Man Hi Pooja Man Hi Dhoop #9

Darkness keeps sowing seeds
Pains smolder in the wet earth
I watch the skin crack, pore by pore
Only this little glimmer
let it stay in my eyes
You who proclaim the sun as scarlet!
You who parade the sunflowers!!
There is no meaning, none at all,
of this language broken right from “Aum”
so that I may tear silence to shreds—
only this little clamor of dawn
let me breathe it into my breath
You who fence in the range of voice!
You who post guards at the gates!!
From corridors to crossroads
there is no real journey
Let me weave my own sky
only this much is my seeking
let me fill wings into my ribs
You who tie up my direction!
You who measure me the distance!!

Man is born with the vast as his potential—yet he remains petty. He is born to become an ocean, and cannot even become a drop. This is the ache, the anguish—this is the sorrow. This is the hell of human life.

We arrive carrying seeds—seeds of lotus, that the sky might be filled with their fragrance; and yet we remain seeds. The sprout never breaks open; the flower—very far, very far! Society, the state, traditions, rigidities bind man in such a way that unless there is tireless effort to be free, a flaming longing to break all bounds and soar beyond—until then, this becoming-an-ocean remains a mere dream.

And remember well: until you become an ocean there is no fulfillment. Fulfillment has only one meaning—to become what you were born to be.

Man is the seed of Paramatma. And on every side there are hindrances. Every side conspires that the seed not break, for vested interests are afraid. If you begin to become divine, you can no longer be enslaved, nor exploited, nor engaged in foolish acts; you can no longer be labeled Hindu, Muslim, Christian; nor Indian, Pakistani, Chinese. No adjective clings to Paramatma.

Hence the so-called society, its custodians, bind you from every side—beginning from childhood. They weave such a net around you that you don’t even remember you are walking trapped in a net; that you are a fish caught from birth, who has started to take the net itself as life.

From corridors to crossroads
there is no real journey
Let me weave my own sky
only this much is my seeking
let me fill wings into my ribs
You who tie up my direction!
You who measure me the distance!!

There are pundits, priests, ritualists, politicians—all saying: Paramatma is very far, so far you cannot attain him; it will take births upon births. There are some who say: there is no God at all, so the question of attaining does not arise. Some push him so far that he becomes equal to non-being. But all seek to solidify in your mind that what you are is plenty enough—no hope to be more.

Darkness keeps sowing seeds
Pains smolder in the wet earth
I watch the skin crack, pore by pore
Only this little glimmer
let it stay in my eyes
You who proclaim the sun as scarlet!
You who parade the sunflowers!!

They speak of a distant sun; but if in your eyes even a faint possibility of light appears, it is instantly extinguished.

There is no meaning, none at all
of this language broken right from “Aum”
so that I may tear silence to shreds—
only this little clamor of dawn
let me breathe it into my breath
You who fence in the range of voice!
You who post guards at the gates!!

Your tones are shackled from all sides. You are not free to speak what your inner soul wishes to utter. You are made to utter what the vested interests of society want you to say. You are shown only what serves their profit that you should see. You are kept deprived of truth; a whole arrangement ensures it.

Therefore it is a miracle that once in a while someone—some Kabir, some Raidas, some Farid—slips free of your net! He opens his eyes, he fills his inner sky with the whole sky! He plucks at the veena-strings of his heart! He breaks into the song for which he was born! The limits must be dropped. These guards you’ve posted must be left behind.

You yourself are the guide, yourself the bugle of departure, yourself the destination—
O traveler! Then how long this taqlid-e-amir-e-karavan?
How long will you walk behind others?
O traveler! How long this taqlid-e-amir-e-karavan!
How long will you follow those who claim to lead the caravan? They themselves don’t know where they go. Look into their eyes—no lamps burn there. Seek in their life-breath—no fragrance arising, none at all. They themselves have not bloomed. Don’t be caught in their promises. They are adept only in promising.

You yourself are the guide…
You yourself are the bugle of going forth, you yourself the destination.
O traveler! How long this taqlid-e-amir-e-karavan!
How long will you live by others’ dictates? Free yourself from the whole tangle—traditions and tracks!

Successful at every step is he
who is freed from the imitation of the caravan.

Only those few in this world have reached their destination who broke free of the blind conformity of the troupe.

Successful at every step is he…
And it is not that the destination is far; the destination is at every step.

Successful at every step is he
who is freed from the imitation of the caravan.

Who is freed from society’s rigidities, blindnesses, superstitions—such a one surely becomes capable of arriving. These fakirs are revolutionaries. In their words are embers, sparks. If only you would let them fall into your life-breath—you too would flare up, you too would blaze! Otherwise life will pass as it is. Morning will come, evening will fall, and swinging between morning and evening, life will be spent.

The string of dreams slipped from my hands
Dawn drowned in possible questions.
From the fog who knows when the essence will emerge?
What will come of piling argument upon argument?
The mindless clamor of aged conjectures—
Dawn drowned in possible questions.

Across the orient the colors spread in vain.
Uninvited words were given meanings—
Another watch passed without a wager—
Dawn drowned in possible questions.

Quietly the sun slid into the courtyard—
On the twig of recognition, a form blossomed.
The torn ends of broken contexts were joined—
Dawn drowned in possible questions.

The morning of life gets spent in futile questions. Half of life goes in useless argument, useless thinking, useless ambitions and desires. The remainder—in repentance. Such a four-day life: two days go to empty enterprises—money, position, prestige, ego; the other two pass in remorse—what have I done! What did I make of myself! What self-destruction! And now death begins knocking at the door.

It is a life of four days—very short! Yet this short life could become a gateway to the great—gateways are small! This little life could have been made a temple-door where meeting with the vast happens. But you go on gathering pebbles outside the door! You keep entangling yourself in trivialities just outside the threshold!

In thorn-like tangles,
under autumn-rough skies—
one evening had faded,
another faded again.

Each day is fading. Life-energy slips from the hand, keeps slipping. Soon you will find nothing left in your palm. Then much regret—yet when time is gone, what will regret do? To weep then is futile. Weep in time and the tears become pearls. Laugh out of season and even laughter cannot do the work of tears; laughter cannot become pearls. And far from laughter—only regret remains in the end—eyes wet and desolate!

In thorn-like tangles,
under autumn-rough skies—
one evening had faded,
another faded again.

On water—a drowsy stillness of ripples—
on trees—the flowers showed their wounds.
Leaves of the pipal shivered on every bough—
The wind that shared the scent of pain ran dry.

Like a spider’s web, the mind entangled—
Even closeness grew heavy—
Little dwarf-feet trudged—
Shadows crawled lane to lane—
Withered desires yellowed one more time.

The heaviness of mind dissolved into emptiness.
The next second sowed all of yesterday’s anxieties.
Life rolls on the rails of breath—
Half already turned bitter,
the other half turning bitter still.

Thus you will turn bitter, thus empty! Until you call to the Lord, you will come empty and go empty. You came empty so that you might go filled. Man comes empty in order to fill this life with flowers. Few go filled. Only those who go filled have lived. They alone gathered wealth from life’s celebration.

Wake up while there is time. There is still time; you can wake. These sutras of Raidas can work as an awakening. They can wake the sleeping; they can wake even those deluded that they are awake.

They wake those sleeping along the path, O trumpet of departure!
Those who sleep while walking—they too are known how to be awakened.

The saints have one message—how to wake the awakened? They are not awake; they are in the delusion of wakefulness. Yet it is easy to wake one who knows he sleeps, for he accepts it. But to wake one who is asleep and dreaming that he is awake is very difficult. Thus it is hardest to wake the pundits, the so-called knowers. The ignorant wants to wake, for ignorance hurts; knowledge gratifies the ego.

This world has an entire arrangement to make you a pundit. Schools, colleges, universities; Vedas, Quran, Bibles—a whole apparatus to make you learned. Before you can taste even a drop of God, so much nonsense is stuffed into you about God that the very way of tasting is lost.

These sutras are not the pundit’s. The pundit cannot give sutras; his statements are hollow. One like Raidas gives sutras. Sutra means the quintessence—compressed, distilled, attar.

Ab kaise chutai nam-rat lagi.

On one side are those who ask: how to chant the Name? how to do bhajan? how to meditate? how to sing kirtan? how to worship? how to offer? And Raidas says: my trouble is quite different. Mine is: now how can it ever stop! The Name has gripped me. Even if I want it to cease for a while, it will not cease.

I had a teacher in the university—a philosopher, old, a lovable man—and, as philosophers are, a bit eccentric. For years no student would enroll in his class; they couldn’t adjust to his eccentricity. Three years had passed without a single student. When I enrolled, he asked me: are you eccentric too? People don’t enroll in my class. Let me tell you my conditions. My first condition: I do begin when the bell rings, but when the closing bell rings, I do not end—I cannot, not until I have poured out my heart. So sometimes two hours, sometimes three, sometimes four or five. If you need to leave, slip out quietly—no need to ask. If you’re thirsty, go drink, return. I will go on speaking; even if you’re not there, I will go on.

I did not believe him. The first day I tested him. After about an hour I slipped out, stood by the window—he went on speaking. Later I asked: what’s the secret? No one was listening and yet you went on!

He said: what I speak gives me such delight in listening that how can I stop! In his class I would sometimes fall asleep—four hours is much—but he continued. Slowly he loved me deeply. I told him: don’t be angry; I have a condition too. I must sleep in the afternoon daily. When my sleep-time arrives, I will sleep. You keep speaking—just a bit softly so my sleep is not disturbed.

He said: agreed. You keep my condition; I’ll keep yours. And he did. Then our bond grew deep—two eccentrics found each other! He said: do you live in the hostel? I live alone—never married—and I have a large bungalow. You should live with me.

I went. When we arrived he said: one thing—every night I get up at two to play guitar. Till now no one lived with me, so there was no need to tell. I chose a bungalow far from the university so neighbours won’t be troubled. Now you’ll live here, but at two I will play guitar.

I said: let’s see. He rose at two sharp and played—an electric guitar—sleep impossible. Next day I told him my habit too: from seven in the evening till two I read aloud—very loud. He said: that’s trouble, because I sleep till two and then get up to play guitar. I said: as you wish. I read so loud in the next room that at two he said: all right, let’s compromise—neither will I play guitar, nor will you read so loud—so both of us can sleep.

He was a dear man. And I loved one thing in him: when I begin to speak I forget whether anyone listens or not—an undercurrent starts flowing within!

There was something of the saint in him; he was not only a pundit or a professor. Something lived, something known, some experience happened. The more I stayed near him, the clearer it became.

Raidas says:
Ab kaise chutai nam-rat lagi.

Someone must have asked: how to chant Ram? how to remember? I try, but it slips away. For a moment or two I remember; then forget. The rosary turns mechanically in the hand, the mind wanders. In answer Raidas says: your trouble is yours; mine is this—now how can the Name ever leave me!

Even if I don’t speak it, it resounds.

Mantra-science has four steps. The first—where most remain—is utterance by the lips: Ram, Ram, Ram, or any mantra—Allah, Allah—whatever you love, even your own name.

The great English poet Tennyson writes in his memoirs: from childhood—how it began I don’t even recall—at night I was scared and my mother would leave me alone in my room, as is the European custom, to make children courageous. In the dark and alone I found nothing better than to chant my own name aloud—Tennyson, Tennyson. It felt as if someone were calling me—two, not one.

You do it too—walking a dark alley, you whistle or sing a film song. Hearing your own sound you forget the darkness, the loneliness. The whistle gives you courage—you yourself whistle, yet you feel empowered.

Thus Tennyson took his own name. But a secret fell into his hands. Repeating long, a rhythm set in, a intoxication descended—and fear vanished. He had found a mantra, unawares. He used it all his life. Whenever he found solitude, he repeated his name; within five to seven minutes he entered another realm. Whatever joy, peace, bliss I have known, he says, I knew in those moments of total absorption.

The first step is on the lips. But if it remains only on the lips, it is futile—as one climbs the first stair and sits there. The stair is not the temple. Without stairs you cannot reach, but the stairs are not the temple—beyond them you must go.

The second step: the utterance descends to the throat; the lips do not move. The throat becomes absorbed. Some stop at the second. There too juice begins to flow—and where juice flows there is danger. You feel: stay, drink more. But if a Guru is available he will urge: further! If here there is so much rasa, just imagine further—there are oceans of rasa.

The third step: not even the throat—only the heart intones. Only the bhava of Ram-Ram in the heart.

These three are gross steps. With the fourth the doorway opens. The fourth: no utterance at all—no effort on your part. That is what Raidas speaks of.

Ab kaise chutai nam-rat lagi.

No effort of yours, no doing. You are not doing japa, bhajan, or kirtan. Within, kirtan is happening; the Name is being chanted. You sit, a mere witness—and within something goes on of its own accord.

Early on you will ask: how can it happen by itself?

How does breath go on by itself? How does blood flow on its own? Are you directing it—now left, now right; now hand, now head, now foot? Blood flows twenty-four hours. You eat—who digests? Food digests by itself. Do you breathe thoughtfully? If you had to, there would be no one left alive. At night, sleep—and you forget. Involved in work—you forget.

Yet breath continues. Even if you are unconscious, drunk on the roadside—breath goes on. Those who fall into coma—one woman I visited—nine months in coma, no awareness at all; yet breathing continued.

So you do not run breath, nor blood, nor digestion. All happens by itself. In the same way, the Name begins to repeat itself. When it is spontaneous, its bliss is incomparable. Then even if you try to stop, you cannot—just as you cannot stop your breath. Hold it in and it forces out; hold out and it forces in. For a moment you may succeed—but with great pain—and finally you must surrender to it.

Thus, in the fourth stage, remembrance of the Lord happens. The saints have called this fourth—surati. You remain only a witness—you just see whatever is happening. Then let a thousand works engage you, nothing changes; within a subterranean stream flows—a continuous remembrance—wordless, beyond speech—only bhava.

Ab kaise chutai nam-rat lagi.

Prabhuji, tum chandan, ham pani—
Jaki ang-ang bas samani.

Raidas says: now I begin to understand—you are sandalwood, I am water. Place sandalwood in water and its fragrance pervades every particle of water.

Jaki ang-ang bas samani—
You have entered me as sandal’s scent enters water. Now there is no way to separate.

When there remains no way to separate Paramatma, know you have found him. As long as separation is possible, know he is not found—only imagined. For imagination can be separated; Paramatma cannot.

What shall I do with mere songs of love?
If you meet me, beloved, eyes will meet eyes.
If you meet, life will bathe in rasa.
I’ll wash my eyes with tears and then anoint them.
Where are you hidden, my love, in what abyss?
O Lord sunk in silence—where shall I seek you?
You are in nectar and in poison, in fire and in flower—
Come dwell in my heart and I will worship you.
Become my thirst and enter my heart, beloved—
Become my tears and enter my heart—
Become a song dearer than breath and stir—
Beloved, I will offer my life to you.

Such a wonder can happen—when every breath is filled with his scent, his fragrance.

In temples for centuries we valued sandalwood—only a symbol. Symbols sometimes become so important that we forget what they symbolize. Like a milestone—someone clings to it thinking the destination has arrived. The milestone is not the destination, but an arrow pointing—go further. Those who first discovered sandal and made it part of worship, who placed tilak of sandal on the brow, must have done so from an experience like that of Raidas.

Prabhuji, tum chandan, ham pani. Jaki ang-ang bas samani.

But then…we forget. We are forgetful. Even the most beautiful symbol becomes meaningless in our hands. Sandal is applied on the third eye—it is only a symbol, saying: the Lord should pervade your third eye as sandal’s cool fragrance. But we just put it on from outside and the work is done. Women place a tika on the third eye—symbol that the one you love should permeate to your third eye—then it is love. Why to the third eye? Because the third eye marks the boundary of the world; beyond, Brahman is. The third eye is the sixth center; beyond it is the seventh—Sahasrar—the gate of liberation. There neither lover nor beloved remains, neither bhakta nor Bhagavan. But up to the sixth the remembrance remains.

If you love, it should be such that even in your third eye you behold him—not only his body, but his soul. Two eyes we have—they see only body. Love born of them—what sort of love is that? Only lust in another name. But hidden between them is a third eye—Shiva’s eye. When with that you see, there is love. With the third eye joined to a person, you join soul to soul and become one. See your beloved from there and your love becomes prayer. And the Guru can be seen only from there—these flesh-eyes cannot see; they can only see skin—their limit. Within you is an invisible seeing—only the invisible can see the invisible.

Women have placed the tika on the third eye—but the tika is there and the quarrel with the husband continues! Such has been the fate of our symbols. We go to the temple, apply sandal on the brow, feel a coolness, and return home!

On your third eye the Lord should become as sandal’s fragrance. And why choose sandal? For many reasons. It is the one tree round which poisonous serpents coil, yet cannot poison it. Sandal never becomes toxic—serpents might become fragrant—but sandal does not become venomous.

So is this world—filled with poison. You must live like sandal here. Let it not poison you—so should your witnessing be. Even if you pass through mud, let it not touch you. This world is a coal-cellar; you must pass through—it is necessary; some schooling is essential. But pass as Kabir passed, as Raidas passed.

Kabir says: “I returned the cloth just as it was!” With great care, Kabir says, I wore it; I passed through this coal-cellar smutty with soot, yet returned the cloth to God as he had given it—unstained.

With witnessing you can pass thus through the world. I call passing through the world with witnessing—sannyas. Become like sandal—that is sannyas.

Prabhuji, tum chandan, ham pani. Jaki ang-ang bas samani.

On life’s veena, beloved,
let me sing your songs today.
Let me gaze upon you with my eyes,
hide you beneath my lashes.
Songs of the heart, love of the mind,
O treasure of my tears and breath—
Kissing you, beloved,
I’ll enthrone you in the temple of my heart.
Pluck my life’s veena, beloved!
I will call you always.
Stringing the rubies of my eyes,
I will garland you with love.

If you call, one day the call will be heard. Day and night if you call, one day you yourself become the call. Early or late may happen—there is no injustice. Do not hurry, do not be impatient. The work is so great that even if it ripens over births, it is soon; these are not weeds—these are plants of love and prayer, saplings that touch the moon and stars, plants that fill the heaven. Whenever, however long they take to blossom—when flowers load them—know it is soon; know it is still morning.

If you rush, you will miss. The impatient prayer remains on the lips. With a little patience it reaches the throat. With more, it reaches the heart. With infinite patience, prayer becomes the soul. When prayer becomes the soul, then it cannot be left.

Ab kaise chutai nam-rat lagi.
Prabhuji, tum chandan, ham pani. Jaki ang-ang bas samani.

Prabhuji, tum ghan-ban, ham mora—
As the peacock dances when the monsoon’s dark clouds gather.

Raidas says: you have spread like dense clouds and I am a peacock—I have danced.

One who hears the ceaseless sound of the Lord within begins to see Paramatma everywhere—in trees, mountains, moon and stars, in people, animals, birds. Surrounded by God on all sides—if he does not dance like the peacock, who will?

Prabhuji, tum ghan-ban, ham mora. Jaise chitvan chand chakora—
His eyes are like the chakora’s fixed on the moon—so they rest on God. Yes, one difference—the chakora does not take his eyes off the moon; the meditator could not take his off even if he wished, for wherever he turns he sees only God—his moon everywhere. On every pebble his sound, on every leaf his signature. The poet’s chakora never tires; the real chakora might. He might sulk or complain: how long shall I keep looking?

But the symbol of the chakora is used not only by poets; the rishis use it too—it is a dear symbol. The chakora stares at the moon—single-pointed; the world disappears—only the moon remains. Just so the devotee. He does not forget the rest—rather, all becomes moon. Wherever he looks, he finds only That—only Paramatma.

Prabhuji, tum deepak, ham bati—
Jaki jyoti barai din-rati.

Sweet, simple words of Raidas—simple yet so sweet.

O Lord, you are the lamp, I the wick. If only I may be of use to your flame—that is enough. If only I serve to spread your light—that is enough. This is my blessedness—that I become the wick in your lamp. To be consumed for you is fortune; to live for myself is not even fortune—rather misfortune, hell. To be consumed for you is blessedness—heaven.

Prabhuji, tum deepak, ham bati. Jaki jyoti barai din-rati.

And the one who becomes wick for God knows a unique secret—the wick does not burn away—it is eternal flame.

Jaki jyoti barai din-rati—
Day and night it burns—eternally! He belongs to the eternal, not the fleeting. To join with him is to become eternal. As a drop falls into the ocean and becomes the ocean, so one who joins with God—by any device—by becoming a wick, a drop, a chakora—it matters not how—but the moment you join God, time ceases. You enter the Eternal—without beginning, without end.

Jaki jyoti barai din-rati.

Prabhuji, tum moti, ham dhaga—

Tiny symbols, but full of meaning, full of rasa.

O Lord, you are the pearl; make me the thread. Let me serve so far as to string your garland. You are priceless; what worth am I! What is the value of thread? But thread gains value when it strings pearls.

Jaise sonahin milat suhaga—
What value has borax alone? But when it joins gold, it shares its worth.

Prabhuji, tum swami, ham dasa—
You are the master. The Sufis gave God a hundred names; the dearest among them—Ya Malik!—you are the Master; we are naught, the dust of your feet.

Prabhuji, tum swami, ham dasa. Aisi bhakti karai Raidas.

This is our bhakti—that we become thread to your pearl; that we become wick to your flame; that you are master, we your servants—this is all our devotion. We do not know the scriptures of devotion—the nine-fold bhakti, the elaborate rituals of worship and sacrifice. We know nothing. We are ready to be thread—your pearl is already there; what loss could be yours—let us be thread. And you are sandalwood already; we are water—let your fragrance pervade us—that is all. You are the flame; you do need wicks, don’t you? We are ready to be your wick.

Somewhere lightning, somewhere pruning, somewhere the hunter’s snare—
How will the branch of the nest ever flourish in this garden?

In this world hardly anyone blooms—it is difficult to bloom. Even if you build a nest, how will it survive? Who knows when lightning will strike? Somewhere a hunter waits; somewhere his net is spread. Here there are only traps upon traps.

Somewhere lightning, somewhere pruning, somewhere the hunter’s snare—
How will the branch of the nest ever flourish in this garden?

The gardener comes to pluck buds; here it is difficult to be a flower. Lightning flashes—some poor bird’s nest burns. The fowler spreads his net—the bird’s wings are shorn. Nets everywhere.

Somewhere lightning, somewhere pruning, somewhere the hunter’s snare—
How will the branch of the nest ever flourish in this garden?

It is hard to make a home in this world. None ever has. If you must build a home, build it in God—there there is no danger. No hunter, no snare, no lightning. No death, no disease, no old age. Eternal youth, eternal beauty—the realm of nectar!

Prabhuji, tum sangati, saran tihari—

Therefore Raidas says: having seen and understood all, I have decided—if I am to keep company, it will be yours. In this world nothing else is worthy of companionship.

Prabhuji, tum sangati, saran tihari—

You alone are my company; all other companies fall away. Who accompanies whom here? For how long? When will the roads fork, when the turn come? When do you go your way, when does your companion go his? No one knows. Every moment a turning; every second the possibility of separation. Hence lovers always fear separation—for separation hangs every moment like a naked sword on a frayed thread. When will it fall and sever the neck—no one knows. Who has kept company forever here? If you must befriend, befriend the Divine—companionship that is eternal. Once forged, it never ends. Do not build houses of sand—you have built many and many have crumbled.

Prabhuji, tum sangati, saran tihari—

If you wish his company there is one art, one sutra—surrender. Take refuge—become a no-thing—die. Say: I am not; only You are! This is the secret of companionship with Him—this is the bargain, His condition.

Kabir said: the lane of love is very narrow—two cannot walk together there. If you remain, God will not. If you want God to remain, erase yourself.

Prabhuji, tum sangati, saran tihari. Jag-jivan Ram Murari—

You are everywhere, the life of the world; you are Ram, you are Krishna—your forms are all. But you become visible only to the one who erases himself, who knows the essence of surrender.

Gali-gali ko jal bahi ayo, sursari jai samayo—

You see daily—the water from alleys and drains, all reaches Ganga; all reaches the ocean.

Gali-gali ko jal bahi ayo, sursari jai samayo.
Sangati ke paratap mahatam, nam gangodak payo—

It was gutter-water, but meeting Ganga, it became Ganga-water. Such is the glory of company! You become whom you sit with. Sit near the Sadguru and light will arise within you.

The word “Guru” is dear. In none of the world’s languages is there a word like it. Others have teacher, instructor, acharya—but no equal to Guru. For the experience of Guru is Eastern, quintessentially Indian. Guru—gu means darkness; ru means remover. Guru—the remover of darkness; the lamp that dispels the night. Join the light—you become light.

Do you not see? Every day the dirty water of drains becomes Ganga in Ganga. You see and yet remain blind!

Sangati ke paratap mahatam, nam gangodak payo.

Even gutter-water when it meets Ganga—the difference vanishes; Ganga makes it pure. The Sadguru places no conditions, does not say his doors are closed to sinners. The Sadguru is for sinners.

Someone said to Jesus: gamblers sit by you, drunkards too, and the village harlot; you do not drive them away?

Jesus said: that would be like light being afraid of darkness, or the healer refusing the sick. For whom am I? For them! The one who drank wine—I will pour God into him. The harlot—who has known only the body, whose life has not tasted love beyond the flesh—I will show her love beyond the body. The gambler—at least he knows how to risk—I will teach him the real wager.

To the Sadguru none is refused. Whoever is ready to drown, the Sadguru is ready to take. He places no conditions, sets no traps of eligibility. The true Guru makes the ineligible eligible, the unworthy worthy; turns the worldly into a sannyasin.

Sangati ke paratap mahatam, nam gangodak payo.

Swati boond barsai phani upar—
On a serpent if the Swati drop falls, it turns into poison.

Ohi boond kai moti nipjai, sangati ki adhikai—
But the same drop, enclosed in an oyster, becomes a pearl. The drop is the same—on the snake it becomes poison; in the oyster, a pearl. Enclose yourself in the oyster of the Sadguru—you become a pearl.

We become like those we sit with. The color of the company seeps into us.

I have heard—an Egyptian king went mad. Many physicians were called; none could heal. Finally a fakir was summoned—people go to fakirs when nothing else remains.

The fakir asked: tell me something of the king. Any passion that gripped his life? They said: yes, chess—he was extraordinary at chess. The fakir said: then a way is possible. Bring the best chess player in the land. Give him whatever he asks, but let him play chess with the king.

They said: what will that do? The king is mad; how will he play chess? The fakir said: let the player worry about that—pay him whatever he asks; if greedy he will endure playing with a madman.

He demanded lakhs daily. The fakir said: give—cheap bargain. Return after a year. A year later the courtiers came. The fakir asked: what now? They said: the whole thing reversed—the great chess-player has gone mad, the king is well.

If you play chess with a madman for a year—however great a player—you will go mad. As you go mad, the other’s madness will pour into you—and he will be emptied—purged.

This is the reason—you will be surprised—that among all professions psychologists are the most prone to madness. How can they not be? Playing chess with madmen, how long can they remain sane? Psychologists commit suicide at double the rate, and go mad at double the rate. It shouldn’t be so. If the psychologist himself kills himself, how will he save others? But it is not senseless—stay with the mad twenty-four hours and you will be colored by them. Today or tomorrow, company will show its effect.

In my view every psychologist, before entering his profession, should pass through deep processes of meditation—for he enters a dangerous trade. Only meditation can save him.

Had that chess-player asked me, I would have said: play, take your lakhs—but keep witnessing. Maintain distance, no identification. Drop concern for winning or losing—what victory with a madman? Win—fine; lose—fine—let it be equal. Remain far—play mechanically—but within, keep witnessing. Then he would not have gone mad.

Every psychologist must pass through witnessing, must have deep experience of meditation. If training were right, before certifying a psychologist we would put him through a year or two of meditative practice—for his safety—otherwise he is bound to go mad.

Recently psychologists from all over the world have begun to come to me. They are meditating, and a new dimension is opening in their lives—of which they had never thought. They knew the mind and about the mind; but without knowing what lies beyond mind, relationship with madness is dangerous.

You become like those you live with. The question is—who is stronger? With Jesus, if the gambler stays, Jesus will not change—the gambler will change. But with a gambler, you might change—the gambler won’t. Who is the stronger?

A bhikshu of Buddha was passing by a road to Shravasti. The most beautiful courtesan of Shravasti saw him, and was enchanted by the beauty of the monk. She had seen emperors, great generals, rich men. Lines formed at her door. Yet she was bewitched by this bhikshu.

Sometimes it happens—the beauty of a sannyasin is unique. Why? His non-attachment gives him a grace; he becomes a lotus—water does not touch him. This capacity to be untouched by water while living in it fills him with an uncommon beauty. When meditation happens within, then what to say! Light from God begins to shine through him; an aura arises through every fiber. A sweetness enters his speech; even in his sitting and rising there is art. If he speaks—it is sweet; if he is silent—it is sweet. Sweetness surrounds him.

The courtesan descended from her palace, bowed at the fakir’s feet, and invited him: the rains are near—and I know Buddhist monks stay in one place during the rains—reside in my palace! You will stay under a shelter somewhere; do not refuse my invitation. It is my first invitation. People come to invite me—I have never invited anyone.

The monk said: I have no objection, but I must seek permission from my Guru—though I am sure I will receive it. He went to Buddha. The other monks caught fire—many circled around her house, begging there again and again, glancing for a glimpse. And this one was to stay four months in her home! Buddha said: fine. If the courtesan herself takes the risk, what can we do? Stay happily.

Many monks stood up: what are you doing? This bhikshu will be corrupted.

Buddha said: I know him more than you. First, had he been corruptible, the courtesan would not have been enchanted by him. She has seen the most handsome; what touched her is his detachment—his witnessing. You too circle her house; she did not invite you. Why only him? And I know him through and through. I have no worry. The monk has permission. If you’re worried, wait four months—after the rains the decision will be clear.

The monk went. He stayed in her house for four months. The monks spread as many stories as they could. What else could they do? When people feel impotent they spread rumors. They said: today the village says he dances with her; that he lay his head in her lap; that she feeds him with her own hands; that he gave up the robes and now wears rich garments, sleeps on cushions. She massages his body. Who knows what else! But Buddha said nothing—only: four months will pass—why hurry?

Something else happened—the day the monk arrived, the courtesan closed her doors; no customer entered. Rumors grew: doors shut—no one enters or leaves; the courtesan hasn’t stepped out in four months—what revelry must be going on! The monk has not been seen—has he survived? Some said he drinks; some said this, others that. Buddha remained silent, listening. Four months passed; the monk returned, the courtesan followed. The monk bowed at Buddha’s feet; the courtesan bowed and said: give me initiation. I tried every effort to make the monk fall—but every attempt broke; the monk raised me up. For four months I tried tirelessly. The monk sat; I danced nude around him. The rumors you heard are not entirely false. The monk sat in meditation; I placed my head in his lap. He sat; I massaged his body. I tried everything, could not shake him. Now my only goal is: when shall I attain such unshakeability? Your monk has won. In fact, I should have known the day you allowed him to stay—my defeat was decided.

Buddha said to the monks: see! With the monk, the courtesan is ripe for monkhood.

It depends on who is strong—the strong pulls. Therefore wherever you find one stronger than you—a Sadguru; wherever you find light, or fragrance—then drown, stake everything—you will be transformed.

Raidas speaks true: revolution happens.

Sangati ke paratap mahatam, nam gangodak payo.
Swati boond barsai phani upar—

The Swati drop falls upon the snake—

Sohi vishai hoi jai—

It becomes poison—the snake is powerful.

Ohi boond kai moti nipjai, sangati ki adhikai—

And from that same drop a pearl is born.

Without you this flute is off-key—
Life is a single raga of pain.
I will never forget you, beloved—
Without you, life is nothing.
Blow gently with love and it will sing—
This life is drenched in love.
You are the breath I breathe, the heartbeat within—
Without you, life is nothing.
My longing is only you, just one—
If you meet me, life will bloom again.

Meet God and you will bloom. And he can be met, for he is not far; nearer than near—he surrounds you! Just open your eyes, feel around with your hands—touch him, see him. Once his touch happens—the touchstone has touched you.

Do not worry that you are a sinner. The touchstone never bothers whether the iron is for the kitchen altar or the butcher’s knife—it turns both to gold.

A beloved incident. Before America, Vivekananda visited a king in Rajasthan. A great farewell was arranged. As only a king can, he arranged magnificently. He even invited Kashi’s most famous courtesan—he had no idea, for kings drink at night and sleep by day—how could he calculate whether it was proper to invite a courtesan for Vivekananda’s sendoff? It was good that he didn’t—else this rare event would not have happened.

Evening came. Vivekananda learned a famous courtesan would dance there. Vivekananda—an old-style sannyasin. In Calcutta it was said he would never pass through a red-light area—even if he had to go four miles around. How could he go to that festival? Learning at the last moment, he told the minister: then I cannot come. The king—being a king—said: don’t come if you won’t; the festival will go on. The courtesan has come from afar—her music and dance will happen.

The courtesan was wounded; she sang a bhajan whose meaning is: the touchstone does not discriminate—whether the iron it touches belongs to the shrine or to the butcher. It turns both into gold.

Vivekananda’s room was next door; he heard. This song struck deep; he felt repression still alive within him—fear. The truth is—why should the touchstone care? From where the iron came, the touchstone never asks. Whichever iron it touches becomes gold.

Weeping, singing, the courtesan. Vivekananda went in mid-program: forgive me; I erred. What great knowers could not teach me—you taught me. You are my guru.

Vivekananda later remembered with reverence: after that incident a revolution happened in my life. The fear of women dissolved. How could sannyas be born with such fear and timidity?

But the Indian mind was hurt. His going and apologizing—people were upset. They were happy when he did not go—their definition of sannyasi was satisfied. In my view, his going and apology was the moment of his entry into true sannyas. What Ramakrishna could not do, that courtesan did. The sannyas Ramakrishna gave stayed on the surface; the courtesan touched the innermost. But the Indian mind slandered him. When he returned with Nivedita, there was much defamation—“a sannyasi returned with a woman! He went to save, himself drowned!” Pamphlets, filthy talk. Nivedita—the one who did the most to carry Vivekananda and Ramakrishna to the world—was not allowed to stay inside Dakshineswar; she had to live outside. Vivekananda suffered greatly in his last days—the blind state of the public mind was the greatest pain—will they ever understand?

People thought Nivedita changed Vivekananda—you have no trust in your own sannyasins—you couldn’t trust that he might transform Nivedita. You valued her femininity more than his sannyas. But Vivekananda was powerful—those who came to him were transformed.

Tum chandan, ham rend bapore—nikat tumhare asa—

Raidas says: you are sandal; I am worthless wood—yet if I come near you, your fragrance will pervade me.

Tum chandan, ham rend bapore—nikat tumhare asa—

All my hope is in your nearness, my whole future, my entire possibility.

“Sister, you sing exactly like Lata Mangeshkar,” Gulabo said to her friend Guljaan.

“Thank you, sister! If only I could say the same about you,” Guljaan replied shyly.

“What is the difficulty? Just cultivate the habit of lying like I do,” Gulabo answered casually.

Watch whom you are with—think, discern. Better to be alone—at least you will remain what you are; you will not fall below. People usually seek those who are below them—because among those below they appear big. They enjoy being with those beneath, because they feel important. Near those above, people hesitate, fear, and avoid—because there they feel small.

And one who is truly above you—the Sadguru—is a mirror; he will reveal your face. No one wants to see his real face. People get angry at the mirror!

Chandulal went to a photographer. When the photo was ready he said: I cannot buy this—I look just like a monkey.

The photographer said: Sir, you should have thought of that before. The photo is yours—look in that mirror and compare. No need to be angry with me.

Going to the Sadguru is a greater fear—the greatest—because he will see you as you are. You cannot hide from him. In his eyes your reflection will be not what you want to show, but what you are. Others recognize you by your mask. They may suspect—but their eyes are not deep enough to see within.

A sales-tax officer opened the last page of the account book: “Two thousand rupees of biscuits fed to the dog.” Astonished, he asked: “What’s this, Chandulal? Want to cheat us and save tax? Could you not think that no one will believe you fed two thousand rupees worth of biscuits to a dog? You—two thousand—and to a dog! Aren’t you ashamed to tell such a white lie?”

“Shame I felt, sir,” Chandulal said, rubbing his bald head, “but if I had written your good name there, it would have been even more embarrassing.”

Even if people see your real face they won’t say—it is trouble. People pretend not to see, not to hear. They accept you as you want to show yourself. But the higher you go, the harder it becomes. Sitting with the Sadguru, you will reflect exactly as you are—hence people abuse the Sadgurus more than anyone else on earth. They shower flowers—and get showers of abuse in return. It is natural; they reveal too many faces.

Until you can say: “you are sandal, I am worthless wood—my hope is only in your nearness,” you cannot sit with the Sadguru—sitting with Paramatma is even further off.

Sangati ke paratap mahatam, avai bas subasa—

We are useless wood—bring us near, and your fragrance will enter us.

Jati bhi ochhi, karam bhi ochha, ochha kasab hamara—

Raidas says: my caste is low, my deeds low, my vocation low.

Neechai se Prabhu unch kio hai—kahi Raidas chamara—

He never forgets even for a moment: I am a cobbler; and you lifted me up like a lotus. Hands that raised this cobbler sky-high—how shall I thank them enough?

But understand—this applies to you as much as to anyone. You may not be born in a cobbler’s house, yet don’t think this is true only of Raidas and you are Brahmin—Chaturvedi, Trivedi, Dwivedi! Such pride!

A gentleman wrote to me—his name was Trivedi. By mistake I wrote back Dwivedi. He replied by return post: you did not do well—I am Trivedi. I wrote back: then let me make up for the earlier loss—I will call you Chaturvedi. May your mind be at peace!

Do not think—Kanyakubja Brahmin—pure Brahmin! As long as you know nothing beyond the skin, you are a cobbler.

Janaka once convened an assembly of religion. Great pundits came—including Ashtavakra’s father. Ashtavakra was bent in eight places—hence the name. At noon Ashtavakra’s mother said: your father has not returned; he must be hungry; go call him.

Ashtavakra went. Seeing him—bent eight ways—everyone laughed. He was a living cartoon: one leg here, the other there; one arm here, the other there; one eye this way, the other that. Even Janaka laughed.

But suddenly Ashtavakra laughed so loudly, standing in the middle of court, that all fell silent. Janaka asked: my friend, I know why others laughed, I too laughed; but why did you laugh?

He said: I laughed because cobblers are sitting here! He defined the cobbler just right: to them only skin is visible. My body is bent eight ways—their eyes see only my body. You have gathered cobblers and hold a religious assembly, discussing Brahma-knowledge! Do any here see my soul? For the soul is not bent even in one place.

There was not one. Janaka rose, touched Ashtavakra’s feet, and said: teach me. Thus the Ashtavakra Gita was born—unparalleled among India’s scriptures. I place it a grade above the Bhagavad Gita. Hence I call the Bhagavad Gita the Gita, and Ashtavakra’s—Mahagita. Each word is more weighty than thousands of diamonds—every sutra of dhyana and Samadhi.

Understand: as long as you see only body—yours and others—you are a cobbler. In my reckoning all are born shudra; rarely does someone become a Brahmin—a Buddha, a Krishna, a Mahavira, a Raidas, a Farid, a Nanak. Rarely does someone become Brahmin; otherwise people are born shudra and die shudra. The sutra is about you—only about you!

Jati bhi ochhi, karam bhi ochha, ochha kasab hamara.
Neechai se Prabhu unch kio hai—kahi Raidas chamara.

Raidas says: I was a chamara, a shudra; everything of mine small—caste, deeds, vocation. But you touched me—and iron turned to gold. You are the touchstone!

Prabhuji, tum chandan, ham pani. Jaki ang-ang bas samani.
Prabhuji, tum ghan-ban, ham mora. Jaise chitvat chand chakora.
Prabhuji, tum deepak, ham bati. Jaki jyoti barai din-rati.
Prabhuji, tum moti, ham dhaga. Jaise sonahin milat suhaga.
Prabhuji, tum swami, ham dasa. Aisi bhakti karai Raidas.

Enough for today.