Mare He Jogi Maro #17

The anklets of light are ringing; awaken, it is dawn!
The word-birds are freed—winged with sound they stir,
In the breath, songs of a new consciousness begin to ripple,
From the ancient truth of our dreams the shehnais start to play,
Pilgrims of love’s faith—lo!—are drawing near to the abode.
The bud of awareness opens her wings—refined, intoxicant, noble!
The anklets of light are ringing; awaken, it is dawn!

Upon the flower’s smile, music gathers like a fragrance,
Everywhere vermilion scatters upon the breath of the wind,
From the edge of the sky the notes of Bhairavi are arriving,
Today the reign of darkness is lifting from the earth.
Yet you still sleep—Dawn has come bearing gifts!
The anklets of light are ringing; awaken, it is dawn!

Upon the foaming waves the sea is smiling,
Far away, a boatman plays a morning raga upon his flute,
That solitary blue lake is stretching her limbs,
And the intoxicated deodar bends down as if to kiss her.
Lay yourself upon the wave whose leaves are sleek and smooth!
The anklets of light are ringing; awaken, it is dawn!

Those who have awakened have found not only light within, but musical light! They have discovered the concord of light and song. The inner being seen filled with radiance—and not only radiance; the radiance was full of tone, speaking, dancing. On the feet of light tiny bells were tied. In the hand of light, a veena! Light was not barren; it was brimming with music.

On the day one enters the innermost Self, these two happenings arise together. The experience is not merely of seeing; it is also of hearing. The eye has as much a share in it as the ear.

Eye and ear are the hidden symbols of duality within man. The eye is the symbol of the masculine; the ear of the feminine. Hence, the eye can attack; the ear cannot attack. When the eye assaults, only then do we call someone a lecher. Lecher comes from lochan—eye. But have you ever seen anyone assault with the ear? Impossible.

Rape cannot happen to a man; it can happen only to a woman. The eye can rape; the ear cannot. The eye’s experience is the masculine experience. And since the scriptures were written by men, they called the knower a seer (drashta), not a hearer (shrota). A man will use his own terms: he will call the Ultimate the Father, not the Mother; and the knower a seer, not a hearer.

The eye is aggressive—masculine energy. The ear is receptive—only accepts. The ear is a womb—feminine energy. If you ask me, the Supreme Experience is the union of the seer and the hearer. There the eye and ear become one. There the eye listens, the ear sees. There an unearthly magic occurs. There is light, but the light is not dead—it dances. In the hands of the light is a flute—the light is playing! The light is metrical! The felt sense of this metricality is what we have called word (shabda), tone (nada), Omkara. Word—and luminous! Music—and resplendent with aura, ablaze!

For now you will have to imagine it, for you have no such experience. You have known music, but you have never seen light in music. And you have seen light, but never experienced music within light.

What the senses give is partial. The supersensory experience is whole. All the senses are dissolved into it as all rivers are dissolved into the ocean. I am speaking in symbols because these two senses are primary. You have three other senses as well; their offerings are also given. Hence the experience of Paramatma is not only light, not only tone—it is also taste, fragrance, touch. All your senses pour their entire harvest into it. It is the combined experience of all your senses.

When the senses go outward, they become separate—like lines drawn from the center of a circle toward the circumference: the closer to the circumference, the farther apart they grow. If you draw lines from the circumference toward the center, the nearer they come to the center, the closer they are; at the center they become one.

The name of that center where all the senses are one is Atman.

Go far—go outward—and the senses begin to separate: ear apart, eye apart, nose apart—each segregated. The senses are specialists: the eye only sees, the ear only hears. But when you arrive at the center, there the one who sees is also the one who hears and who tastes. There is the king of all the senses, the master of the senses. All his capacities…

Therefore the taste of Samadhi is nectar (amrit). The experience of Samadhi is the fragrance of the Infinite. Samadhi is embrace. Samadhi is the cloudburst of a storm of light. And Samadhi is the unstruck sound (anahat nada). All the senses lay down everything of theirs. The sum of all the senses’ experiences is, of course, unprecedented. For now you can only imagine—but even imagination will set the heart to rippling, will arouse a charge, a thirst.

Then different experiencers have offered differing descriptions; these depend on them. Not everyone has an ear for music, and not everyone has the eye of a painter. A painter’s eye outwardly seems the same as yours, but he sees far deeper. He sees colors you have never seen, the subtleties of color. You look and the whole garden seems green; he sees many shades of green. The green of the ashoka leaf is very different from the green of the mango leaf. Green is not one; within greenness there are luminous distinctions. When a painter looks, many greens appear; fine nuances are seen. When a musician listens, the subtleties of tone are heard; more than that, the consummate musician hears the absence of tone as well—he hears silence, the interval between two notes.

When someone like Surdas attains Self-realization, naturally his description will not be of light but of sound. This is natural: he has profound capacity for nada.

The experience is the sum of all the senses; yet when you speak of it, you will speak in the language of that sense which is strongest in you. The human eye has been the most useful. One can scrape by without ears, even without hands, and easily without a nose; but without eyes it becomes very difficult—eighty percent of life depends upon sight. Hence the deaf do not evoke as much compassion in you as the blind, for eighty percent of life is snatched away.

Because the eye is most significant in worldly experience, most have described Paramatma as light. Gorakh describes Paramatma as word, as tone. He must have had a musician’s heart; his verses bear witness. Each word is full of juice; poetic. Not a contrived poetry—unpremeditated, flowing. Gorakh is not a poet by trade; the experience became so nectarous that poetry happened of itself. Poetry was born of experience; it was not manufactured. Meters, measures, arrangements were not contrived, but because the inner experience was so rhythmic, such music arose that words themselves took on beauty, flavor, cadence.

Om is the key of all words!
They say, Om is all. The Word of words. The source from which all words are born.

The Word became light.
And this aphorism is most wondrous—rare among saints: From the Word, light arose. Music awakened, Omkara resounded—but the word is luminous! As though in each word a light glows; as though upon the breath of each word a flame trembles; as though each word were a lamp. Not only the raga is playing, but out of the raga light is appearing!

Om, the key of keys; the Word became light.
As a thorn removes a thorn, so this Word expels all other words. With this one key the lock opens.

And as a thorn draws out a thorn, with the birth of this Word, all other words depart. The crowds of words, doctrines, scriptures—before this one Word all are gone. All is absorbed into the One Om. Touch this One—and the lock is opened. The secret of life is secret no more; now it is experience. The veil upon life’s innermost is drawn aside.

If a Siddha be found, then the seeker is born—when the inner lamp is lit.
He says: By some good fortune, some merit, if there is a meeting with a Siddha, only then within you is the true seeker born. People think the reverse: “We are seekers, thus we look for the accomplished one; we are disciples, thus we look for a master.” In truth it is the other way: when the master is found, you become a disciple; when the Siddha is found, your sadhana is born. Why? Because until you meet one who has known, lived, tasted—who will arouse your thirst? Who will awaken you? Who will call you home? One who has never seen within—how would the within even occur to him? Impossible. One who has not experienced the inner has no question of going inner; he wanders only outward, waits only outside.

In vain we kept open all night in expectation—
One door was the bud’s, one door was mine.
All night blew the east wind, all night the stars blossomed,
All night tears flowed, wrung with pain!
All night the garland was woven, but scattered it lay—
One garland of the sky, one garland of mine.
In vain we kept open all night in expectation—
One door was the bud’s, one door was mine.
The restless cuckoo cried in the groves,
The playful scarf of fragrance swayed,
The mountains stood in silence, the colony of breath silent—
One burden of the earth, one burden of mine.
In vain we kept open all night in expectation—
One door was the bud’s, one door was mine.
What can I say—how sweet the age of raga was—
Each moment a new note, each moment a new refrain.
He who gathered his pain, remained silently drowsed—
One string of the veena, one string of mine.
In vain we kept open all night in expectation—
One door was the bud’s, one door was mine.
On the flower the ray wrote the tale of form,
Upon the moon’s youth, tomorrow an even greater youth.
That which shattered on the shores in collision—
One love of the ocean, one love of mine!
In vain we kept open all night in expectation—
One door was the bud’s, one door was mine!

For lifetimes you have waited facing outward. With doors flung open—for whom do you wait? Neither has he ever come, nor will he. The one toward whom you stare outside abides within. The one you have gone seeking is hidden in the very seeker. But who will wake you to yourself?—someone already awake! Only if the Siddha is found can you become a seeker. Gorakh speaks rightly:

If a Siddha be found, then the seeker is born—when the inner lamp is lit.

Until the seeker is born within you, talk of attainment is very far away—talk of inner light farther still. Bind your life to one overflowing with light. Take the seven rounds with one filled with radiance—wed yourself. This is the relation of guru and disciple; of seeker and Siddha. One who is awake can awaken the sleeping; one who is full can fill the empty.

Our word is sharp as the edge of a sword.
But remember, to be with Siddhas is no easy matter. Their words are like swords. Their words cut. Unless they cut, they cannot awaken you. The words of Siddhas do not apply balm and bandage, and you are in search of balm—thus you miss the Siddhas and fall prey to two-bit people—priests and pundits who have not known anything. But they do know one thing: your secret craving—what you are really seeking. They know you seek consolation, not truth. Say what you will—that you seek truth—you seek consolation. You are frightened, afraid. Death comes, your legs tremble. Daily death happens—someone dies, a bier passes—and each time you are shaken. You are afraid. You think, “Arrange something for after.”

You want consolation. Someone to assure you: “You will remain; you won’t be annihilated. Only the body will drop; the soul will persist.” Someone to hand you a doctrine, to give you beliefs; to shelter you behind hollow dogmas. “Perform this much worship daily; do this much virtue; bathe in the Ganges—and all will be well.” A cheap and easy way—no need to awaken. Because awakening is costly. To awaken is to die.

The life you have known will have to be dropped if you want to awaken. That is the meaning of death. The life you have known will go; then the life arrives that you do not yet know. One life must go for the other to come. Die as you are, and be born as you ought to be.

Die, O yogi, die—die the sweet death.
Die the death by which Gorakh came to see.

What death brings the experience? You have made a life—futile, valueless—paper-thin—and you call it life. You want that life secured. When you go to a Siddha, your securities will be snatched. Your boats are of paper—they will be sunk. Your mansions stand upon sand—they will be toppled. Your webs of ambitions are houses of cards—one stroke from the Siddha, and they collapse to dust.

Hence people avoid Siddhas, fear them; they go to pundits. The pundit offers consolation. The Siddha has no interest in consoling you; it is consolations that have tangled you, waylaid you. Their poison has killed you. The Siddha’s words will taste bitter.

Kabir said: Kabir stands in the marketplace with a cudgel in his hand. Whosoever is ready to set his house afire, come with me. And that cudgel is not for a walking stick; the Siddha needs no stick—he has nowhere to go; he has arrived. That cudgel will fall upon your head!

Our word is sharp as the edge of a sword.

Gorakh says: Our word is harsh, like the blade of a sword.

Our way of living is true.
We are not living according to ideals; we live as God has made us—authentic. Understand this; it is precious.

This is not mere poetry—
It is the roar of war,
The thunder of clouds,
The call of a storm!
At whose hearing—
The mountains come with green crests crowned with snow,
Rings of red flames are woven in the smoky hair,
The oceans come with cymbals of foam,
The clouds arrive riding lightning.
This is not poetry.
The verses we read here are no mere poems.
This is not poetry—
It is the roar of war,
The thunder of clouds,
The call of a storm!

When one like Gorakh speaks, it is thunder.
The roar of war,
The call of a storm!
It is the trumpet of battle—
At whose sound the mountains come with green foreheads crowned with snow,
Rings of red flames are braided in smoky hair,
The oceans come, jangling anklets of foam,
The clouds arrive mounted upon lightning!
It is the war-trumpet—a call to the inner war. Only those willing to walk the blade’s edge can befriend a Siddha.

To dull eyes I give the art of seeing;
To starless night I give the hue of dawn.
If the autumn is cross with me, the wilderness is displeased,
I bring tidings of the spring’s arrival.
We sing love’s song upon the instrument of ecstasy;
With the heat of our grief we melt stone.
Who can love life more than we?
And if it comes to dying—we die.
Buried in dust we cannot remain buried—
We rise, roses and rubies upon the walls.
In the lap of night
I scatter not stars but sparks;
In the heart of dawn—
With these tears of mine
I am sowing
Rebellions.

Fakirs sow rebellions. Their seeds are seeds of revolt. They grow revolutions; they reap their harvests. Therefore only one ready to lose his head, who brings his cross upon his shoulder, can be with a Siddha.

Our word is sharp as the edge of a sword; our way of living is true.
Our words are harsh—they will sting, they will burn, they will sit within you like embers. They must be harsh, for you are lost in the sweet poison of words. You have wrapped yourself in cover upon cover of consolations, by which life has become ever harder to understand.

Gurdjieff used to say: Between two railway coaches buffers are fixed so that if there is a jolt, the coaches do not crash into each other. Cars have springs, so that the potholes of the road are not felt by the one seated within. Such is man’s condition: he has fixed consolatory buffers all around him, springs to soften life’s blows. Life brings troubles, difficulties; the buffers swallow them. There are many potholes, but springs take care. And one who passes through life buffered thus—how will he awaken? He has made elaborate arrangements to sleep. Fakirs shake him; they break his buffers, remove his springs, make him see life’s pits exactly as they are. When one tastes the whole of life’s sorrow, perceives that life is moving toward death—only then does the search for truth begin. Otherwise, it never begins. Only when all illusions shatter do you set out for the Siddha. Only when your dreams break will you consent to open your eyes. So long as sweet dreams go on, in which you see yourself as emperor, with golden palaces and fairy-like wives—how will you open your eyes? One who opens your eyes will look like an enemy.

The guru appears as enemy. Therefore you crucified Jesus, killed Mansoor, poisoned Socrates. This is your “honor” to them. Their words were harsh. They struck your head. Their cudgel was heavy. You could not bear it—though the blow was for your good. As a surgeon cuts for your good. But if you are ignorant, seeing the surgeon with knife slicing your limbs, you would jump up and attack him—“I came for a cure and this wretch is cutting me up!” Perhaps this is why before surgery he makes you unconscious—lest you keep jumping in. “What is happening to me?”

But what happens with a Siddha happens in full consciousness; there is no anesthesia. No chloroform here—this process is that of awakening; it won’t be solved by putting you to sleep. You have been asleep for lifetimes.

The life of Siddhas you do not understand, for it differs in its very foundation—our way of living is true. The Siddha lives in spontaneity—sahaja. You will take it otherwise, for you interpret all things by your own mind. You live by ideals; the Siddha lives by nature. Ideals and nature do not meet. Ideals are imaginations: “I should be like this,” and then you attempt to be that. You were taught from childhood: “Be like this, be like this…” You have a thousand ideals. You are not like that, and because of those ideals you will never be. Only hypocrisy will be born: hunger arises, but the ideal says fast. Within is hunger; outwardly you force a fast.

This is not a true way of living; it is false. The body asks for food, the mind imposes fasting—“without fasting heaven will not be gained.” The reverse happens too: the body says, “Enough, I’m full,” but the mind says, “So delicious—more!” Both are the same kind of event—going against your nature. One who goes against nature can never attain truth.

A Zen fakir, Bokushu, was asked: “What is your sadhana?” Bokushu said: “When hungry, I eat; when sleepy, I sleep.” Had you asked, you too would be startled—“What kind of sadhana?” The questioner too was startled: “Everyone does that.” Bokushu said: “No. If you could do only this, all would be done. When you are not hungry, you eat—because the time has come. If you eat daily at noon, you look at the clock—‘It is twelve’—and hunger appears. That hunger is false. If the clock stopped an hour early and you knew it was only eleven—you would not feel hungry. That hunger is false. You sleep at a particular time; yawning and drowsiness come, but that sleep is not true; if you remain awake half an hour more, the sleep vanishes—if it were true, it should come stronger.” People, when sleep-time passes and they remain, then the whole night sleep does not come—only habit, a mechanical pattern.

“We live simply,” said Bokushu. “This is our sadhana. We do not live in tune with ideals.”

He who lives by ideals is moral; he who lives simply, easefully, is religious. One who fixes a goal—“I will live like this… I must rise at brahma-muhurta, whether I feel like it or not, whether the body says so or not.”

Once a man went to Eknath. Eknath was staying in a Shiva temple. The man was shocked—Eknath had his feet resting on the Shiva lingam. The man himself was an atheist, but not so atheistic. People had told him: if anyone can melt your atheism, it is Eknath. He came searching. Seeing this, he was stunned: “Though I don’t believe in God, I don’t dare rest my feet upon the Shankar lingam. This man is a great atheist. And he was sleeping—long after the sun was up. A monk should be up before dawn.” He shook Eknath awake: “A monk should rise at brahma-muhurta.” Eknath said: “Whenever a monk rises, that is brahma-muhurta.”

A great reordering of life: whenever the monk rises, there is brahma-muhurta.

“And why are your feet on the lingam of Shiva? All right, whenever you rise is brahma-muhurta—but this?” Eknath said: “Wherever I place my feet—He is there. Where shall I place them? And what fault in the feet? The One is in the feet as in the head—now I see none other. Within and without—only That. In the head That, in the feet That. Where shall I place my feet?”

This is the state of the Siddha—simple living, with no ideal. No ideal, thus no hypocrisy. Ideals give birth to hypocrisy—its shadow. You fix an ideal: “I will rise at brahma-muhurta.” One day you do not rise—yet you must maintain the façade that you did. Hypocrisy means: you have fixed an ideal, cannot fulfill it, yet you must show that you fulfill it. You eat in secret, but publicly proclaim you are fasting. Hidden inside you are one kind of person; outwardly you are another. The inner and the conduct separate—outside something, inside something else.

Our way of living is true.

Gorakh says: We do not live like that. We have no ideal, no fixed structure. Moment to moment we live as the truth is—according to our nature. Here the difficulty arises. You cannot recognize a Siddha. He does not fit any frame. You cannot weigh him on any of your measures. Whatever touchstones you have—he breaks them and flows on. No prediction of a Siddha is possible, for he lives from no fixed base—moment to moment, in dialogue with the moment. If there is a set code, prediction is possible. He has no code, no conduct.

You will be shocked to hear: a Siddha is beyond conduct. Therefore it is difficult to tolerate him. The petty, so-called saints you tolerate and even honor—because they suit your conceptions. You crucified Socrates, but there were many in Greece who spoke of knowledge—you did not crucify them. You crucified Jesus, but there were many respected rabbis—you honored them. They were according to your notions. Jesus clashed with your notions; he announced his independent consciousness. That is his crime. Had he agreed with you—sat when you bade, stood when you ordered—you would have honored him. But no Siddha can fulfill your expectations; one who does is not a Siddha. A Siddha fulfills the expectations of Paramatma, not yours. And the expectations of Paramatma do not come from outside; they arise from within, from the innermost.

Our word is sharp as the edge of a sword; our way of living is true.

Gorakh says: Our words are pure, wounding, sharp as a blade—because our living is true. We live as nature moves us. We are not bound—no slaves of tradition. No imposition of custom upon us. We are free.

Not written, nor inscribed on any paper-house—
Such a letter have we read.

We live in such a way as no writing prescribes. The scriptures do not speak of it—how could they? Before Gorakh there was no Gorakh. Scripture is written later; no scripture can describe Gorakh. Scriptures will describe others—Mahavira, Buddha—but Gorakh is Gorakh—neither Buddha nor Mahavira. Mahavira lived in his own way; Buddha in his own. Gorakh will live in his own. He is no one’s shadow, no carbon copy. Each Siddha is original.

This is the test. The saint is a carbon copy; the Siddha original. Saints are like cars turned out of a factory—one mold, one pattern; a thousand Fiat cars in a row. Line up a thousand Jain monks—what difference? None. One rule, one code of conduct. But a Siddha is original, unique, unrepeatable. And herein lies the trouble—no scripture can define him.

One kind of Siddha is seen only once; it never appears twice. Once a Siddha is gone, he does not return. A single glimpse you have—of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Muhammad; one glimpse and they are gone—merged into the Vast. There will never be another of the same kind.

Many will imitate—copyists. You call them saints. These have great honor because they fit your scriptures; your expectations are satisfied—“He lives as we expect; this is pure conduct.”

Whenever a Siddha comes, he overturns everything. He comes like a revolution.

It is the roar of war,
The thunder of clouds,
The call of a storm!

We sing love’s song upon the instrument of ecstasy.
The Siddha sings love upon the instrument of his madness.

We sing love’s song upon the instrument of ecstasy,
With the heat of our grief we melt stone.
Who can love life more than we?
And if it comes to dying—we die.
Buried in dust we cannot remain buried—
We rise, roses and rubies upon the walls.
In the lap of night
I scatter not stars but sparks…
In the heart of dawn—
With these tears of mine
I am sowing
Rebellions.

Every Siddha brings rebellion, the message of revolution, a flame of fire—a storm of light. But those who have lived in darkness—if their eyes cannot bear such light at once and they grow angry, it is no wonder.

Not written, nor inscribed on any paper-house—
Such a letter have we read.

What can we do? We have read that which has never been written. We have read the unwritten. Therefore we live thus. One who has read the unwritten, seen the invisible, experienced the ineffable—no human arrangement, tradition, conditioning can bind him. For him, no bondage is possible. He is beyond all your structures.

Not written, nor inscribed on any paper-house—
Such a letter have we read.

There are many scriptures in this world—the Vedas, the Bible, the Qur’an, the Dhammapada. What you read there is not the Supreme Truth itself. Not that those who sang the Vedas did not know Truth, or those from whom the Qur’an arose were ignorant. They knew, and thus scripture came. But the moment it is said, it turns untrue. The moment we bind the Vast in words, because of the narrowness of words, the Vast loses its form.

Imagine: you go to the seashore. The morning air is fresh; the rays of the sun; birds sing; there is color in the waves; the sun dances. You love it so much you lock that air in a trunk to bring home. You think: in leisure I will open it and enjoy. But can you trap that freshness in a box? At home when you open it, neither the salt-taste will be there, nor the freshness, nor sunrays, nor birdsong—only a stale box of dirty air!

So it is: Truth does not fit into the boxes of words. Truth is a living experience. One who knows is compelled to speak; compulsion. Yet all who spoke also said alongside: “We could not say; we tried, and again and again we failed.”

When Tagore was dying, someone said: “You should depart in joy; you have sung six thousand songs—no poet in the world has sung so many. You are a great poet.” Tagore opened his eyes; tears stood there. He said: “Do not say that. You interrupted my prayer to God. I was praying: ‘Lord, all my life somehow I only tuned the instrument a little—and now it is time to go! I haven’t sung the song I wanted to sing. These six thousand songs are only attempts at the song I wanted to sing but could not. And you do this—that time to leave has come. I had only tuned; the music had not begun.’ Those who took this as music—what to do? For them this was vast; they had not seen more.”

I have heard: the Nawab of Lucknow invited an English Viceroy. Great musicians were called. The Viceroy sat; the Nawab sat; the courtiers sat. The Lucknavi musicians began to tune—someone tapped the tabla, someone tightened the sarangi. For fifteen minutes this went on; the Viceroy, first time hearing such a thing, exclaimed, “Wah! Wah! Let this continue—it is delightful.” They were only tuning; the music had not begun. The Nawab was startled; but if the Viceroy says “this should continue,” then it did—throughout the night. The musicians beat their heads; the Nawab’s skull ached; the courtiers wondered; the Viceroy was pleased. He had never heard anything; he thought this is music—what fun, they are pounding away; the work is going on!

Tagore is right—those who took my songs as songs have no clue of the real songs. And think then of those who have seen God—how will they speak? The Upanishads ask: how can the Unutterable be said? Lao Tzu says: that which can be said is not the Tao. All scriptures say: the Word cannot contain That.

Not written, nor inscribed on any paper-house.

Do you think Gorakh did not know there are Vedas, Gita, Dhammapada? He knew well—and yet says: Not written nor inscribed—such a letter have we read. Of course the pundits were angry—“If you deny the Veda, what then? Is there no truth in the Veda?” The small-minded were enraged. That is the trouble. The Siddha speaks only as it is. The Veda has sought to say Truth, tried well; but Truth has never been said. For those who tried we are grateful: even in tuning the instrument, some notes have reached our ears—broken, scattered, yet notes nonetheless. Is this little not enough? With these notes as hints we can perhaps reach the source.

But remember: take pointers from scripture; do not clutch it to your chest. Scriptures are milestones saying “Further on…” with arrows pointing “Go on.” Ultimately, you must arrive there—

Not written, nor inscribed—such a letter have we read.

It is hard to say. Whenever your experience deepens, speech becomes difficult. Words were made for shallow things. In the marketplace they serve; step a little beyond and they fail. Fall in love with someone—words fail. See the starry night, overwhelmed with beauty—speech fails.

I will not recite even a couplet in your praise—
What use if your praise is not complete?
Into what mold of words will this beauty fit?
I fear I might insult your loveliness.
Every painter drew your image,
But no image became the reflection of your body.
What exquisite colors on lips and cheeks—
But made-up flowers do not make a garden.
Every sculptor carved you in marble—
But whence would he bring this flowing grace?
They put anklets upon your feet—
But where would they bring the tinkle of your anklets?
There is no mode of expression worthy of you—
Only in intuition can a hue be filled.
I have thought—and felt at least this much:
Only through the eyes can you descend into the heart.

If you have ever loved, you know the difficulty. Who has painted his beloved? Who has praised her rightly? Words are too small.

I will not recite even a couplet in your praise—
No poem can be said, no song sung.
What use if your praise is not complete?
Into what mold of words will this beauty fit?
I think even to try is to insult your beauty. For an ordinary beloved some words may suffice; think then of those who have seen the Supreme Beloved!

Every painter drew your image—
But no image became your true reflection.

A living person—speaking, laughing, dancing, singing—and a picture: what comparison? However many colors you fill, they are pale.

What exquisite colors on lips and cheeks—
But made-up flowers do not make a garden.
You can buy paper flowers and hang them on trees; a passerby may be deceived—but you will know: they have no fragrance.

Every sculptor carved you in marble—
But whence would he bring the flowing grace?

Buddha’s statue could be made—because he sits still, like stone. That was his essence. But how will you carve Meera? How Radha? Some mistake will be there. Buddha’s statue can be made; Radha’s cannot.

It is no accident that the first statues upon the earth were of Buddha. Hence in Urdu, buddha (Buddha) became but (idol). Idol and Buddha—synonymous! Buddha’s statue could be made; he sits under the tree like stone. But how will you sculpt Radha? You may make Krishna, but never capture him.

They put anklets upon your feet—
But where would they bring the tinkle of your anklets?
Place a flute at the lips of the stone idol—where will the sound come from?

There is no mode of expression worthy of you.
Only intuition can take on a hue.

I have thought—and felt at least this much:
Only through the eyes can you descend into the heart.

An ordinary beloved descends through the eyes into the heart; from heart to speech she cannot be brought. So what of the Supreme Beloved—how shall we speak? None has written Him, nor made His statue—nor ever will.

Not written, nor inscribed—such a letter have we read.

Bind yourselves, O avadhuta, to the Word—bind yourselves to the Word. Place rests, ranks, ambitions aside.
Within the self you will see the Supreme—
As the moon is seen in water.

Therefore do not get entangled in scriptures—dive into the inner music.
Bind yourselves to the Word—bind yourselves to the Word.
Dive into the Omkara humming within you, the life-veena that plays—the heart’s music within.
Bind yourselves to the Word—bind yourselves to the Word. Place, prestige—these are all trades.

If you want prestige, you will have to fulfill the expectations of people. Respect never comes free—there is a mutual bargain. If one wants respect, he must note the expectations of the giver.

A Terapanthi Jain monk wrote me: “Your words strike true. I wish to drop all this net. But I was initiated at ten. My mother died, my father was ordained, and with no one at home I too was ordained. Since ten I am a renunciate. Neither educated nor trained. Now fifty. For forty years I have done no work—only received service and respect. Now I feel it is hollow. If I drop it I will lose prestige. Today those who touch my feet—tomorrow if I go to their door for a job as watchman, they won’t give it.”

Respect is not free. From those who give you respect, you must pay—fulfill their expectations. If they say “wear the mouth-cover,” you must. If they say “sit thus, rise thus, eat this, avoid that”—you must. Miss once, respect gone.

Gorakh says: do not enter this hassle. If you truly want truth, more likely you will receive insult, not respect. In a world of the blind, those with eyes receive insult, not honor. Place and prestige are business—leave the trades. Care only for one thing: dive into the current of life within you.

Within the self you will see the Supreme—
As the moon is seen in water.

There you will find Paramatma. Not in temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras—but within oneself. As the moon is mirrored in the lake, so within yourself you will glimpse Him.

From worry, only worry arises.
In worry the whole world is withered.
The yogi who forgets worry becomes absorbed in the worryless.

How to be free of worry? If you try to be free of worry—you will enter a new worry. The old worry remains, and a new worry begins: “How to be free of worry?” People come saying, “The mind is restless—I want peace.” This is a new restlessness. Those who are restless and do not crave peace are less restless—at least their restlessness is single. Do not make freedom from worry a new worry.

There is only one indication—one art—of freedom from worry: witnessing, dhyana. You need not worry to be free of worry; that would be washing mud with mud. Witness whatever arises within: waves of thought coming and going—watch. Make no judgment: not “good thought, bad thought,” “hold this, drop that.” Clinging and dropping are the very womb of worry. Simply see, impartially—as one watches people walking on a road, sit and watch the thoughts walking on the path of the mind. If you can do only this for an hour a day—only sit and watch… Do not try to become quiet, else you will be more agitated. Do not worry about dropping worry. Whatever is happening—restlessness, worry, turmoil, idle chatter, madness—simply see it. As if you are a mirror, and whatever passes in front is reflected. Does the mirror care? Does any reflection damage the mirror? A deformed man stands before the mirror—the mirror is not deformed; a beautiful one stands—the mirror is not beautified. What does it matter who stands? The mirror remains detached.

If you sit like a mirror for an hour daily, you will be amazed: suddenly a revolution happens—worry vanishes; you are absorbed in the worryless. By becoming a witness, the seeker is freed of worry—absorbed in the Unthinkable. And only then can you read:

Not written, nor inscribed—such a letter have we read.

Listen—abandon entanglements. Only then will you drink the nectar and be as a child.

He says: listen! Drop entanglements—of doctrines, scriptures, opinions: what is right, what is wrong, auspicious, inauspicious. Drop these snares.

Only then, drinking nectar, will you be a child.
Sit in witnessing; become simple as a child, pure as a mirror. That purity is nectar. One who drinks that nectar—knows all that need be known, gains all that is worth gaining.

The root is irrigated by the fire of Brahman.
The flower blossoms—then again the bud.

In that innocence, something happens: the Ganges returns to Gangotri, the flower becomes a bud again, the tree becomes seed—returning to the source. To return to the primal source is to return to God. The goal is not ahead; it is within. The primal source is the ultimate destination.

Suspended, the thinking falls silent—in this very sky I slept.
Recognized the sky’s embrace—and then no second remained.

Suspended—everything stands in the void. This earth is suspended in the void; you are in the void. All existence is poised in shunya. Shunya is another name of dhyana. The day you enter this void, all worry drops; all tension dissolves; all sorrow ceases—beatitude.

Recognize the sky’s embrace—
And then no second remained.

The day you know this void, no second remains. Only One remains. Call it Atman or Paramatma, call it I or Thou—still only One: tat tvam asi. Name it what you will—two are not. The drop falls into the ocean. Say “the drop became the ocean,” or “the ocean became the drop”—no difference.

Hold to awareness, not doubt—your capital will never be lost.
From the One arises such abundance—give and it will not be exhausted.

So what is needed? What basis to enter this void? Shraddha—trust. Nishchaya, firmness, courage—these are shades of trust. Other than trust there is no way into the void. Doubt—and you are afraid; you flee. The doubter cannot enter meditation; he remains entangled in thought. Doubt gives birth to thought. Doubt—and a downpour of thinking begins. A little doubt—“Is he perhaps a thief?”—and a cascade of thought follows. Look closely—“He does look like a thief; those eyes… the way he sits… a knife perhaps!” You begin to fret. One little doubt—and the chain of thought starts.

Where there is trust, thought quiets. If you have trust in anyone, in his presence thoughts fall away. To sit in the presence of one you trust is satsang: the dropping of thought. In trust, thought is not needed; thought is needed for doubt—for safety. Doubt arises and we weave a safety net of thought. With trust, thought is unnecessary.

Two lovers sit together—thoughts cease. Two friends sit—thoughts thin. Seat two enemies together—thoughts rush beyond counting. Hence we quickly seek acquaintance: in a train you ask at once—“Where are you going? From where? Name? Address? Occupation?” Why such haste? To gain a little certainty—“Who is this?” Otherwise, unease.

If he remains a stranger, doubt arises—“Who knows? Night journey, solitude—what if he jumps at my throat? What if when I sleep he takes the suitcase? What if…?” You ask: “Brother, from where?” He says, “I’m Ramdas.” What does that prove? He may serve Ravana while named Ramdas. Yet you feel easier—“He is Ramdas, perhaps a good man.” If he says “I’m a Brahmin,” your trust deepens—“Good man—fewer dangers.” With a little more talk, familiarity grows—you can sleep. On this basis, people even entrust their luggage to strangers: “Please keep watch while I get the ticket.” He might have lied in everything—and yet, because you trusted, he too trusts you. Trust begets trust. To betray one who has honored you with trust—that fallen none can be. Had you doubted him and gone to the policeman—“Watch my bag; I suspect this man”—perhaps he would have taught you a lesson. Trust in the disciple and the master becomes mutual—exchanged, thickened, deepened—till all doubts fall and only trust remains. In that trust He is found—very near. He is not far—only the bridge of trust is missing.

If there is trust, He arises near.
The moment trust is born—near.
He is as far as your doubt.

Know this: your quantity of doubt is the distance between you and God. As doubt diminishes, distance lessens. Doubt is distance. When no doubt remains—distance ends. Muhammad said: He is nearer to you than the beat of your own heart.

If there is trust, then in this very instant it is born.
Otherwise, settlement is not easy.

Not tomorrow; no distance of “tomorrow” is needed. Not day after; not next life. They told you that who do not know; those who offered consolation, not truth. Truth can happen now, here, in this very instant—because God is as much now as He will ever be—never more, never less. He has already encircled you. We are fish in His ocean—living in Him, born of Him, dissolving into Him. Where is the distance? He is the breath of our breath.

If there is trust, then in this very instant it is born.
Otherwise, settlement is not easy.

If you postpone—does “tomorrow” ever come? Now—or never. You said “next life”—do you remember the last? You likely said the same then. This is that “next” life—and still it is not happening. You will not remember then either. You will say “next life”—and so, never.

This is trickery—mind’s dishonesty—the art of postponement. What you truly want, you do now. When someone abuses you, do you say, “I will be angry tomorrow”? Anger—cash; love—credit. Prayer—credit. People come saying, “I will take sannyas, but not yet. When old.” A seventy-five-year-old came angry because his son took sannyas: “What have you done? He is young; scripture says sannyas is for old age.” I said: “Good, settle it. You take sannyas; we will release your son.” He had not come prepared for the scripture to turn upon him. He forgot the son and said, “I will come again.” He never came. I am still waiting.

People postpone: “In old age.” Then in old age: “At the time of death I will chant the Name.” Like Ajamil—on his deathbed he called “Narayan,” the name of his son, not God. But God was deceived and thought he was called; He embraced Ajamil and carried him to heaven. Those who forged such tales were cunning—they even found a way to cheat God. Then it is the limit. If even God can be fooled—that you call your son—and Ajamil, sinner lifelong, likely called his son for some trick—perhaps to tell him where the stolen wealth is buried. They tell such stories to console you: “Don’t worry; at death chant the Name. And if you cannot, the priest will chant into your ear. If your tongue falters, no problem.” A man who never remembered God his whole life—now you pour Ganges water into his mouth. What are you doing? Deceptions. All are entangled in them. Convenient—postponed to tomorrow. Otherwise the event happens now.

If there is trust, then in this very instant it is born; otherwise, settlement is not easy.

Avadhuta, simply take, simply give; simply let love arise.
If you walk simply, O avadhuta, the vessel will hold the sea.

Your vessel can contain the ocean. The Infinite can fill you—if you become simple.

Avadhuta, simply take, simply give.
Let all dealings, all relationships be simple. As you are, so appear. Live in your nakedness—without hiding, without masks, without trickery. How will you trick God?

Simply take, simply give.
Let life’s dealings be in simplicity.
Simply, simply walk, O avadhuta…
Then the vessel will hold the sea.

From simplicity, love wells up. The simple becomes love-filled; the crooked cannot love. The calculating, clever, deal-making mind cannot love. Business means: give less, take more; if you can take without giving, you are the most “skilled.” As such skill spreads, love disappears. Civilization grows; love departs. The villager still knows a little of love; the city-dweller has forgotten. Where there is no love, there is no God.

Avadhuta, simply take, simply give; simply let love arise.
Simply, simply walk, O avadhuta… then the vessel will hold the sea.

Let your vessel be upright; God is ready to pour—but your vessel is upside down. Upright it—become simple. Live so that no cunning remains. What will you gain by cunning? Where is Alexander? Where Hitler? Where Nadir Shah? Where Tamerlane? What did great tricksters gain? The pages of history are written with the defeat of all cunning. Your cunning too—what will it bring? Drop it. Become simple—and from simplicity the fragrance of love will arise. That fragrance is the incense rising in His temple; that fragrance is the lamp lit there.

Avadhuta, simply take, simply give; simply let love arise.
If you walk simply, O avadhuta, the vessel will hold the sea.

Then everywhere the beauty of That will be glimpsed.

Tonight is pledged to your name.
Why should the gaze go to moon and stars?
What is there in spring’s spectacles?
You yourself are spring in the garden’s form—
Tonight is pledged to your name.
A frenzy of joy has flooded my house—
The beloved has entered the sanctuary of the heart.
A single step of yours has brought apocalypse to the city—
Tonight is pledged to your name.
The heartbeat needs no more signals,
No more colorful scenes are needed,
Color has come into the eyes from your rose-hued cheeks—
Tonight is pledged to your name.
The flutter of your lashes is enough,
The intoxication of your downcast eyes is enough,
Now neither goblet nor wine is required—
Tonight is pledged to your name.
Your glances descend ever deeper into my heart,
Your arms gather me lightly in,
A brightness surrounds me since evening—
Tonight is pledged to your name.

Once a little glimpse of the Beloved comes, once the relation is joined—the whole world becomes an ocean of love.

A flood of joy fills my house.
The beloved has come into the heart’s temple.
With a single step of yours the city is in an uproar—
Tonight is pledged to your name.

His coming is not difficult—simple, very simple. If He is not found, it is because you are complicated, entangled.

Avadhuta, simply take, simply give; simply let love arise.
If you walk simply, O avadhuta, the vessel will hold the sea.

The vessel you already have; God is ready to rain. But your vessel is upside down—turn it upright; be simple. After all your crookedness—what will you gain? The greatest tricksters—what did they gain? Look at history—every page proclaims the defeat of cunning. Drop cunning; become simple. From simplicity the perfume of love rises—and that perfume is the incense and the lamp in His temple.

Avadhuta, simply take, simply give; simply let love arise.
If you walk simply, O avadhuta, the vessel will hold the sea.

Enough for today.