Mare He Jogi Maro #7

A single frayed life,
half-stitched, un-stitched—
what sense is there in simply moving on like this?
Only tears upon tears,
losing your very self,
weeping and wailing—
it is futile.
Living choked and cramped—
only drinking poison.
Wandering—
futile.
Meaningfulness
has saved something still—
of the long scatter and shatter—
chuk-chuk-chik,
chuk-chuk…
what sense is there in simply moving on like this?
Two or four fleeting moments—
what we call living—
is to know;
that is no sin.
And a few more lines,
someone’s song,
read within the heart—
that is no sin.
We sing only in your heart’s own tongue—
Bhanu, Kant, Ranjak, Anjum,
kokil and parrot…
what sense is there in simply moving on like this?
Life within a ring,
bandage over the eyes—
unceasing torment.
On and on the fixed track—
whip after whip—
unceasing flight.
Mechanical marvels—
kat-chit-chit-pat…
pause a little—
what sense is there in simply moving on like this?
A single frayed life,
half-stitched, un-stitched—
what sense is there in simply moving on like this?

Man goes on walking and walking—without thinking why; without thinking from where; without thinking toward what. He does not even think who he is—and he goes on running. What will such running bring? What will come into your hands? What sense is there in simply moving on like this?
Stop a little. Reconsider once. Let the question arise: Who am I? For when this question descends deeply—when the arrow of this question pierces every fiber of your being—the mystery of life lifts its veil.
But those who in the name of religion are sitting in temples, mosques, shrines—they too have not stopped; they too are running. Their race continues. You seek wealth; they seek heaven. You seek status; they seek Paramatma. But wherever there is wanting, there is derangement. Where there is wanting, there is rivalry, competition—the entire marketplace. Where there is wanting, there is fear—what if I lose, what if another wins before me? Where there is wanting, there is condemnation, opposition. Where there is wanting, there is struggle, tension. The moment wanting drops, an incomparable rest enters life. With the fall of wanting, autumn departs, and spring arrives.
Who is religious? Not the one who has changed his wants; but the one who has understood wanting itself. Wanting makes you run—absurdly, uselessly, meaninglessly—running for the sake of running. Then running becomes habit; man goes on running. Until he falls into the grave, the race continues. He arrives nowhere. After all the racing, we arrive only at the grave. Nothing remains in our hands; perhaps we even lose what we had brought along. And such a hold does running take over the mind that even if we awake to its futility, we begin a new race. Bound by chains, if the pain of the chains ever hurts, we forge new chains. It may happen that instead of iron you forge chains of gold; and it may be that you stud those golden chains with diamonds and jewels—but chains are chains.
Here the worldly person is bound—and here the so-called spiritual ones are bound too. Free is only the one who has no wanting; who does not even want Paramatma; who does not want heaven; who has understood wanting’s futility—that it distracts and drives you crazy; who has seen wanting’s fever, wanting’s madness; who has looked wanting full in the eye and let it fall—and has not raised a new want. One who becomes desireless in this way meets Paramatma. Indeed, he is already met. As soon as wanting goes, the eye opens. As wanting dissolves, Paramatma descends. He was hidden, waiting for wanting to move aside so that face might meet face. Not only you yearn for His darshan; He too yearns for yours. Between you stands a wall—the wall of wanting.
What does wanting mean? It means: as I am, I should not be—I must become something else. It means: where I am is not it—I must be somewhere else. It means: Today? Today there is no happiness; happiness will be tomorrow. Wanting says: Go, run, arrive.
To drop wanting means: Where I am, I am content; as I am, I am delighted; there is no aspiration to be otherwise.
All aspirations are for being otherwise. Therefore every aspiration throws you out of your center. The moment aspiration goes, you are enthroned at your center. Seated at the center one discovers: the bhakta and Bhagwan are one.
Today’s sutras:
Jogi hoi paranidyã jhasai. Madmãs aru bhãng jo bhasai.
Ikotar sai purishã narakhi jãi. Sati sati bhãsant Shri Gorash rãi.
Jogi hoi paranidyã jhasai!
Gorakh says: Become a yogi and then slander others—and your yoga is lost.
Here some things must be understood. First, the distinction between condemnation and critique. For Gorakh too is critiquing; these very sayings are a critique. To say…
Jogi hoi paranidyã jhasai. Madmãs aru bhãng jo bhasai…
…that one who as a yogi slanders others, eats meat and drinks liquor, smokes bhang—such people by the thousands fall into hell—
Jhko tar sai purishã narakhi jãi—
An innumerable crowd falls into hell. Gorakh says: I tell you truthfully, listen.
There is critique here, not condemnation. The distinction is subtle, and if not grasped, one may mistake one for the other. Buddha critiqued, Mahavira critiqued. Christ critiqued, Muhammad critiqued. No true master has walked the earth who did not critique.
What is the difference? The forms appear alike; their soul is utterly different. Critique arises out of compassion; condemnation arises out of hatred. Critique seeks to awaken; condemnation seeks to annihilate. The aim of critique is the unveiling of truth; the aim of condemnation is to debase the other’s ego, to grind it into the dust, to trample it underfoot. Condemnation targets the other’s soul—how to wound, how to scar. Critique targets untruth—how to search for truth. A diamond lies hidden in dust—how to wash it, how to purify it.
Critique is profoundly friendly—even when sharp and severe, it still holds friendship. Condemnation may sound sweet, but poison is wrapped in sugar.
Condemnation arises from ego—Let me prove I am higher by making you small. Critique has nothing to do with ego, nothing to do with I–thou. Critique is an inquiry: What is true? What is the nature of truth? Critique can be hard, for sometimes to cut untruth a sword must be used. There are rocks of falsehood; one must fashion the hammer and chisel of truth.
Gorakh strikes with hammer and chisel; after him Kabir sharpens the blade further—Kabir’s stroke can cut you into pieces; but not you—it shatters your untruth. If you attack a thief, that is condemnation; if you attack theft, that is critique. If you hate the sinner, it is condemnation; if you hate sin, it is critique.
A yogi cannot condemn. The taste for condemnation belongs to a deeply unconscious mind. What is the psychology of condemnation? Most people are immersed in it. The psychology is simple: Each person wants the prestige of his ego—Me the greatest! To prove this is difficult, because everyone is trying to prove the same. How many can be greatest? A clash ensues; defeat is near certain. So the mind finds an easier device: To prove I am the greatest is hard; to prove no one is greater than me is easy. Positive assertion is hard; negation is easy. To prove God exists—difficult: a tapasya through fire is needed, who knows in this life or many lives. But to prove God does not exist—possible right now. A little skill in argument is enough. To be an atheist is not a sign of great intelligence; even a fool can be an atheist.
Turgenev’s tale of The Grand Fool: A man branded a great fool—whatever he said people laughed. Even when right, they laughed. He shrank from speaking; whether he spoke or kept silent, people mocked. A fakir came to the village. The fool begged for a blessing: Is there no way to gain a little intelligence? The fakir said: There is—begin condemning. Seven days—then come. How to condemn? the fool asked. The fakir said: Whatever anyone says, take the negative. If someone says, Look, how beautiful the sunrise!—say, What is beautiful? Prove it! It rises daily, for eons. A ball of fire—what is beautiful? If someone says, How lovely the sayings of Jesus!—pounce: What is lovely here? What is new? The same old clichés. Always negate; demand proof. If someone says of a woman, How beautiful!—say, What’s there? A slightly long nose—so what? A fair skin—so what? Lepers are fair too. Always stay in negation. After seven days, return.
After seven days he returned—not alone. He had disciples. Garlands around his neck, bands playing. The trick worked! he said. The village is cowed; news has spread I am a master intellect. No one can defeat me. What next? The fakir said: Do nothing more. If you wish to retain reputation, never enter affirmation. If anyone speaks of God—instantly declare atheism… You will not be defeated, for a negative statement is hard to refute; a positive is hard to prove.
To accept God requires great intelligence, subtle sensitivity, an awakened heart, a refined consciousness, a little inner light. To deny God requires nothing at all. Therefore people relish condemnation.
Condemnation is cheap psychology. It establishes your cleverness at no cost—no turmeric, no alum, and the dye is fast. No learning needed, no satsang required. Hence everyone is skilled in condemnation. Everywhere you will find people sipping the rasa of slander. The connoisseurs of rasa forgot this rasa—the most drunk, morning to night. You read newspapers to get a little slander-rasa. The moment someone’s being bad-mouthed, you become alert, meditative; you perk up if told the neighbor’s wife ran away with someone—Tell us more, in detail, don’t be brief, have tea…
Why the relish? Because another is being made small, and in his smallness a subtle sense arises—I am big. If a beggar slips on a banana peel, you don’t enjoy it as much as when an emperor slips. The heart becomes garden-garden, as Mulla Nasruddin says—bāgh-bāgh.
Hence when you hear a prime minister or president is caught in wrongdoing—what a spread of slander-rasa! What concern is it of yours? If a prime minister falls in love—so what? As if something utterly unique has happened! The truth beneath: you were waiting for him to slip. Therefore after four or five years in power, people itch to pull the leader down. The smallest things are enlarged. Praise, no one wants to hear; no one is ready to accept it. If you say, So-and-so is a great saint—people reply: We have seen such saints; all fraud. Just wait, he will be caught. But if someone says so-and-so is a thief—no one says, How can that be? You accept instantly, as if you knew it already. Our tacit assumption is: except me, all are bad. Some have been exposed; the rest will be.
If you praise someone’s flute, someone will say: What flute—rascal, lecher, thief! As if being a rake prevents flute-playing. But you will never say the reverse: When told he is a thief, No, impossible—he plays such a sweet flute! That you never say; it’s against your ego. What nourishes your ego is condemnation. Hence praise is given half-heartedly, for ulterior motives, and revenge is taken behind the back.
In court a politician sued for defamation. A man had called him son of an owl in a hotel before fifty people. Mulla Nasruddin was standing beside him. In court, the magistrate asked Nasruddin: There were fifty people; the accused says he named no one. You claim he targeted the leader—what proof? Nasruddin said: True, fifty were present, but there was no son of an owl there except the leader.
What to do now? You want those with power and wealth to fall; it gives relief. When someone’s downfall occurs, people feel light. They eagerly await revelation of corruption; character is hard to build, but easy to defame. The more you publicize another’s badness, the better you feel within. This is the psychology of condemnation—shadow of ego, and nourishment of ego.
But this does not mean I tell you to live blindly; nor does Gorakh. To keep silent where wrong is seen—that is not the teaching. Had that been so, Gorakh could not have said what he did—that yogis slander, eat meat, drink intoxicants—and fall into hell. Do not call this condemnation; it is simple compassion, goodwill. The intention is not to push them down but to raise them up, to awaken them.
Sometimes the awakener appears an enemy. You tell someone, Wake me at three; I must catch a train at four. He comes to wake you; inside you curse him—this ill-mannered fellow! You had asked him, yet you grumble. If he pulls you out of bed, a quarrel may occur.
Immanuel Kant employed a servant solely to wake him; even if blows were exchanged, he was to wake him. Many servants left; Kant insisted, I hired you for this. Do not worry; if I hit, you hit back; just wake me. Different kinds of people! In the West they have made electric blankets with an alarm; at five a shock is delivered—you leap out. Ordinary alarms don’t work; people smash their own clocks and later regret the loss. The awakener is not pleasing—perhaps you were in sweet sleep, perhaps Cleopatra was about to arrive, or Hema Malini. The embrace was near—and this wretch rang the alarm. Who can tolerate that? Thus it is hard to accept Buddhas; only gradually can you. Those who break your dreams—how can they be pleasing? You get angry. So do not think that a yogi will not critique; who else has the right? But he will not condemn. In his eyes you are never dishonored. His words may be sharp, edged—they should be.
Kabir said: Kabira stands in the marketplace with a club in hand. Whoever is ready to burn his house, come with me! Be prepared—set fire to your home; I will not let you look back; else I will crack your skull. A yogi can be harsh—but toward your vices, not toward you. Toward you he has great compassion and love. Distinguish clearly.
Jogi hoi paranidyã jhasai!
Will you, as a yogi, slander others?
Madmãs aru bhãng jo bhasai—
And still meat has not left you, liquor has not left you? You still drown in bhang and ganja.
Understand: Those who are awake oppose your drinking and meat-eating for reasons other than yours. You say, Do not drink—waste of money, health suffers; the family will starve. These reasons will not support you for long. Suppose you have means—your drinking will not starve your family; what then? Then this becomes a poor man’s teaching. For the rich? No obstacle. You say health will suffer—but the body withers anyway: a day sooner or later—what is the value? Seventy years or eighty—what’s the difference? Perhaps it is better to depart at seventy and leave room for others. The world is crowded. To live ten years more—what benefit? And what was your life anyway? No sense, no harmony, no music. What will you do living long? Such arguments are hollow; they don’t work. And they aren’t even true—drunkards are seen to live long. If longevity is the criterion, complications arise: Shankara died at thirty-three, Vivekananda at thirty-four—shall we warn against religion? Morarji Desai claims longevity due to drinking urine; Churchill drank and smoked yet lived long—excuses and counterexamples abound. Mulla Nasruddin at eighty claimed victory in swimming due to abstinence; then added, But don’t overthink—my father is a hundred, rides better than anyone, and he drinks and eats meat. Reporters asked to meet him. Nasruddin said: Impossible—he has gone to my grandfather’s wedding. Grandfather is marrying? Not by choice—he had to; the lady is pregnant. Grandfather’s age? One hundred and twenty! How will you calculate? Arguments won’t save anyone from drink.
When a Buddha like Gorakh says, Do not drink, the reason is unique. I too would wish you free of alcohol—but not for Morarji’s reason. I want you free because there is a greater wine; if you remain stuck in the lesser, you will never drink the great. I want to lead you to the true madhushala; hence I ask you to drop the false one. Paramatma is wine—and such wine that once drunk, it is forever; such a benediction that never breaks. What you buy in the bazaar—by evening you drink, by morning you are broken again; the same anxieties return. You can forget for a while, but not destroy. There is a wine where worries vanish. Meditation is wine; prayer is wine. When a temple is alive, its very way is madhushala.
I do not say this because I am some moralist, that drinking is sin. What sin? Wine is pure vegetarian—pressed juice of grapes! Will eating grapes not do, and drinking their juice be sin? You will not fall into hell for drinking. But yes—you will miss heaven’s wine; you will be deprived.
I want the pebbles and stones to fall from your hands, for there is a mine of diamonds. Why fill your bag with stones? Morarji’s quarrel is with your stones; he says, Leave stones, they are bad. I say, I have no quarrel with stones—but there are diamonds. If your bag is full of stones, the jewels will lie there unclaimed—those which were your due, without which your destiny cannot be fulfilled.
So too with meat: I ask you to drop it, not because eating flesh is sin and you will go to hell; not because it is violence. These are small things. If all meat-eaters go to hell, then Jesus is in hell; Ramakrishna too—for can a Bengali do without fish? Ramakrishna ate fish. These are small things; but they do show this: as sensitive as Ramakrishna’s heart could have become, it did not reach its ultimate refinement—some veil remained, some soot. Not that he went to hell; but a further beauty could have been experienced. Jesus, not in hell—but a small error in the understanding of life remained, a thorn remained. Had Jesus lived longer—he died young—perhaps the thorn would have fallen. In the final state, where one sees Paramatma everywhere, how could one kill for his food? It becomes impossible.
Thus I do not call meat-eating a sin that sends you to hell; I say it dulls your sensitivity. The subtlety of your inner music is lost. You have strung your veena with thick, coarse strings. Music will be there, but crude. Fine, aristocratic, subtle strings were available—you misused your instrument. Not that you will go to hell for coarse strings; but your music will suffer.
And note: When you kill for meat, do not assume you killed someone—for none can die. The sin is not killing, for death never happens. You merely snatched a body from an Atman; that Atman will take a new body. The question is not of the other, the question is you. You showed insensitivity, hardness. You are not tender; if not tender, your inner lotus cannot bloom—or will bloom half.
In the state of supreme consciousness, meat-eating is impossible. One who longs for that state should take heed.
So Gorakh is right:
Jogi hoi paranidyã jhasai, madmãs aru bhãng jo bhasai.
Ikotar sai purishã narakhi jãi…
I have seen thousands falling into hell—
Sati sati bhãsant Shri Gorash rãi.
I speak truth; I slander no one. Whoever hears truth, revolution begins in his life.
Rahim said:
A hardship stands, two tasks diverge—
With truth, the world is lost; with falsehood, Ram is lost.
He who understands truth faces a decisive choice. If I live by truth, Ram may be found, but the world will be lost—on its own. This choice is sannyas—the decisive event.
Eka-eki sidh nãũ, doi ramati te sãdhvã.
Chari panch kutumb nãũ, das bis te laskara.
A siddha knows: I am alone. Even amidst a crowd, alone. You may go to the forest, yet not be alone—you carry with you radio, newspapers, wife, children, friends; and even if physically alone, within swirl the memories of family, wealth, shop, market. You may be alone and yet remain in a crowd. Siddha is one who is alone wherever he is—even in a crowd. Siddha means: one who has recognized his own nature. We came alone; we will go alone; we are alone. Our aloneness is eternal. All the games of husband-wife, family, are make-believe. Play them, but remember: they are games.
Eka-eki sidh nãũ—
He who experiences aloneness is a siddha. He who can be with and still be alone, that is siddha.
Doi ramati te sãdhvã—
Those who need two—who cannot be alone, who cannot be without I and Thou—are sadhus. Even to be content with two is much; the mind is never content with many. As long as the devotee says, I need God, he remains a sadhu. Duality remains. Only when Advaita is, you are siddha.
Chari panch kutumb nãũ—
He who is not content with two or three needs a family—grihastha.
Das bis te laskara—
And those not content even with ten or twenty—an army—they are worldly.
The siddha is content with his being. The worldly, not satisfied even with thousands, always seeks crowds. Crowd has a magnetic pull. Sannyas is a revolt from the crowd; a bidding farewell to the crowd-mind. The crowd says: Be like us if you want to be with us. Conform—or we will ostracize you. Villages were prisons—no freedom there. Cities have given a certain freedom; there you cannot be boycotted so easily. In villages, a small deviation and your hukka-pani is stopped. In such places untouchability cannot be eradicated; only cities can dissolve it. The train did what Buddha and Mahavira could not—the untouchable sits beside you; he too has a ticket. Hotels have done what temples could not; cinemas what pilgrimages could not. Life moves in its own ways.
Become a person—free of the crowd. Drop all adjectives—Hindu, Muslim. When you are free, your soul begins to shine. Aloneness is hard, but through hardship one is refined.
Mahimã dhari mahimã kū metai, sati kã sabad vichãri.
Nãnnhã hoy jini satgur sojhiyã, tin sir kî pot utãri.
A lovely saying. Gorakh says: Your true glory arrives only when you completely erase your own glory. When the I-sense is gone. And when will I go? When the need for Thou goes. Psychology says: In the child, Thou arises first, then I. He recognizes Mother—the other—and then, by contrast, I. So too it dissolves: first Thou dissolves, then I. Do not try to erase I directly; drop dependence on Thou. Become as if you need no one; sufficient, fulfilled. As Thou goes, I follows. Two sides of one coin—on one side I, on the other Thou. Let Thou go—it is easier. I will drop on its own.
Then majesty comes. The one who becomes small like a child—without ego—Satguru comes searching for him. And when you stand before the Guru childlike, then your bundle is lifted from your head—the bundle of thoughts and desires—root cut.
Paat-paat ko sinchibo, bari-bari ko laun;
Rahiman aisi buddhi ko, kaho barhaigo kaun.
You don’t water each leaf; you water the root. You don’t salt each dumpling; you salt the batter. The root of your delusion is ego; cut the root.
Nath kahai tum sunahu re avadhu, dirdh kari rakhahu chiyã.
Kãm krodh ahankãr nibãro, to disantar kiyã.
Do not go wandering on pilgrimages. Remove lust, anger, ego—and all directions become sacred, every land a tirtha.
Je ãsã te ãpada, je sansã te sog.
He who lives in desire will be surrounded by calamity; desire’s bucket has no bottom. You will see it filled in the well; by the time it reaches your hands, it is empty. Again and again—yet you do not awake.
Je sansã te sog—
He who lives in doubt lives in sorrow. Doubt is division, wavering. Shraddha unifies the mind; its nature is bliss.
Gurumukhi binã na bhãjasi, Gorakh ye dūnyõ bade rog.
These two diseases—desire and doubt—will not flee without a Satguru. To sit in the aura of one whose light rains bliss, whose taste is nectar—only then you understand: This happens through shraddha; this happens through desirelessness.
Japtap jogi sanjam sãr. Bãle kandarp kiyã chhar.
Ye hã jogi jag mai joy. Dūjã pet bharai sab koy.
The essence of all japa and tapas is sanjam—balance, the middle music. Neither indulgent nor renunciate. My difficulty with you is that you think only the renunciate is temperate; he is as imbalanced as the indulgent, only at the opposite pole. Sanyam is sam, the middle. Eat as needed—not too little, not too much. Life’s veena must have strings neither too tight nor too loose. Such a yogi is worth seeing—more wondrous than Taj Mahal, pyramids, or China’s wall. From him arises a fragrance, a sound current that pierces your ear and heart; your journey begins from darkness to light; from death to deathlessness; from untruth to truth. Without this, the rest of yoga business is belly-service—pet bharna. Look around at the fakirs with growing bellies. Nityananda of Ganeshpuri—see his photograph—belly upon belly! And you call them sannyasis. Sanyam is a music, an art—never force; it is spontaneity.
Kaise bolau panditã, Dev kaune thãĩ.
Nij tat nihãratã, amhe tumhe nahĩ.
O pundits, how shall I tell you where God is—when He is everywhere? Better I tell you this: Look into your own nature—and there you will not find I nor Thou. When neither I nor Thou remains, what remains is Paramatma. Gorakh says:
Drishti agre drishti lukãibã, surati lukãibã kãnã.
Nãsikã agre pavan lukãibã, tab rahi gayã pad nirbãnã.
Hide your seeing in the eye; stop looking outward. Close the eyes; let seeing gather within so you can see yourself. Hide hearing in the ear; stop listening outward, listen within. Still the breath at the nostrils; find that moment when it neither comes nor goes—then a new breath is known within. Then only nirvana remains.
Pashãnachi devali, pashãn chã dev.
Pashãn pūjilã, kaise phūtilã saneh?
A stone temple, a stone god—and you think by worshiping stone, love will erupt within? Mark this well. This land became stone-hearted precisely because of stone-worship. What you worship you become. If stone is your god, you will soon be stone. Hence a strange scene: people pray and worship, yet are utterly stony—no compassion, no love. Convenient doctrines abound: each suffers his karma; why interfere? You go hungry—die; you must have starved someone once. Your house burns—once you must have burned someone’s; now reap.
These are webs—like a spider’s web for flies. The spider invites: Come, have tea, a chat; satsang… and the flies are caught. Such doctrinaires—your priests and pundits—have become your guides though they have seen nothing. Empty words—without breath or heartbeat.
Sarjiv toḍilã, nirjiv pūjilã—
You pluck the living flower to offer to the lifeless stone. The flower was dancing in the breeze, conversing with the sun, exuding fragrance—alive. You killed the living and offered it to stone. If anything, bring your stones and offer them to flowers—but do not pluck the living. Bernard Shaw, when offered a plucked flower, said: Don’t. If a child is dear, will you break his neck to make a bouquet? In Jabalpur I had a garden; people came at dawn, chanting Ram-Ram, to pluck flowers for worship. I said: For worship I will not give; for any other purpose I may. I even put up a sign: For worship only, do not pluck. In this garden flowers bloom and wither where they are—offered there to Paramatma.
Pap chî karni, kaise dūtar tirilã?
Tirthi tirthi sanãn karilã,
bãhar dhoye, kaise bhitar bhedilã?
How will you cross this difficult ocean by such empty acts? You bathe at countless tirthas—washing the outside—how will the inner be cleansed? Within, only one tirtha cleanses—Satsang.
Adinath nãti, Machhindranath pūtã.
Nij tãt nihãrai Gorakh avadhūtã.
A startling utterance. Adinath—the source, the first Tirthankara for Jains; honored in the Rigveda as Rishabh. Tantrics call him their origin; the Siddha-yogis too. He seems the fountainhead. Yet Gorakh says: Adinath is my grandson; and my own guru, Machhindranath, is my son. I, Gorakh the avadhuta, rejoice seeing my sons and grandsons. This is like Jesus saying: Before Abraham was, I am. He who knows his own center—timeless, prior to all beginnings—knows: everything else follows. Krishna’s Mam ekam—Come to Me alone—does not mean come to the person Krishna; it means come to that One which is manifest in Krishna and Arjuna and in you and me. Buddhas and the unawakened are one in essence—only one is awake, another asleep.
Thus Gorakh speaks in sweet paradox: Since I have known myself, I see Adinath as my progeny; Machhindranath my son. Elsewhere he says:
Avadhu Ishvar hamrai chelã, bhaninjai Machhindra bolie nãti.
Niguri pirathi parlai jãti, tãthai ham ulti thãpna thãti.
O avadhut, Ishvara is our disciple; Machhindranath our grandson. We had no need of a guru, being Brahman itself—but fearing the ignorant might imitate and declare themselves guru-less, we made our own disciple our guru—an inversion—so a sign remains: without a guru, there is no knowing.
Whoso knows becomes Brahmasvarupa. Knowing oneself, one is That. Then who is guru, who disciple; who bhakta, who Bhagwan? In that nonduality is the rain of bliss, the taste of amrit. But before that, you must die as you are—ego-bound.
Marau he jogi marau, marau maran hai mithã.
Tis marani marau, jis marani Gorakh mari dîthã.
Die, O yogi, die—the death that is sweet. Die the death that Gorakh died—that death in which only Paramatma remains.
Enough for today.