Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #1

Nothing but ash—what is there in this heap?
Hollow eyes—where once the elixir of life flowed;
For how long they have lain deserted like a cave—
As if a snake’s hole were peering from a grave—
Nothing but ash.
Fingers—those fingers that could turn centuries into moments,
Fingers—once they were lions, were songs, were melody;
Fingers in which once the magic of your touch lived—
Now they are only like dried cactus thorns—
Nothing but ash.
The heart—that was a realm of dancing, singing fairies,
An uncountable crystal palace of memories and longings—
Your portrait stood laughing in the lattice-windows;
Now—nothing remains but molten lava.
What will you find in this burning mound of ash?
Where will you go—far from the city to the cremation ground?
Nothing but ash.

This life is ash; the sooner one knows, the more fortunate. But that this life is ash—we do not allow this experience to happen. We have enthroned ash itself as our destiny. We worship the ash. We have mistaken ash for Paramatma. All this will be snatched away. That which can be snatched away is not God—learn this definition of God.
That which can be taken away is not God. And that which can be taken away is not true wealth either. That which cannot be taken—what none can steal; what even death cannot take; what none can give and none can seize—if you attain That, then only has anything been attained. When the relationship joins with the Eternal, only then do you rise above the ash; then death dissolves and life begins.
What you call life—this is not life. It is only a delusion of life; only the covering of life. You have mistaken the garments for the soul, and because of this trust—this false trust—the Atman is near yet unknown. Paramatma is near and you do not even stretch out your hands. God is eager to come, but the doors of your heart are closed.
Nothing but ash—what is there in this heap?
What will you find in this body, in this world?
I have seen people sitting atop heaps of ash, searching: perhaps a grain of gold, a speck of silver might be found! Perhaps they do find it. For gold and silver too are ash; they can be found in the ash-heap. But the one who sought Paramatma in the body—He will not be found. And the one who searched for the inner self outside—his defeat is certain.
Nothing but ash—what is there in this heap?
Hollow eyes—where once the elixir of life flowed—
Where once the waters of life ran, where beautiful tears flowed—one day those eyes will lie hollow; not a single drop will remain within them. They will dry and become a desert. No more will flowers bloom in them, nor will laughter dance there; no more will songs be born in them.
Hollow eyes—where once the elixir of life flowed—
For long they have lain deserted like a cave—
As if a snake’s hole were peering from a grave—
Thus hollow will remain the eyes—like dark, black apertures. The bird within has flown—the body is a corpse; nothing remains but stench. The inner fragrance has flown; in that house which you thought yours, which you called your own—there, apart from ugliness and worms, nothing will be born.
Nothing but ash—what is there in this heap?
Hollow eyes—where once the elixir of life flowed—
For long they have lain deserted like a cave—
As if a snake’s hole were peering from a grave—
Nothing but ash.
Fingers—those which could turn centuries into moments—
Those fingers, so alive, that turned ages into instants; those fingers that spoke so much—eloquent fingers; those fingers that said, that were powerful...
Fingers—those which could turn centuries into moments;
Fingers—once they were lions, they were songs, they were melody;
Great rhythm lived in them, great songs, great mysteries.
Fingers—once they were lions, songs, melodies;
Fingers in which the magic of your touch dwelt—
At a mere touch a new current of life flowed.
Now they are only like dried cactus twigs—
Nothing but ash.
One day your fingers will become like dried cactus twigs; everyone’s fingers become so. Likewise all throats become empty of words, vacant of songs. Where you thought there was life, there not even the footprints of life will be found. Nothing but ash.
The heart—that was a realm of dancing, singing fairies—
How many desires, hopes, dreams were cherished in the heart!
The heart—a realm of dancing, singing fairies—
An uncountable crystal palace of memories and longings—
Your portrait stood laughing in the casements—
And those you loved, the dreams you wanted to fulfill, for which you built these palaces, spread these carpets—when you awaken to grasp, you find all were dreams. That crystal palace of uncountable memories and longings, that realm of singing fairies—were only your fancies. Nothing had happened anywhere. There was neither fairy nor crystal palace. Nothing was found anywhere. All were dreams—mere empty dreams.
Your portrait stood laughing in the casements—
Now nothing remains but molten lava—
What will you find in this burning mound of ash?
Where will you go—far from the city to the cremation ground?
Nothing but ash.
To the one to whom such is revealed, the search for God begins in his life.
If this is futile, then where is meaning? The question is born; a thirst awakens. And then the thirst is no longer mere curiosity. It becomes a question of life and death. Moment by moment the opportunity slips from the hand. It is no philosophical curiosity then—What is God? The whole stake is there. One must know. If in knowing everything must be lost—let everything be lost. But one cannot stop short of knowing.
That which is forever must be known—so that we too become one with the Forever. The Eternal must be recognized—so that this ephemeral wave-like life no longer writhes, no longer is tormented.
Charandas was nineteen when this anguish arose. Very young the anguish arose.
People come to me and ask: do you give sannyas even to the young? Sannyas is for the old. The scriptures say—after seventy-five. Then the scriptures must have been written by the dishonest; by those who are against sannyas; by those in favor of the world. For in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, after seventy-five you will not survive. Sannyas will never happen—only death will. And in a world where even the young die, how can sannyas be postponed to seventy-five?
In this world where even children die, in this world where after birth only one thing is certain—death—how can sannyas be postponed for even a moment? In a world ringed by death—the day death is seen, the day you recognize it, the day you see: all is ash—that very day sannyas happens. Then pausing for even a moment is impossible. Then it cannot be deferred.
At nineteen Charandas went into the forests—crying, screaming, calling. He staked everything. And a unique event happens: when you set out to seek God, the Guru is found. You set out seeking God; the Guru is met. For a direct encounter with God cannot be. Between you and God there is a vast difference of plane.
Where are you—and where God! Where you are outside, outside—and where God is within, within. Between the two, no bridge, no link.
Whoever has gone to seek God—has found the Guru. It is God’s compassion toward you; the news that your fortune has opened.
Ask for God—and the Guru arrives. And if the Guru is found, know that your prayer has been heard; it has reached. You are no longer alone. A bridge has spanned; the two banks are joined.
You on this bank, God on that; the Guru is the bridge—joining the two shores. The Guru is somewhat like you, somewhat like God. One hand in your hand, one hand in God’s. Now, with this support, you can go. Now this swaying bridge—this Lakshman jhula—you can cross.
The other shore perhaps is not even visible yet; it is far away, and the eyes to see that other shore have not yet been born in you. Your eyes are dull—by the dust of this world.
This ash that is everywhere—its dust is blowing in all directions; it has dimmed your eyes; your mirror is caked with ash. And lifetimes’ ash has been settling. You have even forgotten that there is a mirror within. In such a state you call to God—and the Guru is found. Understand this a little.
The true seeker goes to seek God—and finds the feet of the Guru. If the Guru’s feet are found—know that your petition is accepted; your message has reached. Someone linked to that Shore has been met.
Charandas’s Guru was an extraordinary sannyasi—Sukdevdas. There is a sweet tale. When Charandas met Sukdevdas... Charandas nowhere says in his sayings that he was anyone else. He says only this—that he was the son of Vyasa, Sukdev muni.
There is a difficulty here, because there are thousands of years’ distance between Charandas and Vyasa. Scholars are not pleased; pundits are not pleased; the researchers who rummage only among heaps of ash are not pleased.
Viyogi Hari has written: “On the basis of research it is found that to call his Guru the son of Vyasa, Sukdev muni, is only a matter of devotion-feeling. In truth his Guru was a Mahatma named Sukdevdas who lived in the village of Sukartal near Muzaffarnagar.”
This saying of Viyogi Hari—that to call his Guru the son of Vyasa is “only a matter of devotion-feeling...” “Only devotion-feeling!” As if devotion had no value. As if your dead facts were more precious than devotion. As if the village of Sukartal and Muzaffarnagar were of great value.
“On the basis of research...” Pundits engage in such research. The pundit never grasps the essence; he keeps researching the inessential.
To call devotion “only”! To say “only devotion-feeling”—to put it mildly is to say: it is mere talk; not reality. This is not the way to understand saints.
Saints belong less to history, more to that timeless stream that flows along the edge of history.
If Charandas has said that my Guru was Vyasa’s son, Sukdev—do not dismiss it as only devotion-feeling. The truth is: whenever the Guru is truly met, the Supreme Guru is met. When the Guru is found, it is the image of the Supreme Guru that is found. If he is not found, that is different. But when the Guru is found, he is the very idol of the Supreme Guru. The son of Vyasa, Sukdev, is but a symbol of the Supreme Guru.
Whenever anyone has truly found his Guru, he has found all Gurus in his Guru. As if in one Guru, the entire lineage, the entire series of Gurus has become available.
This is not merely devotion-feeling. It is another way of seeing life. There is devotion in it, but devotion is not a synonym for imagination. There is feeling in it, but feeling does not mean fancifulness. It is another way of seeing life.
As someone looks at a rose and is overwhelmed by its beauty—and begins to dance. And you, a scientific mind, go to him and say: What are you doing? Where is beauty? Yes, the flower is true; and there is matter in it—true; let us take it to the laboratory; we will analyze it; tear it piece by piece. And you will find everything—except beauty. Beauty is only devotion-feeling.
True—within the world of facts this is true: beauty is only devotion-feeling. But without beauty the meaning of the flower is lost. Then you will find chemicals: water, earth, pigments—everything; but what was worth finding is lost.
It is as if someone cut a living child into pieces to find what moved it, what gave it life. Bones, flesh, marrow will be found; but that which moved it will not be found. This is not the way to find the invisible. The invisible gets lost in your over-grasping of the visible.
When Charandas says: my Guru was Vyasa’s son, Sukdev—the pundit is naturally surprised, because there is a great gulf of time between them—thousands of years. Where would Sukdev be found to Charandas? Where—near the forests by the village of Sukartal near Muzaffarnagar—would Sukdevdas be found?
So the pundit searches the fact. But when the Guru was found to Charandas, the formal aspect of the Guru became meaningless. The body may be different; form and color different; time different; but the inner principle is one.
In all Gurus, one Supreme Guru speaks. Hence India has many books, all said to be composed by Vyasa! Between two books there can be thousands of years; still both are said to be by Vyasa. One man composing so many books?
The scientific mind says: impossible; either there were many named Vyasa, or people composed books in Vyasa’s name. They do not know.
Whoever attains Truth—that one we call Vyasa. Therefore the seat from which anyone speaks from the authority of Truth is called the Vyasa-seat. Sitting there, his name and address—lost; his formal coordinates—lost. In the stream of time his marks are erased. He is joined to the Timeless. That Timeless Guru is named Vyasa.
To Charandas, in his Guru’s eyes shone the vision of the Timeless Guru—this much he says.
This is not mere devotion-feeling; it is Truth—of another dimension. Not the truth of objects; the truth of experiences.
Charandas found his Guru. Before that his name was Ranjit Singh. The Guru changed his name, gave initiation, granted entry into sannyas.
The change of name is of great importance. Ranjit Singh: a name of aggression, violence, ambition. The new name: Charandas—just the opposite! Where is Ranjit Singh, where is Charandas! The whole direction of life is changed!
In Ranjit Singh there is assault, the craving for victory—a violent ambition. Because of that violent ambition—“Singh,” lion; “Ranjit”—one who has set out to conquer, the journey of victory. The Guru reversed it. Pratyahara. What Mahavira calls pratikraman. The energy that flowed outward was turned inward. Where will you go outward? The victory is not outside. Victory is within.
And the wondrous rule of inner victory is: the one willing to lose—wins. The one who sets out to conquer—loses. Here, the one who resolves—perishes. Here, the one who surrenders—finds all.
Charandas means surrender. Ranjit Singh means resolve. Ranjit Singh means to proclaim victory over others. Charandas means: now I proclaim no victory over anyone. I have bowed—at the feet of the Lord. And the one who has bowed has discovered: all feet are His; he bows at every foot.
In the moment of sannyas the transformation of name is not merely a change of label. The Guru hints; he signals; he tells the whole story of the journey ahead. In this small difference, the entire difference is contained. The whole shastra arrives, the whole sadhana, the entire discipline, the total style of life is changed.
Before Charandas I spoke on his two women-disciples—Sahajo and Daya. You may be surprised: first on disciples, then on the Guru. But do not be surprised; there is a reason behind it.
They say: a tree is known by its fruit. Sahajo and Daya are two fruits on Charandas. You tasted their nectar. After that tasting you can now descend into the root of this tree. With that recognition, entry into Charandas becomes easy.
Sahajo sang this song about her Guru:
Sakhi, today blessed is the earth, blessed the land.
Blessed the village of Dehra in Mewat—Hari has come in human guise.
That today is a day blessed; today the earth is blessed; today the land is blessed.
Sakhi, today blessed is the earth, blessed the land.
Blessed the village Dehra in Mewat—Hari has come in human guise.
In the little village of Dehra in Mewat—“Hari has come in human guise”—in Charandas, Hari has descended.
Blessed the month of Bhadon, blessed the bright third day; blessed the auspicious day.
Blessed the dusky clan, a child is born; men and women blossomed.
Blessed, blessed mother Kunji Rani; blessed is father Murlidhar.
All the ancestors now bear fruit, for whose house a knower has been born.
She says: in the house in which a knower is born, all who were born before are blessed.
If even one fruit of nectar ripens, the entire lineage behind it is blessed. Fulfillment has come; the supreme peak has arrived.
All the ancestors now bear fruit...
For centuries the clan must have been striving. How many must have woven aspirations; how many desired to attain; how many departed without attaining. But the seeds sown by them—the aspiration to attain the Lord—ripened in Charandas.
...for whose house a knower has been born.
Sakhi, today blessed is the earth, blessed the land.
Blessed the village of Dehra in Mewat—Hari has come in human guise.
You have drunk deeply the nectar of Sahajo and Daya. That nectar was Charandas’s prasad. It flowed only in contact with him. That color, that manner, was the fruit of Charandas’s company. Satsang touched them. And not only with two. With Charandas, hundreds attained the supreme state. At the feet of Charandas thousands tasted the touch of God, the flavor of God.
He wandered the forests. He had no idea of a Guru. The longing was for God; the thirst was for God; no thought even of the Guru; no search for the Guru was underway.
Often it is so. Who sets out to seek the Guru? People set out to seek God; it is another matter that the Guru is found.
No one really searches for the Guru. How will you search for the Guru? The search is for the Ultimate, the Final. The search is for Paramatma. But in that very search, stumbling, crying, praying, worshiping, meditating, loving—one day the meeting with the Guru happens.
You aim for the other shore. In many ways you strive to reach it; then slowly you understand—you cannot cross like this; you will need a boatman, you will need a boat. But one who has greatly searched for the far shore—finds the boatman.
This existence is cooperative toward your every search. Keep this truth well-guarded in your heart.
Even if you seek wrongly, existence cooperates. Even when you go to sin, existence stands with you. The compassion of existence is infinite and unconditional.
Even when you go to do ill, existence does not stop you. It is not that your breath stops; that God snatches away your life; that your legs cease to move; that you are paralyzed; that you fall.
No—when you go to do ill, even then God breathes within you. He keeps saying within—very softly, whispering—Stop, do not. But He does not snatch your life; He does not steal your freedom. He accompanies you—even in the bad.
Then what to say when you set out to seek God. Then from all sides support comes to you.
Such would have been the state of Charandas.
Do not be troubled—do not trouble the Gate of Grace.
I will call a little while—and then I will go.
In this very lane where moons arise,
I will pass the dark night—and then I will go.
Have I lost the way, or is this itself my destination?
Was I brought—or did I come on my own? I do not know.
They say: even the glances of beauty are beautiful.
I too have brought something—what I have brought, I do not know.
Thus whatever I had, I sold it all;
Some places I received reward—and somewhere, not even a price.
I have kept something hidden for you in my eyes—
Look, and if you do not, I will not complain.
“Do not be troubled—do not trouble the Gate of Grace.” The supplicant says: if it troubles you to open the door, do not open. I will call a little while—and go. Do not worry too much for me. I call—for my own sake.
Do not be troubled—do not trouble the Gate of Grace.
If it is troublesome for you to open the Gate of Grace; if any hindrance comes in showering upon me—then do not be troubled, do not trouble the Gate of Grace. I will call a little while—and go.
In this very lane where moons arise,
I will pass the dark night—and then I will go.
Granted—moons arise in your lane. I will remain even in the dark night—and go. But do not take pains. If it can happen effortlessly, good. If your darshan can be effortless, good.
Do not be troubled—do not trouble the Gate of Grace.
I will call a little while—and then I will go.
In this very lane where moons arise,
I will pass the dark night—and then I will go.
Granted—moons rise in your street, light showers there; but my fate—I will pass in the dark night; yet I call. Do not be distressed because of me.
Have I lost the way, or is this itself my destination?
Even this I do not know for sure—that I, having lost the path, began to call you.
People have always thought that those who head toward sannyas, who seek God, have lost the path—because people believe they are on the right road—because the crowd is with them.
The sannyasi becomes alone; the seeker of truth is alone. The whole world seeks wealth, position; who wishes to seek Truth?
People are ready to sell Truth. For silver trinkets they are ready to sell Truth; ready to squander life—for rank, for prestige.
Have I lost the way, or is this itself my destination?
Was I brought—or did I come on my own? I do not know.
Even this is not certain—how I came into this forest; why I search for you; why I call you; whether you are my destination or I have lost my way!
Have I lost the way, or is this itself my destination?
Was I brought—or did I come on my own? I do not know.
They say: even the glances of Beauty are beautiful—
I too have brought something—what I have brought, I do not know.
I must offer something to you—yet in the eyes of your supreme Beauty, what worth will my offering have!
They say: even the glances of Beauty are beautiful—
Your eyes must be supremely beautiful; you are supreme Beauty; whether my offering finds any worth in your glance or not—why worry for that!
They say: even the glances of Beauty are beautiful—
I too have brought something—what I have brought, I do not know.
I wish to place something, to offer something—but what, even I do not know.
The devotee weeps in unknowing. His unknowing is his innocence.
Thus whatever I had, I sold it all—
He squandered all in life. He who spent many days amid ash—everything turned to ash.
Thus whatever I had, I sold it all—
All that I had in life I squandered—in useless junk.
Some places I received reward—and somewhere, not even a price.
I have kept something hidden for you in my eyes—
The devotee says: I have nothing left—only one hope remains, to see you with these eyes. All else I have sold.
Some places I received reward—and somewhere, not even a price.
I have kept something hidden for you in my eyes—
The hope of darshan—of the Beloved’s darshan—that alone remains with me. Can that be called wealth? Can it be called an offering?
A unique thirst it is—a deep thirst...
I have kept something hidden for you in my eyes—
Look—and if you do not, I will not complain.
The devotee says: if you look, it is your grace; if you do not, what complaint? What special thing have I brought to stake a complaint? I have lost all.
When a devotee begins to open toward God, a great lowliness—an immeasurable humbleness—is felt.
Jesus has said: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God. The one who heads toward God—if he thinks he has brought something of value—he will never reach God. There one must go defeated; dissolved; lost. One must go with a beggar’s bowl. One must say: I have nothing to offer you; yet I hope for your darshan. “These eyes are thirsty for the sight of Hari.”
Look—and if you do not, I will not complain.
Just in that very moment the meeting happens. And the meeting is with the Guru. A direct meeting with God does not happen. God does not come plainly; He comes indirectly. He does not come with noise and bands and trumpets. He comes so quietly, so silently, that if you are not still and silent, you will miss.
And He comes in someone’s guise. If the thirst is not true, you will not recognize.
In a moment filled with such prayer, the meeting with the Guru occurred. But Charandas recognized. Therefore he called his Guru Sukdev muni.
Sukdev muni is the embodied idol of an innocent, untainted, thoughtless state. And whenever anyone looks into the eyes of his Guru, he will find that One alone. The Guru is one; he manifests through many Gurus—that is another matter.
Sutra:
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.
Prem laga Jagdish ka, kachu aur na chaiye.
Rao-rank soon sam ginai, kachu aasa nahin.
Aath pahar simite rahain, apne hi mahin.
Each word is precious.
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye—
By great fortune one obtains this wondrous fakiri. Why wondrous? Because as one becomes a fakir on this side, a sovereign is born on that side. Wondrous fakiri! Here one becomes poor, and there wealth rains. Wondrous fakiri! One loses all—and gains all. He loses—and victory comes; wondrous fakiri!
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye—
Only a fakir can be an emperor. Nothing remains in the hand; the heart becomes empty; but into that emptiness God descends. The world moves aside; space opens; in that space Paramatma incarnates. The ego steps down from the throne; upon that throne Paramatma is enthroned.
Ranjit Singh must have been full; Charandas became empty. Ranjit Singh was surrounded by the crowd of worldly cravings and desires; Charandas bowed. Now there is no journey of ego.
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.
Blessed are those who attain this unique state. Outwardly they appear fakirs; inwardly they become emperors. Outside—nothing; inside—everything. The opposite is also in the world: outside everything, inside nothing. A person may be a king—and inside a beggar. And someone may be a king within—outside a beggar. Therefore do not weigh from the outside; do not judge from the outside.
Nor is it that to be a king within, you must be a beggar without. Nor that to remain a beggar within, you must be a beggar without.
Life’s arithmetic is beyond logic. We have seen such as Janaka and Krishna—kings without and kings within. And you will meet beggars on the road who are beggars without and beggars within. But these are extremes.
Mostly it is thus: outside everything, inside nothing.
This transformation is called sannyas. Outside no more worry, no anxiety. The grip on the outer loosens. When the fist opens from the outer, the inner wealth begins to pour. It was pouring always—your eyes were fixed outside; so you missed seeing within. Now the eyes close to the outer; then the unique rain of nectar within becomes visible.
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.
Charandas says: a marvelous thing has happened, an astonishing thing: losing all, I found all; squandering all, I gained all. Jesus said: one who loses—finds. One who hoards—loses.
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.
But when wealth comes, you say—fortunate. When position comes—you say—fortunate.
People come to me and say: “By your grace, all is well. House, wife, child, wealth—everything is running smoothly. By your grace all is going fine.”
Is this grace? Here, except ash and ash, there is nothing. This is a heap of ash. And you come to tell me: by your grace the heap of ash is growing!
This is not fortune. You are unfortunate—because this heap of mud you take to be wealth. Fortune will be the day you understand: “Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.” The day you come and say: fortunate am I that my gaze has turned from the outer; that the grip on the outer is gone; that the outer has become futile; that now I move within. Now wife is no longer wife, son no longer son; money no longer money; world no longer world. Now I seek only the One. Long, long have I wandered in the many. The day you say: long have I wandered among the many; now I set out for the One—that day is fortune.
Prem laga Jagdish ka, kachu aur na chaiye—
Charandas says: now nothing else is needed. The love of the Lord has happened; His color has dyed me. All is attained. In that union, all unions are contained.
Prem laga Jagdish ka, kachu aur na chaiye—
Rao-rank soon sam ginai, kachu aasa nahin.
Now when no desire remains, no wish to attain—poor and rich become equal.
Rao-rank soon sam ginai...
Understand this.
The value-distinctions in your life reveal your cravings. A poor man meets you on the road—you pass without seeing. A man like any man—but poor. You pass as if no one has met you. He even says “Jai Ramji”—but your response does not arise. You ignore. Then a rich man meets—you see him from afar; you bend and bow. If you receive a response from the rich, you consider yourself blessed.
Both are men—but you scorned the poor—why? You bowed to the rich—why? If tomorrow this rich man becomes poor—will you bow? You will not. If tomorrow this poor man becomes rich—you will bend and bow. What news does this bring? It tells that you wish to be rich, not poor.
Your value-distinctions tell the state of your mind, your cravings. You honor that which you wish to be.
The politician comes to the village; you run into the crowd, abandoning all work. When that politician is no longer in office and comes to the village, no one goes. He must unload his own luggage. He must find his own taxi. Gone are the days of crowds and police arrangements to control them. Now no one comes. What happened?
People come not for anyone—they come for their ambition. They esteem the office because they want to be in office.
This means that so long as even the slightest craving remains within you, the distinctions of poor-rich, honored-dishonored will remain. You cannot be equanimous. Samyakta comes only when craving departs. Then—what difference? No difference remains.
A king’s minister renounced; left the kingdom; went to the forest. News of his wisdom reached the villages, the capital, the palace. The king became curious and went to see him.
When the king arrived, the fakir was beating a small drum, legs outstretched under a tree. The king stood before him, but the fakir did not stand to greet him. He kept beating the drum, as if no one had come, as if nothing had happened. And he kept his legs stretched—which was most improper—toward the king; he did not even draw his feet back.
The king said: Have you forgotten all etiquette? I always found you most polite; what has happened? You will not even bend your knees? You keep beating this drum while I stand before you? No salutation?
The fakir laughed: For what now should I bend my knees? I bent them because I wished to be what you are. For what now should I bend? Who now can bend my knees? And why stop beating my drum? You are mistaken. You think it was etiquette. It was my ambition—arrangement to hide ambition. Naked ambition might look ugly—so it was covered in etiquette.
In the garments of etiquette, ambition hides—appears less ugly.
A rich man comes, a king comes—you stand. A poor man passes—no one notices. Your servant enters—you do not even acknowledge that a man has come. The master comes—you instantly stand.
Understand these distinctions. They have nothing to do with etiquette; they come from deep cravings within.
Understand this sutra: You honor that which you wish to become.
People honor politicians so much—because they wish to be politicians. In this land there were blessed days when the politician had no value; when the value was of fakirs, of sannyasis. Those were blessed days, for they revealed that people wished to be fakirs.
Prem laga Jagdish ka, kachu aur na chaiye—
What more is needed?
Rao-rank soon sam ginai, kachu aasa nahin—
Now no craving remains, no wish to obtain. Therefore—equanimity.
Aath pahar simite rahain, apne hi mahin—
A lovely saying:
Aath pahar simite rahain, apne hi mahin—
A sannyasi is one who becomes a tortoise; who withdraws all the senses within; who is intoxicated in himself; whose ecstasy is within; who begs of no one for bliss; who depends on none for joy; who does not go to any door for delight; whose tavern is within; who closes his eyes and dives; closes his eyes and drinks the nectar.
A worldly man is one whose bliss is in another. It is not a question of leaving the wife. But if your happiness is in the wife—you are worldly. Whether the wife is near or far—no difference. If your happiness is in son and daughters—you may go to the forest—no difference. Your feeling-state will follow like your shadow. You will build another world.
One whose joy is in another—he will gather others.
Therefore the real question is not running away from the world, but awakening. And what is awakening? Simply this—my joy is within me. For my joy I depend on no one. The day this state deepens—that my joy is within; I am the master of my joy—that day you will find: now dependence is gone; no more slavery.
Where there is dependence there is anger. Hence husband and wife quarrel; relatives quarrel; brother and brother; friend and friend. Why? The root is deep: the husband feels he is dependent on the wife; the wife feels she is dependent on the husband. With one on whom we depend, friendship cannot be; anger arises. The one on whom we depend—is our slavery. Without him we cannot be; hence anger wells up.
Freedom is man’s ultimate value, the greatest value. Wherever freedom is obstructed, there anger arises, conflict begins.
Husband and wife will continue to quarrel, because their happiness depends on each other.
You have read children’s tales in which a king places his life in a parrot to save himself. If someone twists the parrot—the king dies. Now the king is no longer his own master; he cares more for the parrot than himself—that no one twist it.
If you have placed your life in a safe—you do not care for yourself; you care that no one twists open the safe. You sit like a snake—hood spread—over your safe. Anger will come, for this twenty-four-hour vigil is a business. Sometimes you will be annoyed. Sometimes, in annoyance, you will listen to the words of sages—there is nothing in business; nothing in wealth. For a moment, relief; and again you return to sit with hood raised upon your safe. The saint’s words will appeal: there is nothing in wealth. But you have a great difficulty: you have put your life in money. To extract it from there is hard.
You have placed your life in your wife; if she runs away, falls in love with another—you are disturbed, restless. You guard. Jealousy arises, envy, doubt. A thousand thoughts arise—creating conflict.
Those tales are incomplete: they say the king placed his life in a parrot; but what of the parrot? The parrot too placed his life in the king; he too is worried that someone may twist the king—else we are dead!
We put our lives in each other—and call it love. This is the world. The more people in whom you place your life, the greater the trouble—more guarding to do.
Therefore the more wealth—the more worry; the more relationships—the more unrest; the more status—the more trouble.
Sannyasi means:
Aath pahar simite rahain, apne hi mahin—
My life within me—then my ownership is in my hands. Therefore a sannyasi is called Swami: master—master of himself. He gives his ownership to none.
This does not mean you must run from home. Running will do nothing. Do not place your life in the home. It does not mean leaving your wife; it means: do not place your life in the wife. Let the wife gather into herself; you, gather into yourself. Live together—and yet free.
Khalil Gibran has said: where real love is, people are together yet free. Like the pillars of a temple—they support the same roof, but stand apart. If the pillars embrace, the temple collapses. They stand apart—supporting one roof.
Let there be distance, space, freedom; be master of yourself. If you love someone, it can only mean: make him also his own master. Be your own master; make the other his own master; let no one lose his ownership here.
And when you wish for joy—go within. This is the opposite journey to the worldly. When the worldly feels restless, he goes outward: smoke a cigarette; turn on the radio; go to the club; to a hotel; sit in a cinema; go to a brothel; drink—what to do? Restlessness.
Whenever the worldly is disturbed—he runs outside. Whether he runs to Delhi or to Jagannath—makes no difference. Outside he runs—seeking a place where there is peace. His refuge is outside.
Who is a sannyasi? When he feels restlessness, weariness—he goes within.
A Zen tale:
A sannyasi was invited to a seven-story wooden house in Japan. As master and disciples ate—an earthquake struck; the whole house shook. Panic. All ran. The host too ran; then remembered the invited sannyasi. He turned back—found him sitting eyes closed. Such extraordinary peace around him in the quake; such a peculiar energy. In that trembling moment, with death dancing—houses falling, people running, screams—the one person sat as a void, silent, unmoving. The host felt it would be improper to run and leave the guest. He too gathered courage and sat by him.
He trembled, frightened—seven floors up. If the house went—they would go. But he risked, for something unprecedented was happening: what had come over this man! When all ran—why this quiet?
The earthquake passed. The sannyasi opened his eyes and continued the conversation from where it had broken off.
The host said: Forgive me; I have forgotten what we were saying; my curiosity is no more in that. One question: what of the quake? You did not run?
The sannyasi laughed: I ran too—but within. Others ran without—that is all. I also ran.
But within people have not built a refuge—where they might run. They have not created a sanctuary.
And people’s running is wrong—said the sannyasi—because the quake is here; where will you run? There also—an earthquake. From the seventh floor to the sixth, fifth—you run; the quake is there too. Outside, the quake is everywhere. Where will you run? Death stands on every side. Today if not today—tomorrow; tomorrow if not the day after—death will seize you. I ran to the right place. I ran where death is not—where the abode is of nectar. I slid within.
If you must run—run within. There is ultimate safety—because there is God.
Aath pahar simite rahain, apne hi mahin.
Bair-preet unke nahin, nahin vaad-vivada—
No enmity, no favoritism. They walk with all. And when both enmity and partial love depart—what is born, call it Love. Buddha called it karuna; Mahavira called it ahimsa; Jesus called it love. Name it as you wish. When both enmity and partiality are gone—what remains within is love.
But that love is unique; it is not a relationship; not dependence; not attachment or clinging or possession. That love is simply sharing the inner sound that resounds in you night and day; sharing the nectar that rains within; sharing the light lit within—for those lost in darkness. That love is compassion.
Bair-preet unke nahin, nahin vaad-vivada—
And the one who, reaching within, has known himself—debate ceases in his life. Knowing has happened—what debate remains?
All debate belongs to the not-knowing. The blind asks: is there light?—and argues. The deaf asks: is there sound?—and argues. But one who has known sound—known, descended into experience; one who has opened the eyes and seen the radiant light—and been suffused by that radiance—what debate?
The saint has known; no proofs are needed. The saint himself is proof. The saint offers no arguments for God. There can be no arguments.
A peculiarity of argument: it is blind, and for every argument in favor there can be an equal argument against. Therefore nothing is ever proven by argument. Like two wrestlers of equal strength—no one ever wins; so with argument.
A hunter shot a high-flying crane and brought it down. A philosopher nearby—great logician—said: you have wasted your bullet.
How? the hunter asked.
The logician said: from such height it would have died anyway—that’s one side.
Another hunter, before a crowd, boasted he never misses. He fired—twenty cranes flew—none fell. People were shocked. And the hunter said: Behold the miracle—a dead crane is flying! He cannot accept he missed. The logician cannot accept the bullet did anything.
A philosophy professor took his son to enroll in school. He taught the boy: learn from me—logic, argument. When the teacher asked: is this child yours? He said: Yes—yours. Then the teacher asked the boy: are these your father? The boy replied promptly: Yes—yours.
Argument is blind, undecisive. Whoever falls into its net does not get free of the world. Liberation is through experience.
Therefore the wise say: not thought—meditation. Not argument—experience. Not disputation—practice, yoga, Samadhi.
Aath pahar simite rahain, apne hi mahin.
Bair-preet unke nahin, nahin vaad-vivada.
Roothay-se jag mein rahain, sunain anahad nada—
This is a sweet line:
Roothay-se jag mein rahain—remain in the world as if a little “estranged.” Not “indifferent.” Within it, all revolution is contained.
Indifferent is the one who runs away, who abandons the world; who does not stay here; who says: there is danger—I go. But danger means: hope remains, desire remains.
What is danger? If money is near, and within you there is no hankering for it—where is danger? Keep the money near; sit upon it; what danger? But you tremble—as if snakes and scorpions crawl in the gold and silver. The snakes and scorpions are not in the metals; they are within you. Your desires frighten you: if you remain here and the opportunity comes—lest you bundle it up. If a moment comes unobserved—no fear of being caught—you know you will sway. Fear is within.
Your craving shakes; it whispers: drop this nonsense—this talk of renunciation, fakiri. Do not miss this chance. Later do fakiri. Now put your hand on this; enjoy it. Later we will see; where will fakiri go? Do it tomorrow, the day after; what hurry? No one is watching; no police; no law. As for God—seek forgiveness. He is ocean of compassion. He has liberated great sinners; He will liberate you. And this is a small mistake. You will even do good with this money—build a temple, a dharmashala. Such desires arise. You panic—and run.
The fear is not in woman or man; it is in your hidden lust. Lust says: if opportunity arises—you will not resist; you will be excited. Therefore avoid the opportunity. Keep far; so that even if the opportunity is present and lust wakes, the woman will not be present—what will you do? It will come and go. But this is repression—flight. No beauty is born of it. You will be more sick and split.
Therefore Charandas’s saying is lovely: “Roothay-se jag mein rahain.” Stay in the world—but “as if estranged.” Not utterly alien—do not run with eyes shut, never looking back. Stay here—estranged. Keep no taste. Stay at a distance—awake. Let conditions remain as they are; you change yourself. Do not change the outer; change the inner state.
Roothay-se jag mein rahain, sunain anahad nada—
And when you are a little estranged toward the outer, separate—then you can hear the anahad nada. The gaze turns within; the ears go within. The senses, which are entangled outside—when they do not entangle outside, they turn within.
The senses have two possibilities: outward and inward. As we have used them outwardly, we do not know the inward use. As they can hear the outside—if they are closed to the outside and contracted within, they hear the inside. And when they hear the inside—then the joy of life, the festival of life...
Roothay-se jag mein rahain, sunain anahad nada—
There a music flows—unstruck, boundless. A music flowing since forever—in whose immersion all is attained; the thirst of lifetimes quenched. One dip—and thirst never returns; satiation comes.
And when such a one speaks: “Whatever he says becomes God’s tale.” Whatever he says becomes Harikatha. It does not matter what he says. The inner sound speaks—everything becomes God’s story. One in whom the anahad nada resounds; who hears his own sound; whose gaze is freed from the outer; who has returned home...
Roothay-se jag mein rahain, sunain anahad nada.
Jo bolain so Harikatha; nahin mounai rakhain—
If he speaks—it is God’s tale. If he does not—the very silence is satsang. Speaking—he points to God; not speaking—he points to God.
Jo bolain so Harikatha; nahin mounai rakhain.
Mithya, kadua durvachan, kabahu nahin bhakhain—
Jiva-daya aru sheelata, nakh-sikh soon dharain—
In totality, love and virtue arrive in their life—
...from nail to crown.
Not a little portion in the head—thinking “compassion for beings” as a thought. Not a thought—but an overflowing flood—one is drowned from head to toe.
Jiva-daya aru sheelata, nakh-sikh soon dharain.
Panchon dootan basi karain—man soon nahin harain—
And these five “messengers”... note the word. He calls the senses not enemies, but messengers. They do the world’s work—and if you turn within, they do God’s work too. They only bear messages; one brings letters of enmity, another of love. Do not be angry with them. Do not fight the senses, do not cut them off. They are merely messengers. If you relish the world, they bring the world’s news. If you do not relish the world, if your taste turns to God—they bring God’s tidings. These very eyes see God; these ears hear God; these hands touch God’s feet. Hence “doot”—not enemy.
Panchon dootan basi karain—man soon nahin harain—
Only keep one vigilance: if you want God to win in you, do not let the mind win.
Mind means: the craving that takes you outward. Mind means: outward-going. Nothing else. The mind is the total of all outward-going hankerings. When you are not going outward; do not wish to go outward; that craving has vanished—
Roothay-se jag mein rahain, sunain anahad nada—
When you begin to hear the inner sound, and are estranged from the outer... note—estranged. Do not become aloof entirely. Estrangement is enough. No need to flee. In flight—fear hides. No need to be “indifferent.” Even the acting of estrangement is enough. In that alone the inner sound begins to be heard.
Therefore I do not want my sannyasi to be a runaway. I say: stay planted. Live in the marketplace—untouched by the marketplace. Stay at home. Do not abandon wealth, work. But in the midst of it all—stay untouched. Walk in water—do not let the water wet your feet—like the lotus.
Roothay-se jag mein rahain, sunain anahad nada—
As soon as this unstruck sound is heard, the mind loses its power. The mind is powerful only till you have not tasted the true. Then it promises the false. Having tasted the true—what can the mind do?
The mind says: come, let us gather more wealth—we are poor. When the inner wealth is found—will you listen to the mind? You will say: are you mad? Poor—and I?
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.
To whom are you speaking? The mind says: come, let us gain a great post. You will say: what are you babbling? I am enthroned on the Supreme seat. God is found—what post beyond this?
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.
Prem laga Jagdish ka, kachu aur na chaiye.
Dukh-sukh donon ke pare, anand darasavain—
“Anand”—a priceless word. It does not mean pleasure. Not even great pleasure. For in pleasure, pain is included; pain follows pleasure like a shadow. Great mountains—deep valleys. Great pleasure—great pain. Small pleasure—small pain. The quantities are equal—balanced.
You have ten rupees—if lost, you suffer the loss of ten. One with millions—if he loses millions—suffers accordingly.
You have a homely wife—if you lose her, the pain is proportionate to what she was.
Mulla Nasruddin married the ugliest woman in the village. None was ready to marry her. People were amazed. Beautiful women chased Mulla. They asked: Are you mad? You could marry one, even four beauties. How did you find this ugly woman?
Mulla said: there is a secret. If she is lost—I will never suffer. I will be happy—saved!
When the new bride asked: before whom may I remove my veil? Mulla said: My lady—before all but me...
People said: you are inviting trouble. Mulla said: what trouble? All day I am at the office. When the wife comes home, people pass their evenings in clubs and hotels. At night I come, sleep. Who is looking? No one sleeps with the light on. We sleep in the dark. But if this wife is lost—no sorrow.
Your pleasures and pains balance. The more you want pleasure, the greater the fear of pain.
What is anand? Not pleasure, not great pleasure. Anand is freedom from both pleasure and pain. Anand is the state of peace where neither pain remains nor pleasure; only the witness remains.
In pleasure there is the delusion—I am happy; in pain, the delusion—I am unhappy. In anand—no delusion; only witnessing. Pleasure comes—the witness sees: pleasure came—I am the seer. Pain comes—the witness sees: I am the seer. In both states—distant, watching.
Roothay-se jag mein rahain, sunain anahad nada—
Then anand is born. Anand is the tranquil state—free of identification; not pleasure, not pain; not light, not darkness; not life, not death; not mine, not thine; not enmity, not favoritism. Anand is freedom from duality—transcendence of the pairs.
Jahan jahin asthal karain, maya-pavan na jave—
Charandas says: such a person, who abides in anand—wherever he goes, there is heaven, a tirtha. Wherever he sits—there is asana. Wherever he is—that is the temple.
Jahan jahin asthal karain...
However he is—he sits in Siddhasana. The inner Siddhasana is set. It has nothing to do with the body. When the mind within has stilled, become the witness—that is the real asana. When you sit there—everything sits.
Jahan jahin asthal karain, maya-pavan na jave—
And when such witnessing abides within—no winds of maya, of craving, fancy, ambition—reach there. There the flame burns smokeless, steady.
Harijan Hari ke ladile, koi lahai na bheva.
Sukdev kahi Charandas soon, kar tinki seva—
My Guru told me: “The people of Hari are beloved of Hari.” Wherever you find one dear to God—make no distinctions—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Brahmin, Shudra...
Harijan Hari ke ladile, koi lahai na bheva—
Make no distinction. See only this: is Hari enthroned within? Has the Lord entered within? Is the lamp lit?
Sukdev said to Charandas: serve such ones; hold the feet of true Gurus. With their support—you will cross.
Hiradai mahin prem jo, nainon jhalke aye—
The Guru said: “When love fills the heart—it overflows through the eyes.”
The path of devotion is moist—not dry. There is greenery; showers of tears hence blossoms abound.
Hiradai mahin prem jo, nainon jhalke aye—
Soi chhaka Hariras-paga, va pag parasau dhaye—
And wherever you find one drunk on God’s love, weeping in love, singing, dancing—“That one is brimming...” Do not leave such a drunkard. He is so filled, so brim-full, that God’s love is spilling over him.
Soi chhaka Hariras-paga...
Such a one soaked in the nectar of Hari—do not leave him—
...va pag parasau dhaye—
Fall at his feet—never leave those feet.
Piv bina to jeevna, jag mein bhari jan—
Without the Beloved—life in this world is onerous. Remember it.
Piv bina to jeevna, jag mein bhari jan.
Piya milai to jeevna, nahin to chhutai pran—
Make one vow... The search is fulfilled only when one stakes even his life—when one says: either You meet—or I melt. Better death than life without You. I no longer desire life without You.
The moments gone in Your love—
Were like monsoon passing through a burning noon.
Wherever that grief-trodden foot passed—
No flower could smile there.
He who fell from His glance and still lives—
As if a shroudless corpse passed through the marketplace.
In these times we live in such a way—
As if amidst the roar of war a hymn passed.
In that hour—remember us a little—
When, singing Phagun-songs, Phagun passes by your door.
Neeraj says: through every season of sorrow we passed—
As if a ray passed along a dark road.
The moments gone in Your love—
Were like monsoon through a burning noon.
Without Paramatma, man is corpse-like.
He who fell from His glance and still lives—
As if a shroudless corpse passed through the marketplace.
Without God, man is a corpse.
The Guru told Charandas:
Piv bina to jeevna, jag mein bhari jan.
Piya milai to jeevna, nahin to chhutai pran—
Such the vow, such the stake, such the gamble—that either You meet—or annihilate me. When such hundred-degree resolve happens—without a flicker of hesitation—revolution happens. At one hundred degrees water turns to vapor; when a man stakes at one hundred degrees—man disappears, Paramatma appears.
Vah virahin bauri bhai, janat na kou bhed—
And when such revolution happens...
Vah virahin bauri bhai, janat na kou bhed—
Then the world cannot understand what has happened. Outside the language of the world—how will the world understand? They call such ones mad. Paramahansas were always thought mad.
Vah virahin bauri bhai, janat na kou bhed.
Agin barai hiyara jarai, bhaye kaleje chhed—
In the search of the Beloved—“Fire burns, the heart burns; the chest is pierced.” But when one stakes so much—the rain descends—certainly. One who burns and calls so—rains will come. The event is certain.
Hiradai mahin prem jo, nainon jhalke aye—
Soi chhaka Hariras-paga, va pag parasau dhay—
Revolution is certain; only be ready. The moment you agree—God has always agreed. He stands at the door—open the door.
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.
Prem laga Jagdish ka, kachu aur na chaiye.
Set out in search of this wondrous fakiri. Seek the anand beyond pleasure and pain.
In starlight
the motes are shining—
and cool breezes of Paradise are flowing.
Come—let us sing together
songs filled with savor—
let us spread as a voice
across the vastness of the desert—
let us touch the sky—
let us sway and sway—
and sing and sing—
and dance and dance—
in the starlight—
in the vastness of the desert—
the swift waves of the river—
the gentle shade of trees—
and we are—and you are—
and grains of sand—
shining stars—
and the vastness of light—
and the tenderness of the sky—
and we are—and you are—
In the starlight—
springs are bubbling—
buds are cracking open; seasons are changing—
and we are—and you are.
For the one ready to stake everything, only two remain in the world—God and oneself. The entire world is transfigured into the Beloved’s form. Then you dance—with the Lord.
The first experience of bhakti: separation; the second: union; the third: dissolution. First—weep, because you have wandered. At first, tears will be of sorrow, pain, separation.
Agin barai hiyara jarai, bhaye kaleje chhed.
But if you weep—wholeheartedly—weeping itself is bhajan, is kirtan, is worship, is offering. If you have wept completely—soon revolution happens; union begins.
Vah virahin bauri bhai, janat na kou bhed—
None else will understand—only you will know what happened. Only you will know, recognize. Others will not understand—save those who are there themselves.
Soi chhaka Hariras-paga, va pag parasau dhay—
Therefore seek such companions. Else it often happens that even union comes for a moment—and you wander again—because the whole world calls you mad.
Hence a fellowship of madmen is needed. Therefore the value of sangha. These many sannyasis I am creating—there is meaning. A fellowship of madmen is needed—so that when you begin to go mad, someone welcomes you; someone says to you:
Ajab fakiri sahabi, bhagan soon paiye.
Prem laga Jagdish ka, kachu aur na chaiye—
You have arrived—or are arriving! Blessed are you.
A fellowship is needed; a company that can say this—otherwise you will be frightened. The whole world will call you mad. Someone must support you.
When from your eyes streams begin to flow—of love and of union... So long as they are tears of separation, there is no worry—the world understands sorrow’s tears. But when tears of joy begin—the world’s grasp is lost.
Hiradai mahin prem jo, nainon jhalke aye—
Soi chhaka Hariras-paga, va pag parasau dhay—
Then find those friends and companions—among whom you can sit and weep tears of joy—and they sing of your blessedness, they greet you, saying: congratulations.
Union—the second step; and the third—immersion. First—far from the Lord, we—dark night, alone. Then—together with the Lord—moonlit night and dance and rasa. And then—comes a moment—when you are no longer you, and the Lord no longer the Lord; the drop falls into the ocean—or the ocean into the drop.
These are the three steps of devotion. With Charandas, try to understand these three.
Enough for today.