listened? Most likely you would have dragged me too as a witness.
This body is husk, this maya is husk. Without Hari, life is wasted—husk.
Remember: if in life no relation with Hari is forged, if no bond with Ram is tied, life is wasted. Whatever you attain—position, prestige, wealth—will be left here. The rich man’s death is not rich, nor the poor man’s death poor; both go empty-handed. In these four days—winnow the futile!
Do not thresh what is husk, O someone.
Raidas speaks from deep pain: at least let someone hear! Do this much: sift away the futile, keep the grain.
A pundit who is husk, a speech that is husk.
And not only worldly people are husk; pundits are husk, their speech is husk.
Someone asked me: Why do you call Muni Nathmal ‘Muni Thothumal (Mr. Husk)’?
What can I do? Ask Raidas. I found ‘Thothumal’ in the words of Raidas. One who spends his life in husk—Thothumal. Even if he becomes a monk—no difference. He continues the same business there.
A pundit who is husk, a speech that is husk.
Pundits are husk. What is their scholarship? Gramophone records. And such records as are worn-out—the needle sticks.
I heard: for the first time an airplane without a pilot—no pilots, no hostesses, all automatic. Wealthy people paid extra for tickets—the first experience of a fully automatic plane. The plane took off. From the cockpit—now empty—a voice came on the mic: Relax, undo your belts, do not worry. Do not fear that there is no pilot. No mistake can happen, no mistake can happen, no mistake can happen… The needle stuck. Imagine the panic—already a mistake! Hanging in the sky; and none to complain to. The needle stuck.
Such are your pundits. Someone stuck on a couplet of Tulsidas—he repeats it endlessly. Gramophone records—worn-out. And you have seen on HMV records the picture: a dog sits before a horn—His Master’s Voice. That is your punditry: His Master’s Voice. Where the master went—who knows! But his voice remains. One repeats the Vedas, one the Gita, one the Koran. They do not know what they are saying. They have learned it. They parrot it word for word.
Such are called ‘husk’ by Raidas. Husk means—without self-experience, the talk of knowledge is mere babble.
A pundit who is husk, a speech that is husk. Without Hari—every story is husk.
Without Ram, whatever you do, whatever you say—is husk.

In everyone’s creation the meaning of life is very dim;
Therefore we are followers of all—true and false.
We have lost the habit of speaking living words;
The designations of the inner dialogue are broken.
Somehow we get by;
The world has looted all the languages of the heart.
In everyone’s images the earth’s face has changed so much;
Therefore we follow both East and West.
I have no thirst now to dam the river’s banks;
No faith in sending reports sometimes.
We while away time in this and that talk;
The soiled sheet of the mind has no history.
The questions imposed upon everyone’s talent are very shallow;
Therefore we keep becoming everyone’s follower in passing.

Ask yourself—whose words have you been believing?
In everyone’s creation the meaning of life is very dim;
Therefore we are followers of all—true and false.
We have no discrimination between true and false. The wakefulness that discerns is not yet ours. Therefore thousands of hypocrisies run, and people are easily trapped. People are trapped—that is why hypocrisy runs. People run it. Responsibility is the people’s.
Have you ever thought whether the pundit whose words you hear—has any connection between his words and his life? Have you peered into his life to see whether he has experienced what he says? Is this speech soaked in experience—or borrowed? If you look even that much—Do not thresh the husk, O someone—you will winnow away the husk.
Whatever you thresh—let it be that which holds the grain.
And you will save what is within.
Now the situation is such that ninety-nine of a hundred explainers have no understanding themselves. But they are skilful at explaining.
A Jain monk came to discuss with me. He said: You do something amazing; you speak every day! I have four lectures prepared—one of ten minutes, one of twenty, one of thirty, one of forty. Wherever the time fits, I deliver that lecture. And I do not stay more than four days in any village.
I said: Now I know why Mahavira ordained that a monk should not stay more than four days in a place. I had not understood this sutra; today you have given me the living commentary. Seeing poor fellows like you, he must have said—no more than four days; for if you repeat the same lecture, people will say—what is this? Better to move to the next village.
I said: If your lectures flow from experience, why this preparation of ten and twenty and thirty and forty minutes? The listener’s heart is present, the speaker’s experience present; their meeting—something will happen.
I said: I alone am not responsible when I speak. In my speaking only half is mine; half belongs to the listener. We are partners.
Therefore I stopped travelling. New people daily—no sense, no understanding; never thought, never meditated—talking with them became difficult. To talk to them, I would have to descend to their plane. So I decided to sit in one place. Slowly, my listeners too will sit. Then something will happen. The speaker and the listener will both dissolve; out of that dissolving some speech will rise; out of that silence, some buds of word will sprout.
That! Thus are the Upanishads born; thus the Vedas, the Korans! These are not lectures. The Upanishads are not the words of husk-pundits—nor the Koran, nor the Bible, nor the Dhammapada. They were spoken by those who knew—and as they knew. But listeners change. Those to whom Buddha spoke—where are they now! Therefore the Dhammapada is not of much use to you. It must be reinterpreted, redressed, reclothed, given a new body; then you will understand—otherwise not.
Two thousand years have passed since Jesus. What he spoke was an unprecedented event between him and his listeners. To revive it—how can one repeat the same words? No. Create the same setting: someone like Jesus, and listeners like those of Jesus—then the Bible will be reborn. The language will be different, the symbols different—but that toward which the finger points is the same—always the same.
Temples are husk—orgies of indulgence. Husk are those hopes upon other gods.
True remembrance—faith in the Name. By mind, word and deed—so says Raidas.
Raidas says: Husks are your temples; husks your mosques; husks your indulgences; husks your hopes that you tie in temples. The more a rumour spreads that a temple fulfils desires, the more offerings increase.
In the South there is the temple of Tirupati. It has outdone Kashi. Prayag has faded. Puri—few go. Why? Because Tirupati grasped your psychology. Tirupati claims: whatever you ask here, you will receive. And it made a unique claim: In Kashi or Vishwanath you will also receive—but in the next world; in Tirupati—in this very world!
Who cares for the next world! Who knows whether it will be given! And if it is given in the next world—who can wait so long! People want—now, here, cash! Tirupati was clever—their advertisement is superb: here and now. Therefore offerings at Tirupati exceed any temple in the world—two and a half lakh rupees per day on average. Why are people crazy? Then they invented new tricks. Once the formula of business was found, new tricks came. Whoever shaves his head outside Tirupati—he gains great merit; his moksha is certain!
So if you want rewards in this world, you must pay in this world’s coin—natural. For the other world—other methods: shave your head.
But you know—men shave, women too; all that hair is sold—for crores per year. It is a hair-trade. These fools shave and go home; they do not know their hair is sold. In the West hair is in demand; wigs are made; people want hair black and long—even in old age. Women want long hair. Crores of rupees of hair are sold from Tirupati.
And for those who want laddus in the other world—Tirupati sells laddus—three rupees each. A three-anna laddu sold for three rupees—and that too rarely found. Offer that laddu to Tirupati; it returns to the shop—where else will it go! From there it is sold again. A single laddu is sold lakhs of times.
In front of every temple there are shops of rotten coconuts. Rotten—because they are ancient. Daily they are offered; nightly they return to the shop. So coconuts’ prices in the world have risen—but at temple shops they remain five annas. Everything else has grown wings to the sky—but these rotten coconuts have nothing inside; they have been offered for ages. Their only work: be offered in the morning, return at night; again in the morning, return at night.
How long will you be entangled in husk and keep hoping like this! No deity will fulfil your hopes—not Tirupati’s, not Puri’s, not Kashi’s. In truth, hope itself is the world. Because of your hoping these worldly gods stand. Drop hope. Freedom from hope is moksha. Only one who drops ego can drop hope; for hope is the shadow of ego, of desire, of craving.
The sutras of Raidas are dear. Only one thing is worth doing—true remembrance, faith in the Name. Remember the Divine—that alone is true devotion. By mind, by word, and by deed—so says Raidas, and so say I.
Enough for today.