Mare He Jogi Maro #19

The time that has passed with Gorakh was a pilgrimage. This is the time you may count in your life. Not all days can be counted as life; they cannot be. Only those days spent in remembrance of the Lord, only those days steeped in the song of the Divine—only so many days can be counted as life. Count these days in your life. These were precious days.
Even if you have merely heard Gorakh’s ambrosial words, even if they have only fallen upon your ears, much will happen. They will become seeds; at the right time they will begin to sprout.
The time that was spent in conversations with the compassionate moralizers—do not count that time in the measure of life.
The poet has said it rightly: O Lord, the time squandered in religious discussion with pundits and priests—do not count that time in my life. It went to waste.
The time that was spent in conversations with the compassionate moralizers—do not count that time in the measure of life.
But Gorakh is no pundit; he is a knower. What Gorakh has said, he has said from knowing. The time spent in converse with him—you may count that in your life. Those days will go on shining. In those days a different light and a different music descended.
Gorakh’s words are straight and clear. Even after hundreds of years their sting is alive. Whoever is not entirely dead will still feel gooseflesh arise in the heart. Whoever has not decayed into insensitivity will find the strings of the heart’s veena stirred.
In every vessel, Gorakh’s garden-bed.
In each and every heart there is his garden. Garden—the symbol is dear! Whatever man builds may indeed be built, but it does not grow. How many sky-touching buildings we raise; they may be built, but they are dead—no growth. And where there is no growth, there is no life. Hence whatever man constructs is dead. Whatever is made by the Divine grows. There is movement in it; it is dynamic. A seed—how like a stone it seems! But soon a sprout breaks through. Soon leaves emerge. Soon branches… soon a great tree stands forth. You could not have imagined that such a tree was hidden in that seed. To think that so vast a tree lay concealed within—unthinkable even in dreams! Hidden it was, merely awaiting manifestation.
So it is with man. The vast is hidden within him, awaiting only the spring. And whoever has found satsang—his spring has come. Whoever has found the Sadguru—his time has arrived, his hour has struck; the moment has come for the seed to break. Only in the Sadguru’s soil, only in the spring of satsang, can you sprout.
Most unfortunate are those who live like a seed and die like a seed. For they never come to know how much greenery lay concealed within; how much life they carried within themselves; how many scarlet blossoms were hidden inside! How many branches might have spread into the sky, how many conversations with the clouds, how many meetings with the moon and stars! Flowers could have bloomed and fragrance spread. How many travelers might have rested beneath them; how many birds might have built nests on those boughs.
If you break the seed, you will find nothing. If you break it open, not a single leaf will appear. Yet leaves without number could have been. Even the breaking of the seed requires the right arrangement.
If you break a man as science breaks things, you will not find the soul. You have simply smashed the seed. You pick up a stone and crush the seed to powder—and then you ask, Where are the leaves in this, and the flowers, and the fragrance, and the greenery? Where are those branches of which so much was said? You will find nothing. You have broken the seed in a wrong way. The seed must fall into the earth and be broken. It must break from within; it must not be broken by another. It must melt into the earth. Slowly, slowly—shanaih shanaih—it should be absorbed into the soil. From that very absorption the tree will arise and awaken; what lay asleep will manifest. So is man. If the scientist’s investigation is applied to man, neither Atman will be found nor Paramatma; no meditation, no love, no flowers, no fragrance, no music—nothing at all. It is as if someone breaks a veena and thinks that by breaking the veena he will obtain the music! The veena is filled with music… it is filled, but not obtained by breaking. It must be awakened; it slumbers, it must be roused; it must be called. The magic of an artist’s fingers is needed—to awaken the sleeping, to invite forth what is hidden; to lift the veil!
In every vessel, Gorakh’s garden-bed.
Gorakh says: In each and every heart, in each and every vessel, his garden is present, ready, hidden. You can become an entire grove. But the right season is needed. The right soil is needed. A conducive climate is needed. To create precisely this conducive climate the Sadgurus again and again, through centuries, have created satsangs. Buddha formed a Sangha—that was satsang. There, thousands of seeds broke and became trees. Gorakh too created satsang. These words are addressed to those very ones.
I call you sannyasins; Gorakh called his sannyasins avadhuts. These words are addressed to avadhuts—those who were ready to break, ready to die, ready to be effaced.
O accountant—profit and loss is not weighed in love.
This bargain is another bargain; this world is another world.
In love one does not reckon gain and loss.
O accountant—profit and loss is not weighed in love.
Whoever calculates profit and loss remains deprived of love. And to be with the Sadguru is the supreme event of love. To drown in satsang is the ultimate consummation of love.
O accountant—profit and loss is not weighed in love.
This bargain is another bargain; this world is another world.
It is a bargain wherein by losing you win; by letting go you receive.
This bargain is another bargain; this world is another world.
And those who enter such a world, who dare to make such a bargain—their seeds within break open. In infinite hues the Divine manifests within them. They become garden-beds. They become groves revealed in spring.
In every vessel, Gorakh’s garden-bed. Whatever sprouts, that alone is ours.
But mark well: only as much as manifests can become yours.
Whatever sprouts…
As yet nothing has manifested. You are only a seed. Therefore, nothing is in your hands yet, only a possibility. Possibility must be made actual.
Whatever sprouts, that alone is ours.
Only that much will be yours as has become manifest. Keep this in deep awareness, guard it; it is of immense value.
Whatever sprouts, that alone is ours.
Only that is yours which you have brought forth from within. That song alone is yours which you have sung. That music alone is yours which you have awakened on your veena. Those flowers alone are yours which have blossomed and poured their fragrance into the air. The unmanifest is not yours. What control have you over the hidden? Lift the veil! When the veil rises, the face that is revealed—that alone is yours. And much is hidden—boundless is hidden. You will not be able to exhaust it; so much is hidden.
Have you ever thought, a tiny seed can green the whole earth! Have you seen the infinity of a tiny seed? The ocean hidden in a point? Scientists say that a single seed could green the whole earth. From one seed a thousand seeds; from thousands, millions; from millions, billions. Let a single seed fall upon the soil, then it is merely a question of time—the whole earth will be green.
If a single seed has such capacity, how much capacity must that point within you have! How much capacity must the seed of consciousness within you possess! All that has manifested in the Buddhas and the Jinas is hidden within you. Qurans lie concealed within you—sing, and they will be yours. And Gitas are pressed within you—awaken them, and they will be yours. But you sing the Gitas of others, recite the Qurans of others. You find no leisure to awaken yourself. You do not call to yourself; you live on loan. You purchase flowers from the market and arrange bouquets. Your garden-bed is unfortunate. You are born with inexhaustible wealth yet never lay claim to it. Only that is yours—remember—whatever sprouts, that alone is ours.
In every vessel, Gorakh tells a tale.
Gorakh says: I am calling you. What I am saying—these sayings of mine—are an invocation for you. This is not mere talk—this is a call. If you listen, that which is still unmanifest within you will become manifest. The dance lying dormant in your feet will ripple the earth. And the incomparable sky within you—when it manifests, creation will be enriched!
In every vessel, Gorakh tells a tale.
Therefore he says: I would speak in each and every vessel. I want to tell this story to one and all. This is the story of your future. For Gorakh it has become the past. This is the difference between Guru and disciple. What has become past for the Guru is the future for the disciple. What has become actual in the Guru is potential in the disciple. What is the Guru’s yesterday is the disciple’s tomorrow. And if today these two meet—then satsang. Where yesterday and tomorrow meet, that is what we call today. In this moment all the past pours in and all the future arrives. When the actualized one meets the potential one, in that moment satsang happens. The spark of that meeting is called satsang. And that spark is extraordinary. Once lit, it knows not how to be extinguished.
In every vessel, Gorakh tells a tale. In an unbaked pot, water does not remain.
Keep this in mind: Paramatma is ready to pour down, but if you are an unbaked pitcher, you will not be able to hold it. It is not that the Divine has not rained upon you—it has—but you are an unbaked pot! Thus the rain of the Divine, instead of becoming good fortune, turns into misfortune. For those who know, misfortune too is good fortune; for those who do not, even good fortune becomes misfortune.
Paramatma comes to you in many forms, yet you do not recognize—unbaked pots! The rain falls, and a moment of misfortune arrives for you. Ripen! How will you ripen? You must pass through fire. Hence the color chosen through centuries for sannyas—ochre—its reason is simply this: it is the color of fire. You must pass through fire, through sadhana, then you will be refined, then you will be baked.
In satsang, the call is heard. In sadhana, the call is put to experiment. In satsang the understanding settles; in sadhana, your life is transformed in accord with that understanding. Sadhana is the method to bake the unbaked pot within you.
In every vessel, Gorakh tells a tale. In an unbaked pot, water does not remain.
Gorakh says: I call, I rain down. But the pots are unbaked; water does not stay in them. They even turn angry. The unbaked pot will indeed be angry. Its life is spoiled. What is a rain for it but devastation—it dissolves. The rain did not become good fortune; it became misfortune. The unbaked pot will fear the rain. But the pot that fears the rain—how will it ever be filled? The unbaked pot will never be filled; it will remain empty.
Therefore most people’s lives are meaningless—void, hollow… no stream of nectar flowing within. One does not even feel why one lives, for what? What is the purpose? If we had not been, what loss? Being here, what gain? People somehow live, carrying the burden of life. But there is no dance, no song, no festival in this life. And where there is no dance, no celebration, no song—how can gratitude to the Divine arise? Only those who are blessed can offer thanks. And gratitude is prayer; gratitude is worship.
Here too Thou art, there too Thou art; the earth is Thine, the firmament is Thine—
Yet we have never found any address where we might meet Thee.
A strange thing—paradoxical—that He is everywhere, yet His address is found nowhere! Ask anyone, Where is God? no one can answer. Those who know say: He is everywhere. But if you ask them to give a precise address, so that you may go and behold Him—no address can be given.
Here too Thou art, there too Thou art; the earth is Thine, the firmament is Thine—
So we hear: the sky is Thine and the earth is Thine. Here too Thou art and there too Thou art—everywhere Thou art.
Yet we have never found any address of Thine.
The address will not be found until His being is known within. That He is in the sky is conjecture, hearsay—the knowers say so. The earth is His—so it must be; all the Buddhas say so, so it is likely right. But this is trust, not experience. The primary experience happens within; from there the address is known. And to the one who found it there, thereafter His address is everywhere. Then everywhere is He. Whoever has seen Him within begins to see Him everywhere. Whoever has seen the inner nada, thereafter any sound anywhere evokes His remembrance.
For my own good it was that I crossed beyond my limits—
Divinity came into my hands when I renounced my selfhood.
But when does one know Him within? When one effaces oneself. Hence the symbol of the seed is apt.
For my own good it was that I crossed beyond my limits—
Divinity came into my hands when I renounced my selfhood.
When one surrenders oneself, one comes to know the ultimate meaning of the self. The seed, when it perishes, becomes the tree. And the drop, when it disappears into the ocean, becomes the ocean. Then, waking or sleeping, rising or sitting—all is prayer.
What to say of the etiquette of Thy lane—
In the heart’s language, this alone is namaz.
Whoever has found His lane—sitting in it, rising in it—
In the heart’s language, this alone is namaz.
Then this is prayer.
Silent, in every vessel, Gorakh roams.
Gorakh says that Paramatma moves about silently, without sound, in each and every heart, calling.
Silent, in every vessel, Gorakh roams—
He awakens, and silently—no sound, no noise. His footsteps are unheard; He comes soundless.
Silent, in every vessel, Gorakh roams. In some vessels one is awake, in some asleep.
Yet rarely is one found awake. The Divine comes daily, in infinite forms. But rarely is one found awake; when an awakened one is found—there is meeting. Most are asleep.
In some vessels one is awake, in some asleep.
Someone is waking, someone is sleeping. To the sleeping one, the Divine also comes. Spring comes for those seeds that fell into the soil and decayed—and for those seeds that did not fall, clinging to themselves. Spring comes for all. Spring has no condition; when it comes, it comes for all.
But those who have lost themselves in the earth, who have lost their selfhood—they will take full benefit of spring; those who clutch themselves, they will remain deprived.
If, cleaving the hush of night,
Some unknown note
Echoes in your chamber, Beloved—do not think
It is the watchman’s call.
If on your couch your careless tresses,
By some touch, begin to tremble—
Do not think by mistake
Some insolent dream has come to kiss your drowsy lids.
If, crossing all the latches of your windows,
Some roseate fragrance comes near,
Do not be deluded—
The tender moonlight has merely ripened.
Behind the sounds there will be footsteps concealed;
Beyond the shivers there will be fingers.
Lift the shimmering veil and see—
In these very instants, in these very forms,
Beloved, every day I will come to you.
The Divine does come, but we explain it away. A gust of wind arrives, a resonant murmur passes through the trees—we say: a breeze arose. Those who know say: the Divine came! In the sky clouds gather, a gentle rain begins—we say: rain fell. Those who know say: He Himself poured down. For those who know, all hints are His hints; all gestures are His. There is none other than He. When a bird calls at dawn—know it is His remembrance. And when the morning rays knock at your door—know it is He who has knocked.
But this for now can only be belief, not knowing. Knowing will arise when within you begin to glimpse Him, however slightly. First the acquaintance within—only then without.
Silent, in every vessel, Gorakh roams. In some vessels one is awake, in some asleep.
Gently—
Gently, O oleander blooms,
Gently fall.
Silence—
Silence, O clamorous tumult,
Be still.
Softly—
Softly, O climbing breeze,
Softly flow.
By this lonely mound—
O moon,
Walk a little slower.
The naive daughter of sadhana
Sleeps here, unaware.
We are asleep—fast asleep. We have slept for births upon births. Spring kept coming—and we slept. The honey-season came and went—and we slept. Morning kept arriving—and we slept. Our darkness did not break. Full moons came, the moon blossomed in the sky, but our new-moon night did not break; our new-moon remained, remained.
The new-moon breaks when sleep breaks. The new-moon breaks when eyes open. The moment the eyes open, it is full moon. The moment the eyes open, only full moon remains.
There is a lovely story in Buddha’s life. Perhaps a story; historically, the likelihood is slight. It could be history; perhaps by sheer coincidence it happened thus. Buddha was born on a full moon day, attained enlightenment on a full moon day, and died on a full moon day. Let us say it is a parable. Such a coincidence is rare—that one is born that day, attains that day, and dies that day. But it could happen—once in millions. Yet that is secondary; history is not valuable, the hidden meaning is deep. For the awakened one, there is only full moon. Then whether birth, life, awakening, death—whatever happens—it is full moon for the awakened.
In Mahavira’s life there is another symbol. Mahavira attained enlightenment on the night of the new moon—on Diwali night. The Jaina symbol regarding Diwali is deeper and dearer than the Hindu symbol. Hindus hold that since Rama returned from conquering Lanka and defeating Ravana, Diwali was celebrated in joy. That victory-procession is not the greatest victory. The Jaina symbol seems more meaningful—Mahavira attained nirvana. On the night of the new moon, for Mahavira, suddenly it became a night of full moon. Therefore I say this symbol is even more significant than Buddha’s: the new-moon night suddenly became full moon!
What could we do? We had no other means, so we lit many lamps. What else could we do? We are blind people… we know nothing of inner lamps. For Mahavira, suddenly the new moon became full moon. What could we do to honor this symbol? We lit many lamps. We attempted an outer illumination. The outer lights will be lit and will go out. Diwali will come and go; but the lamp ignited in Mahavira does not go out. That lamp does not know how to be extinguished.
You have celebrated too many outer Diwalis; now celebrate the inner Diwali. There the darkness has to be shattered—and there it can be. You have the right to shatter it. If you do not, none but you is responsible. Do not complain of another; do not shift the burden to circumstance—this happened, that happened, hence I could not. The circumstance to break it is created every day; you go on denying it, refusing it—that is another matter. At your door too the Buddhas have knocked. At your door too Gorakh has awakened the Alakh. You simply do not listen.
Silent, in every vessel, Gorakh roams. In some vessels one is awake, in some asleep.
In every vessel, Gorakh; in every vessel, the fish.
A very dear saying! Gorakh’s Guru was Machhindranath. Fish—meen—is his symbol. Gorakh says:
In every vessel, Gorakh; in every vessel, the fish.
In every vessel there is Gorakh and Machhindranath hidden. In each one, the disciple is hidden and the Guru as well. But people do not recognize that both are hidden within. The one who is to awaken is hidden; the one who will awaken him is hidden. Within you both flints are present; only a little friction is needed, and fire will appear. The Guru you discover outside is nothing but the reflection of your inner Guru. The outer Guru is a mirror in which you catch a glimpse of the inner hidden Guru. Just as someone played a veena outside and a tickling spread in your heart and a music flashed within; just as morning dawned outside, freshness spread… and your sleep broke; freshness came within and morning dawned within. Just as you bathed—yes, the bath was outside; but when the body cooled, the mind cooled within. So is the outer Guru—there to strike upon the inner Guru.
In every vessel, Gorakh; in every vessel, the fish.
Gorakh says: I want to tell you this: within you your Guru is hidden and your disciple too. But the journey must begin from the disciple. Whoever cannot recognize the disciple within—how will he recognize the Guru? Everyone is ready to be a Guru. Who does not want to be a Guru? But only a very few have the capacity to be disciples. And those who have that capacity—one day they become Gurus. To be a disciple rubs against the ego. Anyone wants to be a Guru.
People come to me here. They meditate for ten days, stay for a little while, and immediately they are filled with the ambition to become Gurus. They begin advising others. They themselves have not understood yet. Nothing has dawned, and they set out to show it to others. They even ask me. Such uncomprehending people! They ask me: We are going back to our village; may we now instruct others? May we lead meditations for others? Because we have seen everything by meditating for ten days—as though meditation is something to run through as a procedure for ten days, and thereby you know meditation! But the greater fun is in telling others; in leading others.
The ambition to be a leader is great! Whether in politics or religion, the ambition to lead belongs to the ego. So you gather junk and empty it on others’ heads. You know nothing. Even if your little child asks you, Is there a God?—have you ever noticed with what conceit you say, Yes, there is God; when you grow up you will know. You have not known yourself, yet you deceive your child. You deceive your innocent child! You deceive the guileless. Then someday, sooner or later, this child will come to see that you too know nothing of God. Then if his entire reverence for you collapses—what surprise?
This is why the children’s reverence toward parents collapses—parents made false promises, false claims, which time uproots. One day the child sees your nakedness—you too know nothing. But you deceived him when he was helpless.
Psychologists say the greatest reason across the world for the loss of reverence toward parents is precisely this: the child catches sight of the hypocrisy. If only you had been honest! When your son asked you if God exists, if you had said, I am searching; I have not found Him yet; you too search. Until I find, how can I say He is, or He is not? I cannot say anything; I am helpless.
Had you revealed your poverty, then when the child grew, he would have retained reverence for you forever—you are an honest man. You did not deceive. You did not lie. And if you had told your child, You also seek, as I do. And if you find before I do, tell me; if I find before you, I will tell you. Had you shown such respect, reverence could not break.
In the universities there is no reverence toward teachers; the reason is plain: there is nothing worthy of reverence. You speak falsehoods with no coordination between your words and your life. You speak of things you do not know. You speak because you have to; because the syllabus demands it.
When I was a student at the university, I was shifted from one college to another—expelled. Teachers grew angry with me. I was a student of philosophy; I asked the professor: First clarify, do you know from your own experience what you are teaching? He became furious: If I did not know, how would I teach?
I said: I am not asking if you have read books. The books you have read—I too can read, I am reading. I ask: have you experienced?
He was lecturing on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. I asked: Have you practiced meditation? Have you any experience of Samadhi? Have you known any state of nirvikalpa?
He wrote to the Vice-Chancellor: I create trouble. Either he would resign or I must be sent elsewhere; we cannot be in the same class. He said I made him restless. I asked such things that if he answered honestly, he would have to admit he knows nothing; yet if he admitted that, the class would say, Then what are you teaching? So he could not say he did not know. He had to assume that he knew.
I even met him and said, Say once, clearly, that you do not know. I will not disturb you then—only say it once.
He said: How can I say I do not know? If I say I do not know, then what am I doing here? I cannot say it. You must stop such questions.
I said: I will continue asking until a true answer comes. Your face shows that you do not know. You have no experience of the unconditioned, contentless consciousness. The moment I pose a question you become so uneasy.
There can be no respect for such teachers—the basic ground of respect is absent. But every person wants to be a Guru. Remember: both are hidden within you—Guru and disciple. But begin with being a disciple—then you will reach Guru-ness. And then that Guruness will be alive, grounded in experience.
In every vessel, Gorakh; in every vessel, the fish. Know yourself; recognize the Guru’s face.
There are two meanings here, both dear—until you have recognized the face of the Guru, until you have found your Guru, you will not know yourself. A man cannot see his own face directly; he sees it in a mirror. Yes, having seen it once in the mirror, a recognition of your face begins. But the first experience is through a mirror.
Think: if you had never seen a mirror, and suddenly you met yourself—would you recognize that this is me? You could not. You would have no idea of your face. And your face is with you. The mirror does not give you a face. It gives nothing; it simply offers a glimpse, a reflection. What you cannot see directly, you see in the mirror’s image. Then slowly, a recognition of your face arises.
The Guru is a mirror.
Your first recognition must be: who is your Guru? You must fall in love with someone. And love is not made—it happens. Only do not hinder, and it will happen. Many times you have come near a Guru and the moment was about to happen—it was on the verge—and you missed. You set up a thousand obstacles. You raised a thousand questions. You piled up a thousand doubts, a thousand suspicions. And that little upsurge of love—was buried under mountains.
The Guru is known through the upsurge of love. In whose presence your heart fills with bliss, a wave of peace runs through, a hush descends; you are enchanted by a magic, something touches your heart; your rhythm falls in tune; your breath begins to move with another’s breath; your heart begins to beat with another’s.
As love happens, so the quest for the Guru happens. It is a great love—the pinnacle of love. But you raise a thousand questions: Is he Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Jaina? What does he eat, drink? How does he dress, sit, move? You bring in twenty-five considerations. In the same considerations, in those indecisions, with that noise—the little upsurge of love is lost. Love rises very delicately; it is hard for it to arise, easy for it to be lost. In the clamor of your mind, that subtle voice beginning within is destroyed. You drown again in your own noise, and return.
Recognize the Guru…
Know yourself; recognize the Guru’s face.
Whoever has recognized the face of the Guru has taken the greatest step. Now it will not be long before you recognize yourself. To recognize the Guru means: you have become a disciple. Becoming a disciple—half the work is done. Half of you has attained. The other half remains. That half will ripen, sitting and walking with the Guru—any day it will be complete. But an obstacle arises from your conditionings.
If only you would leave this decision to my heart—
Whom I should worship, who should become my God—
Then all would be easy. But your society will not allow it.
If only you would leave this decision to my heart—
Whom I should worship, who should become my God—
But parents seize the neck of the little child! The child is born—neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian—yet parents grab his neck. Quickly… the circumcision, the baptism, the sacred thread—anything at all, quickly! Entangle him in the priest’s circle. This helpless child, this blank page—scribble upon it. Before awareness dawns, fill his head with futile things—with beliefs, with prejudices. Then all his life he will see through those prejudices. And because of that seeing, the event of love will not happen. For the event of love, prejudices must be set aside; they must be removed. For who knows in what form the Guru will come? In a mosque, in a temple, in a gurudwara—who knows?
When the world is better and people a bit more understanding, they will tell their children: Go, go to all temples—go to temples, go to mosques, go to the gurudwara, go to the church, also go to the fire-temple; go wherever you can. Seek everywhere—who knows where you may find him; who knows which mirror will please your heart! And whichever pleases your heart—that is your Guru. No other can decide this for you.
But we let others decide everything. We do not even let our children love. Parents decide their marriages. We do not give love a chance—we kill it entirely. Therefore we used to bind children in marriage. Because when they grow, it will not be so easy. If you try to bind a youth to a maiden, he will say: But I feel no affinity. Little children, who know nothing, who have no sense of what is happening, are more delighted that they are riding a horse. They care for the horse. The band is playing—they are delighted! They ride the horse, a crown upon their head, a sword at the side—they are in bliss! Their joy is in the sword, the horse, the band; they know not what is happening! They are being bound into a lifelong trouble and they know nothing of it.
Children have their own curiosities. I have heard: A man lived in a town. He took his child to the park each day. The boy had a great fascination for a statue of Napoleon—mounted on a horse, the horse leaping. The child always dragged his father there: Let’s go to Napoleon. The father was pleased that the child had such eagerness for Napoleon. They would sit awhile before the horse and Napoleon. When the time for transfer came, the father was transferred; the boy said: Once more let’s see Napoleon for the last time. The father took him to the garden. He said: You never ask anything about Napoleon though your curiosity is great. The boy said: I’ll ask today. Napoleon is fine—but who is that fellow riding on him? I don’t like him at all. For the boy, Napoleon was the horse. The rider did not appeal to him. Napoleon was magnificent!
Children have their own ways, their own thinking. You married a child. He knows nothing—you are forcing him under a spell. And you have done just the same with the Guru. These are the two great events of life: one is the event of physical love, the other of spiritual love. You have killed both. You have cut both away. If the world becomes love-less, what surprise? Neither is there physical love nor spiritual love.
The father was a Muslim; the son is told: Do not go anywhere but the mosque. Is it certain that in the mosque he will find his Guru? Very little chance. For those who attain to the qualification of Guru—rarely do they become temple or mosque priests. Rarely! Who will engage in such a futile business? Who will be traditional? Whoever has known Truth is bound by no scripture and no tradition; he is a witness of the Divine. He will stand in his own stature. He will speak from his own authority.
So in temple or mosque you find priests, pundits, mullahs—but the Guru is not found. And because of these Gurus-in-name, the true Guru becomes hard to find. People come and ask me: Is there no harm in this? No sin in it? As children someone blew a mantra in our ears. If we make you our Guru, will it be a betrayal?
I tell them: Did you choose that Guru? They say: We knew nothing; our father had our ears blown by someone. Now a doubt has taken hold—if one Guru is already there, how can we take another? And you did not choose that Guru. Had you chosen, no other would be needed. But a deception occurred. You hold a counterfeit coin; because of it, even if a true coin is found, you cannot let go of the false. For to drop the false feels like committing a sin. For so many days you considered him a Guru—how to drop him? It has become a habit; a deep conditioning.
If only you would leave this decision to my heart—
Whom I should worship, who should become my God—
Then things would be easy.
In a good world no one would superimpose anything on a human being’s physical love or spiritual love. People would choose their lover themselves; people would choose their Guru themselves. At least love must be free. There should be no chains upon it. But there are tremendous chains upon love! Only upon love are there chains; upon hatred there are none. Hatred is entirely free. Chains are upon love; walls upon affection.
Man has lived without love. And what you call love are deceptions, not love. And by deception there is no fulfillment. Can false food nourish?
The second meaning of “Know yourself; recognize the Guru’s face.”
First meaning: First recognize the face of the Guru. Where your heart trembles with delight, then do not worry whether he aligns with your beliefs or not. The heart does not care for beliefs. In the heart, a storm comes, a flood; it breaks the banks and flows. One meaning.
Second meaning:
“Know yourself; recognize the Guru’s face”—then, the marks given by the Guru’s mouth for knowing oneself—understand them. Whatever marks he gives, the milestones he points out for the inner journey—understand them.
Listen, O virtuous; listen, O wise.
Listen to the Guru’s word with great awareness; do not hear it in a trance. Otherwise you will not recognize. This is the matter of the subtle.
Listen, O virtuous; listen, O wise—the speech of infinite Siddhas.
And the wonder is: when one Guru speaks, it is the speech of infinite Siddhas. There will be differences of expression, different words, different symbols—but when one Siddha speaks, it is the voice of all Siddhas. It cannot be otherwise. He who has found one Siddha has found the whole lineage of Siddhas—not one sectarian lineage, but all lineages. One who has found the Guru has found Muhammad in the Guru, and Mahavira as well; Zoroaster as well, and Buddha too; Lao Tzu and Bodhidharma. Whoever has found one Guru has found all the Gurus of the world, for their key is one. The key is single, by which the lock of existence opens.
Listen, O virtuous; listen, O wise—the speech of infinite Siddhas.
Gorakh says: What I am saying is not mine alone; it is the voice of infinite Siddhas.
By bowing the head, the Satguru is found; the waking night becomes dawn.
And whoever has the capacity to bow the head—he certainly finds the Satguru. The capacity to bow—that is the one indispensable condition. Those who are ready to bow find the Guru. A beautiful saying!
By bowing the head, the Satguru is found…
The moment you bow here, the Guru is found there. The meeting is instantaneous.
A thousand lights can be sacrificed to that very longing for the Beloved’s vision—
Whose very life becomes the longing for vision.
All light can be poured out for the single yearning of that one…
A thousand lights can be sacrificed to that very longing for the Beloved’s vision—
…whose whole being is but a single thirst—for the seeing of Truth, or the seeing of the Lord. Whoever has that yearning within need only do one thing more: when the heart thrills, when the life-breath calls, be ready to bow the head, be ready to melt the ego.
By bowing the head, the Satguru is found; the waking night becomes dawn.
Then even night becomes day. Even sleep becomes awakening.
The waking night becomes dawn.
Once the Guru is met, a relationship is established with light, with wakefulness. Then in sleep too there is awareness. Without the Guru all is desolate.
The evening today is such a sorrow—
A sense of distance from oneself;
As if someone’s fortune lay asleep;
As if, in the lover’s heart, a fear of the rival;
As if a silent death-agony;
As if smoke rising from the pyre;
As if sight were powerless in darkness;
As if a widow’s journey to her mother’s home;
As if the goal were far, far away;
As if the caravan were plundered and lost—
No lute, no cup—
Ah, this evening, a sorrowing evening.
Life without the Guru is such—no music, no wine. No veena sings, no goblet of ecstasy fills.
No lute, no cup—
Ah, this evening, a sorrowing evening.
As long as life is not linked to Truth, morning is evening and day is night, full moon is new moon. And life is a long series of deaths—nothing more. Become related to Truth; connect with one who knows the Truth; connect with one in whose eyes there is a glimpse of the Divine—and you are connected to the Divine. Connected to the knower of God—connected to God. Now even evening is morning. Night is day. Now death will be but a vision of the immortal.
Remain in unmani; reveal no secret.
And when this happens—when the Guru is met, the heart upheaves, the veena resounds—remain inwardly absorbed in unmani. Reveal no secret.
Why? Because none will understand; people will think you have gone mad.
This is like Majnun falling in love with Laila. It does not mean the whole world will fall in love with Laila. Those who are not in love will call Majnun insane. You have seen—lovers are thought mad. The one who has gone mad with love alone seems sane to himself; to all others he seems mad. For what he sees is seen by none. And what he sees cannot be shown to another, because the very condition for seeing it is love. Understand this obstacle well.
A king summoned Majnun to his court. He placed his twelve most beautiful women before him. He said: I hear you cry in the streets—Laila, Laila. The town suffers for you. I thought Laila must be extraordinarily beautiful. I too am a lover of beauty, a connoisseur. I saw Laila secretly—and found her very ordinary. You are mad, chasing a fantasy. I felt such pity that I called you here—choose any of these twelve beauties of my kingdom.
Majnun went to each and said no—not this one, not this. When he had refused all twelve, the king said: Are you sane? There are no women more beautiful in this realm. Laila is nothing before them.
Majnun laughed: No—the eyes needed to see Laila are Majnun’s eyes. You have no eyes. You have not seen Laila. The Laila I have seen, you have not; you saw someone else.
A poet looks at a flower and sees beauty. A scientist looks and sees no beauty. If a chemist, he sees only chemical facts. A gardener sees only the price he can get at the market.
Bernard Shaw never plucked a flower. A friend came to see him, bringing flowers from his garden. Bernard Shaw grew very angry. The friend said: What are you saying? I thought, such a great man of letters, you would love flowers.
He said: I do—hence my anger. Why did you pluck them? I thought to arrange a bouquet in your room.
He said: I love children too—should I cut off their heads to arrange a bouquet?
What Bernard Shaw saw in the flower—few have seen. Such love, such beauty, that to pluck a flower is like cutting a child’s head!
So remember, the one in whom you see the Guru—it is not necessary that all will. The truth is that precisely those closest to you will not. They will become your enemies. If the husband finds a Guru, the wife is troubled—what is this new nonsense? A third person has come between us. Now the husband is no longer mine.
Wives come and complain: What have you done? Why have you come between us? All was well—and my husband has gone mad after you. Now I am number two. His concern is somewhere else.
How will a wife tolerate it? And if the wife has chosen a Guru, greater trouble—then the husband’s ego is pierced. He cannot accept that there is any other God besides the husband; the husband is God! And the wife begins to bow at someone’s feet—and she doesn’t bow like that to the husband. What wife bows at the husband’s feet? She keeps the husband bowing instead!
Once the Guru is found, those nearest will turn against you. They will have to make a new arrangement with you, because you are becoming new. A new event has happened in your life—no small event; one that overturns your whole life. Now your life will be structured anew. Those related to you will also have to restructure their lives if they are to remain with you; otherwise relationships will be uprooted, broken. Hence, meeting the Guru is a revolution.
Gorakh says it rightly:
Remain in unmani; reveal no secret; drink the spring-water within.
Drink silently within; merge silently within. Do not go about praising your Guru—even if your mind yearns to; who would not? Whoever has found a Guru wants to climb the rooftops and shout to the world: Fools! Where are you going? Come to my Guru! This is natural. But the more you honor your Guru, the more others will insult him. The more you praise, the more others will slander. To accept your Guru would mean accepting your insight. Who will accept your insight? In denigrating your Guru, they say you are a fool, a simpleton—into whose trap have you fallen? You are mad, you are bewitched, hypnotized!
Even your closest friend will not accept that you found a Guru before he did. That would mean you are such a vessel, so worthy—that he saw nothing, and you saw; you, with such eyes, such intelligence! No—his ego will be hurt. He will try by every means to prove you wrong. To prove you wrong, the one method is to abuse your Guru.
Yesterday someone asked me: Why are so many against you? I said: It is quite natural—some are so much in love with me! And if one person falls in love, at least fifty will be against, for the fifty connected to that one all become opposed to me: his son, wife, brothers, relatives—his entire web of relations. If one person stands on one side, fifty stand on the other.
I told him: Understand one thing clearly, a decision about me will have to be made—either in favor or against; in both cases you are connected with me. In both cases you cannot escape me. And the one who is against can become in favor any day. For the one in favor can become against any day. No surprise. Here friend becomes foe, foe becomes friend. Whoever is connected—even if as an opponent—may someday become a friend.
Such events happen here daily. As long as the husband was eager, the wife was against; once the husband lost interest, the wife became eager. It is a quarrel—the husband changed color, the wife changed color.
People’s minds are strange. And they live in a trance, not knowing why they speak what they speak, do what they do, love or hate whom they do.
Remain in unmani; reveal no secret; drink the spring-water within.
Joined in the Guru’s love, the spring will begin to flow within—drink it.
Bind not, bind not
The ascending fragrance
Into petals of meter,
Into strands of song.
Do not imprison Ganga’s stream
In the jails of banks.
Do not fetter
The luminous rays—
Receive them still, receive them still!
Drink silently, carry silently, carry within. Absorb as much as you can. One day it will overflow from you. But do not make it overflow. When it begins to flow of its own accord, when you are helpless—then speak. Till then, guard it. As a woman, once pregnant, protects the child for nine months. One day it will come out—how long can it remain within the womb? But let it come of itself; otherwise a miscarriage. Do not be in haste; a word spoken before its time has no value.
Remain in unmani; reveal no secret; drink the spring-water within.
Leave Lanka, go to Planka; then receive the Guru’s word.
And slowly, whatever is futile—Lanka is its symbol—the golden Lanka, all that the world deems valuable—when it becomes hollow to you, when you leave Lanka and become a resident of Planka—when wealth, position, prestige, pride—when that whole world seems worthless—
Then receive the Guru’s word.
Then you will be able to bear what the Guru gives; you will be able to become pregnant from the Guru. Fortunate is the one who can bow before someone; who finds a threshold where bowing is easy.
He who never found the chance to prostrate at the Beloved’s door—
He is not, by our reckoning, even a human being.
If the bow at the Beloved’s threshold was not his destiny…
He who never found the chance to prostrate at the Beloved’s door—
He is not, by our account, yet a man. One becomes a man when the disciple within is born. The day the disciple appears, you become human. The day the Guru appears within, you become Divine. The disciple is the apex of your humanity. The advent of the Guru within is the advent of divinity. Whenever that threshold appears—where you feel to bow—do not miss; do not postpone to tomorrow.
Why should I not pour out my heart today?
This drop of blood—who knows if it will be here tomorrow.
Who knows about tomorrow? Whether this heart will beat, whether this blood will flow, whether breath will pass.
Why should I not pour out my heart today?
Therefore surrender today, this very moment. Tomorrow has no guarantee.
Then receive the Guru’s word.
And he who is so surrendered, who has taken his eyes off the worthless and walks toward the essence—who has turned from without to within—only he is worthy of what the Guru wants to give, the prasad the Guru longs to share.
He arches a sky without pillars; a lamp without wick and oil.
Gorakh the Guru’s words are pleasing—where there is no day there is no night.
And the Guru is a miracle-worker. But the miracle can happen only when you are a vessel.
He arches a sky without pillars!
He wants to give you a sky that stands without supports.
He arches a sky without pillars!
When we build temples, we raise pillars; then only can we make a roof. But see this sky’s roof! A vault is there—but without any support! Such a sky is within too—the Guru will give it. A temple that stands not on any pillar, any support. A temple not of bricks—the temple of consciousness. The true temple.
He arches a sky without pillars; a lamp without wick and oil.
So far you have seen lamps in which wick burns by oil. When oil is spent, the lamp dies. When wick ends, the lamp is out. These lamps burn for a while and go out. The Guru would give a lamp—without wick, without oil. Neither wick nor oil—only light. Unsupported light. That light is eternal. Having no cause, there is no way for it to end.
Gorakh the Guru’s words are pleasing.
Once you fall in love with the Guru’s words—“pleasing” is a lovely word! When love rises, when the heart is moved, when gooseflesh arises—
Gorakh the Guru’s words are pleasing—then there is neither day nor night.
From that very day, from the day love is stirred, the experience of that realm begins—where there is neither day nor night; where there is no duality; neither life nor death; neither happiness nor sorrow; neither success nor failure—where there is one alone, uncolored, without options, formless… where Only One abides, where two are not.
Touch the pain of my life-breaths—become love.
Whatever was tangled—untangle it today.
Whatever was untangled—tangle it today.
Dry the monsoons of my eyes today;
I wish to suffer—make me suffer today;
O eyes’ Beloved—become the law of love.
Touch the pain of my life-breaths—become love.
Become the Swati of tenderness—let me thirst for life;
My heart’s chatak—do not give too much darshan.
If you steal the smile of my lips—I will know you.
Make me only this—then I will count myself blessed.
Become the eternal past of the present—
Touch the pain of my life-breaths—become love.
Before me there is no false adornment;
No basis for dreamy hopes.
Arrange the scattered strings of my veena;
By a gesture, make it sing for a moment today.
Sing my songs—become my friend—
Touch the pain of my life-breaths—become love.
This is the meaning of “pleasing”: Make my heart’s veena resound—make it vibrate!
Arrange the scattered strings of my veena;
By a gesture, make it sing for a moment today.
Sing my songs—become my friend—
Touch the pain of my life-breaths—become love.
The day the Guru’s words taste like nectar; the day you drink them as the chatak drinks the Swati drop; the day there remains no barrier between you and the Guru—you become naked, leaving aside protections; you do not remain guarded, distant, separate; you become joined, you vibrate with the Guru’s wave—on that instant:
Gorakh the Guru’s words are pleasing—then there is neither day nor night!
In that very instant duality vanishes, the Two dissolves; Advaita is born.
No rising, no setting; no night, no day.
There no morning, no evening.
No rising, no setting; no night, no day—everything that moves and is unmoving is not different in essence.
There the sense of separation is absent; there abides the indivisible.
That One, stainless—no branch, no root.
There is neither root nor branch—not even that little difference; only the stainless One.
That One, stainless—no branch, no root! All-pervading beauty, neither gross nor subtle.
There neither gross nor subtle. Neither body nor soul, neither matter nor consciousness. There all is one—become one. Whoever dissolves into that Advaita alone knows, alone attains.
The speech of infinite Siddhas!
These are the words of infinite Siddhas.
Says the Avadhut: there neither sky nor earth.
There is no earth nor sky; no king nor beggar.
No moon nor sun, no day nor night.
No Omkar nor form, neither subtle nor gross; no tree, no leaves, no fruit, no flower.
There all is dissolved into One.
No tree, no leaves, no fruit, no flower; Omkar without form, neither subtle nor gross.
Gross and subtle lost; only the sound of Om—the anahat music—resounds. A light burns—without wick, without oil!
I could not offer worship.
In those two moments of meeting, what song could I sing?
Seeing You before me, I forgot myself.
I became mute—Beloved, I could not laud You.
I could not offer worship.
You smiled—the turmoil within me dissolved;
As a moth is enraptured seeing the lamp aflame.
What introduction could I give to love? I could not desire anything.
I could not offer worship.
Did You recognize the silence of the inner pain, Beloved?
What I was hiding—You knew that secret.
All was revealed—I could not complete my sadhana.
I could not offer worship.
Seeing my burden of sorrow, You were melting.
My poor heart’s love was becoming embodied.
You came as if from a dream—I could not ask for anything.
I could not offer worship.
And when such a moment arrives first, the seeker is left speechless.
I could not offer worship!
You came like a dream—I could not ask.
In that moment not a word is spoken—mute, language lost. Silence descends, a great hush. Where there is neither day nor night, neither rising nor setting, there who is I, who Thou? Who worships whom?
I could not offer worship.
In those two moments of meeting, what song could I sing?
Seeing You before me, I forgot myself.
I became mute—Beloved, I could not laud You.
I could not offer worship.
That incomparable experience is therefore never said; upon reaching there, speech drops. Words fall, the wordless remains. Whoever returns from there—how can he say? What he knew was the void. How bind it in words?
Therefore the Buddhas’ eyes are empty. Peer into them and you will find an infinite emptiness. You will not find any thesis there. Yes, you will taste the formless. If you join with the Buddhas’ hearts, you will hear the anahat nada—but no doctrine, no dogma, no scripture.
No branch, no root; no tree, no vine; no moon, no word; no Guru, no disciple!
Neither knowledge nor meditation; neither yoga nor device; neither sin nor virtue; neither in bondage nor free.
A wondrous utterance! Remember it.
No branch, no root; no tree, no vine!
All is gone. The seed gone, the tree gone. First you were the seed. Until you became a disciple, you were the seed. When you became a disciple, you became a tree. And when you became a Guru, even the tree is gone. Now you are dissolved into the void, the formless.
No branch, no root; no tree, no vine; no moon, no word…
There is no word, no doctrine.
No moon, no word; no Guru, no disciple.
There is no Guru, no disciple now. The Guru’s state is precisely that where neither Guru remains nor disciple remains. None remains—only a silence remains—an immeasurable silence, only a void remains. The Guru is an absence—not a presence; an absence. The Guru is a zero. Therefore it is frightening to slide near the Guru, for near the zero—become zero. The Guru is death.
Die, O yogi, die—this death is sweet.
Die the death by which Gorakh beheld.
With the Guru one must die. One must mount the cross. But behind the cross is hidden the throne.
Neither knowledge nor meditation—
There knowledge too goes, and meditation too. Who remains—whose knowledge, whose meditation? Who will meditate, who will know?
Neither yoga nor device—
No yoga there, no device.
Neither sin nor virtue—
Neither sin nor merit.
Neither in bondage nor free—
And wondrous indeed: there is no moksha there either, no liberation. The one who might have become free is no more. Not only bonds are gone—the bound too is gone. Now the expanse is of the void. Now it is sky upon sky; now infinity upon infinity. And that infinity is called divinity.
Neither arising nor perishing; neither coming nor going.
Now you have arrived where there was never any birth, and there is never any death.
Neither arising nor perishing; neither coming nor going.
There is no coming, no going. This alone is called freedom from transmigration. Understand it. Freedom from transmigration does not merely mean you will not be born in the womb again. People think: we will live in heaven, not return to the world of sorrow. In heaven we will live, where the trees are of gold and silver flowers bloom, jewels pave the pathways, rivers of wine flow, beauties dance, cool breezes blow; no heat, no death; none grows old, none falls ill. In such a Devaloka we will be born. You have not understood.
Freedom from transmigration means: where even you will not remain. Not heaven, not hell; neither sin nor virtue. So long as you are, everything remains—heaven and hell, joy and sorrow, bondage and freedom, sin and virtue, coming and going. As long as you are, everything remains. You are the world.
Therefore Buddha denied your existence—said there is no Atman. Understand this. He said it so that the infatuation would not continue. Otherwise people think: in moksha I will remain. Sorrow will end, I will remain. Buddha said: you are the sorrow. As long as you are, sorrow is. When you are gone, only then does sorrow end. But then we are terrified—Then what is the point, people ask. If I am not—what use?
O accountant—profit and loss is not weighed in love.
This bargain is another bargain; this world is another world.
You are still thinking in profit-and-loss. You do not know the taste of dying in love. With the Guru one learns to die. And when, in dying with the Guru, in drowning into the Guru, in being zero with the Guru—when the delight begins to surge—then courage arises. If in this little dying there is so much juice, how much must there be in dying utterly! You will not remain—then bliss will be. Not that I will be blissful. I will not be; then bliss will be. Bliss will dance, bliss will celebrate.
Neither arising nor perishing; neither coming nor going; no old age, no death; no father, no mother.
That which is beginningless, endless—that which you are in your reality—has neither beginning nor end, neither birth nor death. Neither father nor mother.
Says Gorakhnath, servant of Machhindranath!
And listen to this! A moment ago Gorakh said: No branch, no root; no tree, no vine; no moon, no word; no Guru, no disciple. Yet now he says:
Says Gorakhnath—servant of Machhindranath!
Who says: There, no Guru and no disciple. And yet:
Says Gorakhnath—servant of Machhindranath!
There is no hope, no distance—yet there is bhava and bhakti.
There is no web of hope, no desire, no anxiety, no snare—but there is vast feeling; an incomparable flood of feeling! The experiencer does not remain; pure experiencing remains—bhava-bhakti. No hope, no thirst, no craving, no entanglement; yet an ocean of feeling! That very ocean is divinity. The Guru gone, the disciple gone—but the gratitude toward the Guru does not go.
Says Gorakhnath—servant of Machhindranath!
He says: By your grace alone was I able to reach that place where neither Guru nor disciple remain. You brought me gently to where neither you remain nor I. How could I forget such grace? Therefore I still call myself—Gorakhnath, servant of Machhindranath, his sevak.
This is a great paradox! People think that once one has become himself a Guru, attained knowledge, then the Guru is dropped. Certainly he has been dropped—entirely. Yet precisely for this reason an immeasurable feeling of grace becomes dense.
There is a tale in China: A monk was celebrating a festival. Such a festival is celebrated only in memory of the Guru in China. People were a little perplexed. They asked the monk: As far as we know, the person you wanted to make your Guru never accepted you as disciple. Why are you celebrating this festival on his death? This festival is celebrated only in the Guru’s memory.
The man laughed. He said: The matter is a little reversed here; you may not understand. But since you ask, I will answer—understand or not. I went again and again to that Master—Make me your disciple. He drove me away again and again. The more I insisted, the harsher he became. He beat me with his staff and chased me. I would return; he shut doors. Once he lifted me and threw me out the window. The more I tried, the more he drove me away. He would not listen! And thus, driving me away, one day enlightenment happened. Had he not driven me away, I would not have been enlightened. The day he lifted me and threw me from the window, I fell upon a rock— for a moment all thoughts vanished; silence descended. I lay there. He watched me from the window and smiled. In that moment something happened. In that moment I knew he had accepted me. In that moment I knew initiation had happened. In that moment I knew what was to be, has been. Thereafter I did not go to trouble him. There was no need. Acceptance had occurred. In his gratitude, I celebrate this festival. He was my Guru, though he never made me his disciple. But precisely by not making me his disciple, I was enlightened. Had he made me his disciple, perhaps it would not have happened. Perhaps he knew how it would happen for me. Therefore in his honor, in his thanksgiving, I celebrate.
The relationship of disciple and Guru is a very mysterious bond. Only those who have tasted it can know it.
He led my longing to the station of self-forgetfulness—
Then wherever I placed my foot, there was the target, the road, the destination.
The Guru does only this much—he takes the disciple by the hand to the station of self-forgetfulness—mukame-bekhudi—where ego is forgotten.
He led my longing to the station of self-forgetfulness—
He leads the disciple’s desires and aspirations to that station where total absorption happens, wonder and enchantment, ego forgotten.
He led my longing to the station of self-forgetfulness—
Then wherever I placed my foot, there was the target, the road, the destination.
And when I was gone, then opening my eyes—wherever I put my foot, there was the goal. Wherever I looked, there was the goal.
In every vessel, Gorakh’s garden-bed. Whatever sprouts—that alone is ours.
In every vessel, Gorakh tells a tale. In an unbaked pot, water does not remain.
Silent, in every vessel, Gorakh roams. In some vessels one is awake, in some asleep.
In every vessel, Gorakh; in every vessel, the fish. Know yourself; recognize the Guru’s face.
Then you begin to see Him in all. In every vessel He abides. You disappear—and the Divine remains. So long as you are, God is not. The Guru teaches only this—how to disappear. He teaches the art of dying.
Die, O yogi, die—this death is sweet.
Die the death by which Gorakh beheld.
Enough for today.