Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #7

Slowly, slowly the day slopes down.
The shadow of joy, in the moonless night’s
blackness, is snatched away —
slowly, slowly the day slopes down.

So many buds in the garden
open fragrant, then wither.
So many sweet remembrances in life
take form, and dissolving, disappear.
So many bright aspirations, too,
become stained here.
Slowly, slowly the day slopes down.

Upon the ocean of the heart
rise and fall the numberless waves of longings.
This sun and shade of smiles
keeps flickering, hiding, appearing.
On the world’s path one must place one’s steps
with breath held, count by count.
Slowly, slowly the day slopes down.

Sometimes with the thrill of union,
and sometimes with the flood of separation.
In the bower, sometimes spring arrives,
sometimes the fall.
Even upon fresh, green, sprouting hopes
the frost settles here.
Slowly, slowly the day slopes down.

With each single moment death draws near; with each single moment life goes far. Moment by moment the morning recedes; moment by moment evening approaches. Whoever sees this exactly, precisely — in his life the search for Paramatma begins.

He who lives half-asleep, lost in his dreams, and has no taste of this vast fact of life — that life is slipping from the hand, that there is no device to stop it — this day will set, slowly, slowly it sets… but set it surely will. None has ever been able to hold it fast.

You cannot clench your fist upon time. Time is not some thing that you can save up. And death is not something that will happen in the future. In truth it already happened with birth. Whoever is born will die.

To whom the remembrance of death becomes exact and clear, to whose breast this arrow pierces cleanly — that death comes, that by none of our doings will death be stayed — earn wealth, rank, repute, all will lie in dust.

In this life where death is about to happen, there is no way to attain the essential. Within time the essential has no existence. The search for Paramatma means: the search for That which is timeless, which is outside time. His search alone is the search. His attaining alone is the attainment. For he who has attained That will lose nothing again; nothing will be snatched away. Therefore the saints call only That wealth. The world, affliction; the experience of the Lord, wealth.

What you call property, the saints have called calamity. And that wealth for which you never even raised a desire, that they have called wealth.

Not even in your mind has a dream yet arisen, not even a ripple yet that says: let us seek the Truth — that which will remain forever. Do not waste your moments in the search for what will be lost. You will not be able to gain it; and even if you gain it, it will be lost. In every case it is failure.

Success does not happen in the world. To this day none has been successful here. Those who failed — failed. Those who succeeded, is their failure any less?

Great Alexander conquered the world — but what did he get in hand? At the time of death Alexander said: let my bier be carried with my two hands hanging outside. His ministers asked: for what? No bier is carried with the hands hanging out! Alexander said: so that people may see that I too am going empty-handed.

Alexander empty-handed, and the beggar empty-handed — then who is successful and who is unsuccessful? Therefore I tell you: failure is failure; but there is no failure greater than success.

There is simply no way to be successful in this world. To live here is as if one drew lines upon water. You have not even finished drawing before they are erased. Nothing abides here. And where nothing abides, will you waste your whole time there?

The day is slipping away; who knows when the dusk will fall. Before the dusk arrives, come to know That where neither dusk is nor dawn. Come to know That where there is no birth and no death. Neither dusk nor dawn…

Where time has fallen silent, where the Eternal abides — that alone is wealth.

Charandas says:
We were good for nothing, the body not worth a penny.
By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, the body became priceless.

We were good for nothing…

What are you good for? In truth, for nothing. But you have nurtured false delusions.

Everyone lives here as if without him the world could not run at all. Such a delusion he keeps: I am very useful — what would happen without me? For this delusion you also collect evidence around you. But you know: when you were not, the world still went on — and very well. When you will not be, it will go on just the same. No one’s coming or going makes any difference. Your being or not being is equal. A difference will arise only when in your being the being of Paramatma is included. Alone you are empty; join to Paramatma, and you are filled.

We were good for nothing…

What were we good for — says Charandas? Of no use. Not worth even two coppers.

What you have, Charandas also had. Mark it well. A beautiful body, a healthy body; born into a prosperous family; wealth; position, prestige; a widespread business. What you have, Charandas had. Your cravings are his cravings too. He also desired to conquer the world.

His former name was Ranjit Singh. The urge to conquer the world must have been there. In the father’s mind must have been: my son will conquer the world. But the Master changed everything. Ranjit Singh he made Charan-das — slave of the Feet. He had set out to conquer — and was made a servant of the Feet! He had gone to bend the whole world at his feet; by the Master’s grace he himself bowed at the feet of the whole world. The whole story was changed.

He had everything, but Charandas says:
We were good for nothing…

You are of no use at all till you are of Ram. Become Ram’s, and you become of use. Without Ram, useless.

There are thousands upon thousands of desires within you, but you are not useful at all. When the thread ties you to Ram, meaning enters life.

In today’s world the most discussed word is: meaninglessness. Thinkers across the world are asking: what is the meaning of life? Always it has been asked. But in this century the question has become very deep. Many feel there is no meaning.

Just yesterday someone asked: what is the meaning of life? Why live? For what live? What is the essence of life? And the question cannot be dodged. The question is meaningful.

In truth there is no essence in life — in the way you live it. As you live, it is good for nothing at all. Ashes upon ashes. However much you try within this heap of ashes, diamonds will not be found. They are not there — how will they be found? So the question is right.

Whoever thinks even a little will have it arise in the mind. Each morning rise; the same shop, the same bazaar, the same office, the same running about, the same hustle and hurry. Then tired, at dusk come home and sleep. Then in the morning the same race again!

What is the difference between you and the oil-press bullock?

Where is meaning? And in such yoking to the mill, yoked and yoked, one day you will fall upon the way. Only dust will remain in your mouth — the taste of dust. Whether you ever were or never were, there will be no sign left.

So the intelligent will ask: what is the meaning of life?

In the West there are many thinkers — Sartre, Marcel, Jaspers — who say there is no meaning. Sartre’s famous saying: man’s life is a useless story. Man is a useless passion. Needless pomp, meaningless noise; no essence, no meaning. The babble of a madman. Words uttered in frenzy, from which no meaning can be drawn. And for this they have ample proofs. You all are proofs. The whole world is proof.

To prove Sartre, no argument is needed. Open your eyes — people everywhere will be visible to you.

A racket is on. People are running. Ask: where? — they do not know. Why? — they do not know. From where do you come? — they do not know. Such a meaningless rush, drenched in sweat. Blood is flowing, blood is made into water, heads are being banged. Great struggles against each other. And in the end all will fall into the grave. Dust merging with dust, all one. They ran a lot, got very harried.

When life was there, nothing happened except trouble. Restlessness and tension… even sleep could not be taken in peace. Not a single moment of rest.

So proofs Sartre need not seek; you all are the proofs, the world is proof. And yet Sartre is not right. Because Sartre has no taste of Ram. Without Ram, meaning does not happen. 'There is no haven without Ram.'

Without Ram there is no resting-place in life. Without Ram there is no rest in life. Without Ram there is no refuge in life.

To the friend who asked what is the meaning of life, I would say: meaning is not found ready-made. If it were ready-made, it would be worth two coppers. Meaning must be created. Create it, and you will find it. Meaning is not lying there to pick up as you go by. It must be awakened within your inner being; it must be poured into the very breath of your breath, it must be infused into the beatings of your heart.

Meaning is a song; sing, and it can be sung. Meaning is a dance; dance, and it can be danced. Meaning is a festival; prepare, and it will be fulfilled.

Meaning is not lying around; it is not free. It will not be found accidentally, by chance. Meaning is creation; you will have to give it birth. You will have to carry meaning in your own womb. The saints have called this 'sudhi' — to carry meaning in the womb — remembrance, mindfulness.

You must protect that remembrance as a pregnant woman protects within her belly the possibility of the future.

Have you watched how a pregnant woman walks — carefully, step by step, with breath held? A great responsibility is there. She is not alone — a new life is arising. Something is about to be born. As the day of delivery draws near, the mother-to-be walks with even greater care.

Have you noticed: on the face of a pregnant woman a radiance appears. She is never as beautiful as then. As if within a new lamp of life were burning; as if two souls had come to dwell within one house. The light greatly increases.

Upon the face of the pregnant woman a new softness, a new grace descends. The future begins to glimmer. A new flower is about to open; its fragrance starts to spread. Just so becomes the state — in far greater measure, a thousandfold — of one within whom the remembrance of Ram… one who is filled with the remembrance of Ram; who has taken Ram into his womb; who begins to protect Him in his belly. Then meaning is born.

Meaning is Ram’s shadow — the shadow of remembrance of the Lord.

Meaning cannot be within time, until you bring a ray of the Eternal into time. Until the light of the Eternal descends into the darkness of your time, there cannot be meaning. And the Eternal is, and time is; and they are side by side.

You are body, and you are Atman; and both are side by side, neighbors. Now it depends on you. If your attention is only on the body, meaning will never be born. If attention goes to the Atman, a rain of meaning will come. As in the month of Ashadh the clouds gather; the earth scorched by sun and heat, the heart of the thirsty earth begins to surge. The Ashadh clouds have gathered… Just so your state will be; the clouds of meaning will gather within you. And the earth that has lain dry for births upon births may hope again that rains are about to come — now to come, now to come. And the rain does come.

Those who bathe in Ram’s rain — they alone we call saints. Those who remain without the rain of Ram…

We were good for nothing…

They lived and yet did not live. They walked along and reached nowhere. Much disturbance they made, but an ecstasy did not happen.

Sartre is right — for nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand. But that one who remains — a Buddha, a Nanak, a Krishna, a Mohammed, a Charandas, a Kabir — that one who remains, he alone is the real man. Those nine hundred and ninety-nine are men only in name. Do not count them. Do not calculate from them. They have not yet become man.

Of those in whose lives there is no meaning, what is the use of calling them man? What is the difference between them and beast? Therefore the scriptures say: people merely appear to be human; they are in truth animals.

When someone is freed from this animality, then the birth of man happens. And how will you be freed from animality? Without the support of Ram, no one ever has been.

From where you stand, to cross beyond, at least you must remember the Beyond. From where you lie fallen, to rise beyond, at least you must lift your eyes to the sky.

In all ages, in every culture, the conception of the Divine has differed; yet one thing has ever been: whenever man remembered the Divine, he lifted his eyes toward the sky. There is no God sitting in the sky. It is only a symbol — of lifting the eyes to the Beyond, to the far, to the Infinite. As infinite as the sky spreads, such is the Divine.

You will not come out of your little well if you do not raise your eyes to the sky. You will die, buried in the well. You will never even come to know there was a sky. Most act just like that frog…

You must have heard Aesop’s tale.

A frog of the sea must have set out on pilgrimage. Tired upon the way, he stopped to rest in a well. The well-frog welcomed him and said: Friend, from where do you come? He said: From the ocean. The well-frog said: Ocean? What is ocean? Where is the ocean? How big? The well-frog had never gone outside the well. His whole world was limited within that small circle.

To help… because the ocean-frog fell silent; he found no answer; he was dumbfounded. To help him, the well-frog leapt a quarter of the well and said: Is the ocean this big? The ocean-frog said: No, no.

So the well-frog leapt halfway across the well and said: Is the ocean this big? The ocean-frog said: Forgive me. It is difficult to explain. Have you ever been outside your well? The well-frog said: Is there even anything outside the well? Is there anything worth going to? What is — is here. All joy is here. All essence is here. Then he leapt three-quarters and said: This big? But hearing 'no' again he became irritated. He took a full round of the well and said: This big?

When the ocean-frog said: No, friend, there is no comparison to your well. The ocean is so vast that the difference is not of measure but of quality. I cannot say it is this much bigger, or a thousand times, or a million times. However many times I say, the ocean is much greater.

The well-frog said: Good, go out now. Take the road. Liar! Is this courtesy — I made you a guest in my home and you criticize my home? Being a guest, you insult your host? Go out — take your road. In the whole world there is nothing bigger than the well.

Whatsoever one’s place, he does not want to admit anything greater than it. Will you accept there is anything greater than your shop? Anything greater than your house? Anything greater than your skull? Anything greater than yourself? And until you raise your eyes toward something greater than yourself, the search for the Lord does not begin. The Lord is vast, boundless. And we are all imprisoned in wells.

The tale of the well-frog is your tale. And then one day you feel there is no essence in life — do not hold anyone else responsible. Essence there was, but you had to step outside the well.

Essence is in the Vast, in reference to the Vast. Where is essence in the petty? Essence is in the Whole; where is essence in the fragment? Essence is in the music of the Total.

Meaning must be created. And the first step in creating meaning is: you must lift your eyes to the sky; an upward-looking eye. An eye that looks above. An eye that looks toward the greater. In the very seeing of the greater, man begins to become great.

Charandas says:
We were good for nothing, the body not worth a penny.
So low a state, that the body would not fetch even a penny. What is the price of the body?

Man’s body seems the most valueless body in the world! When an elephant dies, everything becomes useful, saleable. Dead he becomes more useful than alive.

A lion dies, the hide sells. A man dies — nothing remains that can be sold. Not even a penny is had. The family hastens: come, to the cremation ground. Neighbors begin to ready the bier! For delay a little and the stench will rise. Keep the corpse for a day or two and he who dwelt in the body, and those nearby, all will writhe. The foul odor will rise; living will become unbearable. Quickly the corpse must be disposed. Bury, burn — but finish it quickly. Be free of it.

Man’s body is not worth two coppers.

So long as you are only the body, your worth is not even two coppers. And the wonder is: within this very body lies hidden the treasure of nectar, the kingdom of heaven. Change the vision a little and you become priceless.

Says Charandas:
We were good for nothing, the body not worth a penny.
By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, the body became priceless.

The body became invaluable. Which body is this that is invaluable? Not this visible body. Within this very body something invisible is hidden — that is who you are. Tat tvam asi — That thou art; that is your real being.

Your condition is as if in a lamp a flame is burning and the flame is not the lamp. The earthen lamp — where is the flame? The flame is not the oil. The flame is not the wick. Though without the supports of wick, oil, and lamp, the flame cannot be manifest here — that is true. But the flame is something else — neither wick, nor oil, nor lamp. If the flame believes itself to be the lamp, it is worth two coppers. Then its value is just the lamp’s value. What is the lamp’s value? Such is man’s state.

Within you burns a flame of consciousness — for this there is no need of proof! You know well that you are. In this world there is only one fact directly experienced: I am.

In the West there was a thinker, Descartes. He wished to erect his philosophy upon some firmly certain ground, a foundation that could never be shaken. He thought: let me place the foundation upon God. But about God, there are those who doubt. And those who do not doubt, to this day have not been able to prove that He is.

He has been proved, he has been disproved. The arguments are nearly equal. None has become a victor; no conclusion has been reached.

Five thousand years of philosophic inquiry — no result in hand. As many arguments for, so many against. Believe whatever you wish, but logically there is no way either to prove or to disprove. No decision has been reached. The story is incomplete. It does not seem it can be completed.

Then upon what… shall the foundation be laid upon matter? Leave God — invisible, unseen. Whether any has seen Him or not is also a matter of trust. If you accept, good. Who knows, perhaps Buddha was deluded? Perhaps Kabir is deceiving? Perhaps to Charandas came a dream of God and he thought it true?

From outside there is no way to know. There is no gauge, no touchstone.

So leave God, thought Descartes. Place the base upon matter. But, astonished, he had to accept that matter also cannot be proved. God cannot be proved, and neither can matter be proved.

In philosophical terms — concerning matter we cannot say anything for certain. Because at night in dreams you see things and in the morning you find they are not. Who knows if by day you are dreaming? At night you sleep and the day’s dream disappears. At night you sleep in your house and forget the house; all night it does not come to mind. All night you dwell in unknown palaces; you travel unknown mountains; you wander among unknown moons and stars; then they become true. In the morning when the eyes open, those moons and stars are false; those palaces are false. This house becomes true again.

Who knows what is true?

Chuang Tzu’s famous saying: I slept at night and dreamt I had become a butterfly. Then in the morning a thought arose: now a great difficulty has come — what is the truth?

Chuang Tzu pondered: at night I dreamt that I had become a butterfly. Now it could be that the butterfly slept and dreamt it had become Chuang Tzu! If the first can be true, the second can also be. If Chuang Tzu can become a butterfly in dream, why cannot a butterfly become Chuang Tzu in dream?

Who knows — when the butterfly sleeps in your garden, what dream she dreams? Perhaps she dreams she has become a man. You dream of being a butterfly — what hinders the butterfly? What obstruction?

Chuang Tzu is right.

Descartes felt: matter cannot be proved either. For we have never gone outside our inside. You are within, always within. From outside comes the news that matter is. This wall, this pillar, these trees, these people… but so it is in dreams too. Pillars are, walls are, people are, trees are — and in the morning it is found: nothing was there!

Who knows if one day when we awaken in death, we will find that what we saw here was a long dream. Whether a dream lasts seven minutes or seventy years — what difference? By being long, does a dream become true? A dream seen the whole night — eight hours — is still not true. A dream is a dream. What difference length?

Sometimes even in waking one is deceived. A rope lies upon the path — in daylight — and you are frightened it is a snake. You run. In running you fall; break your bones. A plaster must be put on. But nothing was there; only a rope.

Sometimes in waking the senses deceive. Where deception is possible, where the senses can show what is not… and it is not only with snakes and ropes. Everything you have seen is like that.

One day you saw a woman very beautiful. You were charmed, fell in love; you married. And within a few days you find there is no beauty. Was it there — when you saw? Now doubt arises: perhaps we were deceived. Perhaps the mind saw what was not; thought what was not. Now it is not. Yet some other may still see beauty in your wife; you no longer see it.

One day it seems everything is in wealth. Who does not feel it? The language of wealth attracts all. And one day, having attained wealth, it is found that nothing is in hand; life was wasted in running, and these shards are what we got. Otherwise Mahavira would not have renounced. Otherwise Buddha would not have abandoned the throne.

One day it seemed nothing is there. And the reverse also happens.

A Jain monk asked me: it has been forty years since I left home, and now I suspect whether I did right or not. Perhaps happiness was there; here it is not. He who gains wealth realizes there is no happiness here, perhaps in the forest. And he who has wandered in the forest, forty years later, near death, thinks: perhaps I erred? There is no way to be young again and run in the world. Death is near. But doubt arises: was the option I chose right?

Concerning matter, truth cannot be decided.

Then what to do? Descartes pondered: upon what base shall I erect the edifice of philosophy? And then he discovered one truth. I am. Upon this there can be no doubt. It is an indubitable truth: I am. 'Cogito ergo sum' was his phrasing; but the real clarity is: I am. Why no doubt? Because to doubt this also I must be. If I say: I am not — even for saying 'not' I must be.

Have you heard the famous story?

Mulla was sitting in a coffee house. Friends goaded him: Mulla, you always boast of your charity and generosity. But you have never invited us even for a meal!

Mulla said: All come, get up. The whole coffee house, come.

Thirty-five men set off with Mulla.

At first Mulla strutted, but as home came closer… as everyone’s swagger diminishes near his door, his too dwindled.

At the door he said: Brothers, keep quiet. First… now you know yourselves; all of you householders, you have wives. You understand the matter of wives. I will go in and placate her. Suddenly seeing thirty-five men she will flare up!

All understood. They said: We wait; go in and make her agreeable.

Mulla went in — and did not come out. One hour, two hours passed. At last they knocked.

Mulla said to his wife: I made a mistake, a great mistake. I spoke in excitement, forgot you. Go and tell them Mulla is not at home. The wife said: Will they believe? He said: Do not worry. Say he is not at home. Stick to it: he is not at home. That ends it.

The wife came out and asked: What do you want? They said: Mulla Nasruddin…! The wife said: He is not at home. He has been out all day.

They said: This is rich! We saw with our own eyes he went in. He came with us, he invited us. He has not even come out yet.

They began to argue with the wife. Now a man does not argue with his own wife; but with another’s wife, what stops him! They argued. They said: No, he must be at home. This is cheating. He invited us for a meal; we have not gone home. It is midnight; we are hungry.

Mulla saw the dispute increasing; his wife seemed to be losing; she felt embarrassed — what to do! So Mulla opened the upper window, peeped down and said: When she has told you a thousand times he is not at home, then he cannot be at home. Are you not ashamed to argue with another’s woman? My wife never speaks a lie. It could also be that he came by the front door and left by the back!

Now it is Mulla himself speaking!

You cannot say: I am not at home. That statement falsifies itself. To say it you must be.

So there is one principle — I, my being, the sense of self — upon which there can be no doubt. For doubt proves it. This indubitable known, man becomes priceless. But how without the Master’s grace? Says Charandas:
We were good for nothing, the body not worth a penny.
By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, the body became priceless.

Understand the element of grace, and the element of the Guru.

Guru means: one who has found the priceless. The priceless is within you also. Between you and the Guru the difference is not in more or less of the priceless jewel. It is not that the Guru possesses the Kohinoor and you do not. Not so. The difference is only this: he knows, you do not know.

In your pocket too the Kohinoor lies. The Guru has felt in his pocket and found it. You have not felt in your pocket. In being you and Guru are the same, but in awareness you are very different.

And he who has felt the Kohinoor lying in his pocket can persuade you also to feel. 'I too used to wander in darkness. This same anxiety, this same futility surrounded me too. I too was worth two coppers. No essence, no music, no joy. Life was sad, empty, hollow. But one day I put my hand within and found the priceless.'

If someone can say to you: I have found — you too feel within. Open your knot once. Go within once. As it happened to me, it can happen to you; you too are man. As I am man, so you are man.

Guru means: one who is just like you — exactly like you — but awareness has dawned; he knows what he is.

You also know: I am. The Guru also knows: I am. The difference is only this: he knows who he is; you do not know who you are. In being there is no difference. Being is equal, alike. The inheritance is equal for all. To all consciousness is given equally. Turn your consciousness around, look at yourself…

You are so absorbed in looking at others that you cannot return to yourself. You are so full of relish for running outward that you cannot come inside. You are entangled in the 'other' and do not awaken to the 'self.'

Guru means: one who has awakened to the Self. And one who has awakened to the Self alone can awaken you.

Guru does not mean teacher. Teacher means: he has read scriptures. Ask him scriptural questions, he will answer — consistent answers, according to scripture. But as far as awakening is concerned, he is asleep like you.

As you have earned wealth while asleep, so asleep has he read scriptures. As you have earned wealth asleep, he has earned knowledge asleep. But in sleeping there is no difference. He is asleep like you.

Your brahmin, your priest, your mullah, your padre — they are asleep like you. Only their profession is religion. Your profession is something else; theirs is religion. Religion is their specialty.

Someone becomes a doctor by studying medicine. Someone becomes a ruler by ruling. Someone something else. They became pundits. But in consciousness there is no difference.

Guru is not the name of a teacher. Therefore we have the word 'Guru.' In the tongues of the world there is no word for 'Guru.' 'Teacher' exists in all languages. 'Guru' is a unique word.

Guru means: one who has awakened, and who has realized the weight, the gravity of his own being — guruta. Guru means: one who has experienced guruta; in whose life essence has arisen. The Guru is just like you, but awakened; you are asleep.

The Guru does not answer from scripture; the Guru answers from himself. The Guru is himself the scripture. He who answers from the Veda — he is a pundit. He who answers from the Koran — a pundit. He who answers from his own inner Veda, his own inner Koran — he is Guru. He is himself the proof of his experience; he can say: this is my knowing. He does not say: I think God is. He says: I know God is. He does not say: my belief is that the Atman is. He says: my experience is that the Atman is. 'Is' and 'belief' are the words of sleeping men. He says: God is utterly present.

Someone asked Ramakrishna: is there God? Ramakrishna said: I can doubt whether you are, but I cannot doubt that God is. You appear hazy to me; God is powerfully present.

To one who has seen God, everything else becomes hazy. It is natural; one who has seen the Kohinoor — small gems and jewels go pale, become pebbles. One who has seen that supreme beauty — the beauties of the world fade.

Rabia was sitting in her house — an extraordinary fakir-woman, a woman like Ramakrishna. Another fakir, Hasan, was her guest. Morning came, Hasan went out. The sun was rising, birds were singing, cool breezes were there — a delightful morning.

Hasan called from outside: Rabia, what do you do sitting inside? Come out, see how beautiful a sun God has brought forth, how beautiful a morning He has given birth to.

Rabia laughed and said: Hasan, how long will you go on looking outside? Come in. You are seeing the sun; I am seeing the maker of the sun. The sun is utterly pale. This light — is it light? If you wish to see light, see the One who made the sun. Not one, but thousands of suns He has made; infinite suns. See the light of the One from whom infinite suns are born. Hasan, come within.

The matter was small. Hasan had said it in jest, but it became precious.

Rabia is Guru; Hasan is teacher. Hasan too was a famous fakir. He had many disciples. More than Rabia. Rabia’s disciples could only be the courageous. Hasan’s could be anyone.

Neither the Guru knows, nor you know — with the blind, the blind become friends quickly.

With one who has eyes, it is hard for the blind to befriend. First, the language is different. One with eyes speaks of light and colors; the blind cannot understand. The language differs. And to hold on to one with eyes injures the blind man’s ego. Therefore people follow gurus less, and leaders more.

Leader means: blind leading the blind. Leader means: one who himself does not know where he is going. He keeps turning to see where the people wish to go, and he goes there. And the people think: see the leader, where he goes, we go. A mutual arrangement of the blind.

The leader keeps looking back: what does the crowd want? Whatever the crowd wants, he shouts that slogan. The crowd says: socialism; the leader says: long live socialism. Whatever the crowd says…

And often the crowd has no idea of its own good or harm. Mostly it is such that the crowd cannot know its own good at all. If it knew, life would have changed long ago. The crowd does even its own harm. Whoever voices its cravings — whoever says: you are right — the crowd follows him.

Now this is amusing. The leader says: you are right. And the crowd thinks: yes, this man is right. Follow him.

With the Guru only the rare go. Courage is needed. First courage to accept: I am blind. It pricks the pride to accept: I am blind? I am ignorant? I have gained nothing so far? 'The body not worth a penny.' My worth is two coppers. This pricks! Across this prick only the brave can go.

To join with the Guru one must accept: I am nothing.

I heard an ancient Egyptian tale.

A disciple came to the Guru. The disciple was very renowned, more renowned than the Guru. A great scholar; knower of the scriptures. All scriptures — Agamas and Nigamas — he had by heart. But behind him must have come a pain. Scriptures were memorized, but no news of Truth. Words were remembered, but no door to the wordless.

So in the last moments of life, he sought a Guru. He was late already. He found the Guru.

The Guru looked at this pundit and said: I see many obstacles within you. Your knowledge is heavy. Write down what all you know. What you know — we need not speak of that. Leave it. What you do not know, that I will make you know.

The disciple went. It took a year, because he knew many scriptures. He kept writing and writing, filled perhaps a thousand pages. He came with a tome of a thousand pages.

The Guru said: You have come! I doubted you could return — so much rubbish in your head! If you write it all…

He looked at the thousand-page tome. The Guru said: This is too much. I am old, death is near. I cannot read so much. Make a summary. Bring the essence.

Three months passed; the pundit returned with a summary — only a hundred pages. The Guru said: Still too much. My days are few. I cannot read even a hundred. Make it more concise.

The disciple returned. He brought the essence on a single page. But the Guru was at the very edge of death. He said: Brother! This is still too much. Go quickly into the next room and make it even more concise.

The disciple went and wrote the whole essence in a single sentence — a great aphorism. The Guru’s last breath was halted. He said: I am waiting for you. When will you understand? Make it still more concise. Why be stingy?

Then the disciple came to his senses. He ran to the other room, brought a blank sheet, and placed it in the Guru’s hand. The Guru said: Now you are a disciple. Though I am leaving, our connection will remain. When I was alive we had no connection, because knowledge stood in between. Now you have become a blank page. Though I go, do not worry; the connection is made. Even death cannot sever me from you now. Whereas earlier, even life could not join me to you.

The Guru died, and in that very moment of his death the disciple attained knowing. What happened? The story is unique.

Bringing the blank page, what happened? The blank page meant: I know nothing. I am ignorant. Only he who can keep such a feeling before the Guru is a disciple. Otherwise if even a little obstruction of knowledge remains, the wall remains.

First, Guru means: one who has awakened to his own wealth. He can awaken you. Only the awakened can awaken.

If five hundred people are sleeping here and someone is to be awakened, only someone awake can awaken him. One sleeping cannot awaken another sleeping. Think: how will he awaken him? He himself is asleep — how will he awaken another? Yes, one sleeping can lull another to sleep.

You have seen — if someone next to you yawns and nods, after a while you begin to yawn and nod.

One sleeping can lull another. But one sleeping cannot awaken another. To awaken, someone awake is required.

Thus 'Guru' we have named — the awakened one.

Guru means guruta — gravity, weight. He has become weighty; no longer shallow. A depth has come. Value has come. He is no longer a slick surface; he has become deep, serious.

The moment one awakens, man is no longer man; he becomes Divine. And the sleeping man is also not man; he is animal.

So remember: man is only a midway camp. Here there are men who are in truth animals — asleep. And here there are men who are in truth Divine — awake. Man is only a bridge from animal to Paramatma. Man is not a state; he is a journey. The journey from animal to Paramatma — that is manhood.

'By Guru Sukhdev’s grace…'

First the Guru-element; and second, understand the grace-element. The whole essence of the saints is there.

Grace means: without cause. Grace means: beyond cause and effect.

You labored two hours, you got two rupees wages. That is not grace. You dug the earth, sowed seed, watered; the wheat harvest came, you cut it. That is not grace.

Grace means: you did nothing on account of which you could claim it should be given; you had no ground for claim, and yet it was given — a gift, a reward — causeless.

In Jesus’ life there is a story that illumines grace. Jesus said: Grace is like this — a vineyard owner needed laborers to harvest ripe grapes. Many laborers came. They worked till noon. But it seemed the grapes would not be fully picked by evening; the men were few. The owner came and sent his foreman again to fetch more men. The foreman went running, brought more from the marketplace.

Near evening the owner came again and said: Even this will not do. Fetch still more laborers. The foreman ran again. But by the time he came back with them, the sun had set.

So some had come in the morning, some at noon, some at dusk. And when night was near, the owner gave to all whatever was needed. To the morning laborers as much, to the noon laborers as much, to the evening men — who had done nothing, who merely stood there and the sun set — to them as much.

Naturally the morning men were angry. They said: This is injustice. We have pounded our heads since morning, borne the day’s heat, and we get as much? Those who came at noon, half a day, they get as much? And leave them — but these who just stood — who did not pluck a single leaf, not move a leaf — they get as much?

The owner laughed: Do you understand grace? Tell me: did you get what you needed or not? They said: We got what we should for a day’s work, from morning to evening; we got full.

The owner said: Then why worry? You got what was due. Why concern yourself that I gave to these? I have much; therefore I give. I give because I have. I do not give because of their wages. I give because I have. I have in abundance; therefore I give.

Grace means: the Guru has so much in abundance that he is distributing. He has to distribute. If worthy ones come, he gives to the worthy; if unworthy come, he gives to the unworthy.

A Tibetan tale: a Guru refused disciples his whole life; whenever anyone asked to be accepted, he erected obstacles: are you truthful? Honest? Do you avoid violence? Do you abstain from meat? Do you avoid others’ wives? Have you ever stolen? This, that — so many points that none could prove worthy. He refused: until you are worthy, how can I accept?

But one day he called his servant — who only served him — and said: Go down to the settlement; whoever wishes to be a disciple, bring him quickly.

The servant said: Master, you do not accept disciples so easily! The village is tired from begging you. Many have come and gone. You never accepted anyone. He said: Do not worry. Go — whoever you find, bring him. Say: the Guru has changed; he is ready to give to anyone.

He brought ten or fifteen people. Strange types. One was asked: Why have you come? He said: My wife died. I was sad. This man said the Guru is giving; so I came. One had lost at gambling: I have lost; life is sad — thus I came. One said: I have no reason. I was wandering outside my house. This man asked: will you come? I said: Why not, let us see — what harm?

None believed the Guru would accept them. He accepted all. They all said: You accept us?

A gambler, one whose wife died, one who came for no reason — who has nothing to do with God at all, only sitting idle, strolling outside — he came thinking: we will have a little outing. You accept all! And until now you refused all?

The Guru said: I had nothing. I sought excuses — you are unworthy. Now I have; now I can find no excuse. The question is not whether you are worthy or not. The question now is: whoever comes to receive, I am ready to give.

Within me the cloud has grown dense; the rain wishes to fall. Now I will not see where — whether the land is clean, pure; I will not see anything. Even if the land is impure, I will rain. I must rain. The flower is on the verge of blooming; the fragrance will spread. I will not ask whether it will go east or west, to whose nostrils — sinners’, saints’? The fragrance must be freed.

The lamp is lit; the light will fall. The light cannot ask: I will fall only upon the righteous, not upon the unrighteous. When the unrighteous passes I will close myself; when the righteous passes I will pour forth…

This is grace.

Grace means: the Guru has, and has so much that he must share. Otherwise it becomes a burden.

Guru means guruta. For the first time in his life the meaningful has dawned. Meaning condenses; essence grows dense, and by that density guruta is born. He must lighten himself; he must share.

When a song is in the heart and you do not sing, it becomes a burden. You must sing. When dance has reached the feet and you do not tie the bells, do not dance, you will be in difficulty.

In this world, one must share. It is inevitable. This is grace.

What you receive from the Guru is not because of your worthiness; it is because of his grace. This has great value on the path of devotion. For then there is no way for the disciple’s ego to be born.

Otherwise the disciple thinks: Look! I keep yamas, niyamas; I do asanas, pranayama, pratyahara, dharana, dhyana — therefore I receive. Why even thank?

But the disciple says: Whatever I practice, what I receive has no relation to it. By practice I may have become pure, and what I receive I may be able to hold, to bear. But what I receive is not because of my worthiness. My yamas, niyamas, my disciplines — they have set my pot upright, that is true. But the rain falling from the sky is not happening because my pot is upright. It was going to fall anyway. Even had my pot been upside down the rain would still have fallen. The one who has, will pour. When meditation bears fruit, compassion is born with it. What is there will overflow. Abundance must flow.

The Guru is such that a flood has come; he will break banks and flow. This is grace.

By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, the body became priceless.

Until the Guru is found, until through the Guru the grace of the Divine is received, until through the Guru’s door — the Gurudwara — the Lord flows toward you, you cannot become priceless. Till then you are a lie, a play.

You say: with the cosmetics of acting I will wash off all make-up —
but tell me this: before the play began, what was I?
With my begging bowl I awaken the Unstruck Name,
I roam door to door.
Even the thorns beneath my feet are tired,
but the wounded feet do not give up.
I hear, I endure,
these harsh words of the eternal vow —
let someone tell me: before the beggar, what was I?

Is this too little — that with a thirsty heart
every wellhead spoke to me with honor?
With the curiosity of recognition
the water-bearer lifted her veil.
Her pitcher asks the cloud: why did you rain at noontide in high summer?
Now let someone tell this also: before the chatak, what was I?

The buds’ compassion awakened,
every particle of the garden grew fragrant.
At the bewitching hum of the bees,
my sentimental heart went astray.
Paying the price of the garland, I was cheated by the gardener —
now let someone tell this too: before the customer, what was I?

When songs of longing were sung,
the world took Radha’s name.
Each Radha, startled, cried:
Whom have you given this epithet?
Calling Radhas a hindrance,
they snatched the flute’s music away —
now let someone come and tell me: before the hinderer, what was I?

Until the Guru is found, you are a hindrance. Until the Guru is found, you are not Radha.

With the Guru is woven the rasa of consciousness — then Radha.

This word 'Radha' is very significant. It is symbolic.

There is no proof in ancient scriptures that there was a woman named Radha. There is no mention of Radha in the old texts. Much later, in the medieval period of devotion, the word 'Radha' was joined.

Radha seems not to have a historical existence. The old texts say only this much: among all the gopis there was one very close. Among all the gopis there was one who followed behind Krishna like a shadow. But she had no name.

In the Middle Ages this name was found — Radha. Behind it is a precious symbol. 'Radha' is 'dhara' reversed. Dhara means the stream that goes downward. When consciousness flows toward desire, its symbolic name is 'dhara.' As Ganga descends from the mountain — dhara. She moves downward, comes to the plains. She leaves the heights of beauty, leaves Gaurishankar, leaves the lofty ranges, the virgin, untouched snows — and descends into the mud — dhara.

When your consciousness descends toward desire — dhara. And when consciousness turns upward, you become the reverse of dhara — Radha.

You move upward. You leave the mud — become lotus. You rise upward. You leave the earth — go toward the sky. You leave body — you seek the Atman.

The body is earth; the Self is sky. The body is the plain; the Self is Gaurishankar. Therefore we say: upon Kailash is the abode of the Divine. Understand its meaning. No God sits upon a peak. 'Shiva abides at Kailash' means only this much — go upward, become upward-going, travel to Kailash.

The moment you join with the Guru, dhara becomes Radha. This is the fruit of the Guru’s grace.

They did not look me straight in the eye, nor did they touch my shadow.
By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, they carry away the washing of my feet.

Charandas says: I know well those who would not look me in the eye; who would not touch even my shadow.

Charandas was a merchant, a Dhosar Baniya. Brahmins would stay far from him. Then such Guru-grace happened that now brahmins come and take the water of my washed feet!

They did not look me straight in the eye, nor did they touch my shadow.
By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, they carry away the washing of my feet.

Charandas says: What an unprecedented thing happened, what a revolution! People carry the water that has washed the feet of someone like me, small and insignificant — it is nothing of mine. It is the overflow from the Guru that has descended, it is the Guru’s grace that is honored.

Elsewhere he says:
Born a Dhosar’s child, without bhakti a pauper.
By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, Hari’s wealth made me fulfilled.

A merchant’s son, Charandas says:
Born a Dhosar’s child…
There was much money — a merchant’s son.
… without bhakti a pauper.
But what of money? Without devotion he was a beggar.

By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, Hari’s wealth made me fulfilled.
He gave Hari’s wealth — the wealth of the Divine — and blessed me.

Blessed is the Guru; I offer body and mind.
In a flash he made the jiva Brahman; I found the forgotten place.

Listen: a very important saying — blessed is your Guru, astonishing is he, that 'in a flash he made the jiva Brahman'… in a single instant he changed the story. In a single instant he made the meaningless meaningful. Blessed!

In a flash he made the jiva Brahman…
Not even a moment was needed. I believed I was body; and he made me Paramatma! I believed all was without essence; and he showered essence.

This revolution happens in a single instant — because there is nowhere to go to search for this treasure. It is already present. You have brought it with you. It is your own nature.

In a flash he made the jiva Brahman; I found the forgotten place.

My Satguru is a hero; he strikes with the blow of the Word.

He says: my Guru is like a warrior, an archer.

My Satguru is a hero; he strikes with the blow of the Word.
And his Word wounds. His Word is not ointment, not consolation; his Word wounds. Understand the difference.

The pundit-priest’s word consoles, it does not wound. His word is soothing; he placates, plasters over.

Someone has died at home. If the priest comes he will say: Why weep? The soul is immortal. Who dies? This beloved of yours has gone to heaven. This is the priest’s speech.

If the Guru comes and sees you weeping, he will say: Weep well, for as this one died, so will you. He will strike. Without the blow no one awakens. What will consolation do?

This one has died and the priest explains: do not fear; he has gone to heaven. Everyone goes to heaven! Whoever dies — all heaven-bound! Hell must be empty. For you see: whoever dies — none goes to hell; all go to heaven!

The priest has found a consolation. He sends all to heaven. You feel relief: good, no harm done. You know your husband, your wife — hope of heaven is little. But if they went, good.

I heard: a Christian woman had a stone carved for her husband’s grave. On the stone she had written: 'Rest in peace in heaven.' The stone was ready, when the husband’s will was opened. He had left nothing for the wife. He divided everything, left not a penny for her.

The wife, furious, ran to the stonecutter: Change it; this will not do. This man deceived me! He tormented me my whole life and even in death he tormented me. Do not write this on his stone.

He said: The stone is made, to change is hard. The wife thought and said: Then do this — you have written 'Rest in peace in heaven' — add: 'until I come.' Rest in peace — until I come.

Our 'heaven,' our 'immortal soul' — all consolations, poultices. The Satguru strikes.

My Satguru is a hero; he strikes with the blow of the Word.
He fires the cannon of love, and the fortress of illusion falls.

Though he pours love, his love is a sword. His love is fire.

He fires the cannon of love, and the fortress of illusion falls.

So it must be.

Boundless is the Satguru’s compassion, and he must be equally hard. Otherwise it is not possible to transform your life. If the Satguru is only sweet, there is no possibility of revolution in the disciple; only diabetes will improve! The Satguru cannot be only sweet; he will be bitter too. Many times he will strike. Many times he will make you wriggle.

My Satguru is a hero; he strikes with the blow of the Word.
He fires the cannon of love, and the fortress of illusion falls.

For that wall of illusion you have built — until shells rain upon it, it will not fall.

Of the Satguru it is said exactly right: he is like a potter. You have seen a potter shaping a pot upon the wheel. One hand he keeps inside — with that he supports. One hand he keeps outside — with that he strikes. From inside he supports, otherwise it will collapse, the pot will not be made. If he only strikes, the pot will not be made; if he only supports, the pot will not be made. With one hand he supports, with one he strikes. He unites support with blow, blow with support. Only then is creation possible. Only then can meaning arise in life.

So often the disciple will feel: I should run away, leave — the blow is too much, beyond bearing. The weak will run. Only the brave can remain.

The Satguru’s Word is a sword, one stroke cuts you in two. He separates the essential from the nonessential, the true from the false. He separates Maya from Brahman, body from Atman.

The Satguru’s Word is a sword, one stroke cuts you in two.
The coward turns his back and flees; the brave receives it face on.

He who has even a little cowardice turns his back and runs: I did not come to be beaten. I came seeking heaven; I came seeking Truth. I did not come to be struck. I did not come to be insulted.

But without breaking your ego, you will never be joined to the Divine.

Your ego must be shattered, however much the pain. Therefore cowards run. Cowards seek consolation and talk of Truth.

The Satguru’s Word is a sword, one stroke cuts you in two.
The coward turns his back and flees; the brave receives it face on.

The brave will take it head-on. He will thank the Guru for striking. Had he not struck, revolution was not possible. By striking and striking — as a sculptor with a chisel strikes and strikes to break the stone and transform the unshaped rock into a beautiful image — such is the whole process.

The Satguru’s Word is an arrow; it pierces body and mind.

The Satguru must pierce body-mind; only then can you have the vision of the Self — which is hidden behind body and mind.

As one digs a well, so the Satguru must dig the well of meditation within you.

The heartless do not understand; only the lover knows the secret.

He who is unqualified, cowardly, without courage, weak, fearful… 'the heartless' — he will not understand. He has not yet felt the pain to attain the Divine; the thirst has not yet ignited.

If thirst arises, a man is ready to endure all the labor of digging a well. Without thirst he thinks: Why so much effort? For what purpose?

If the Divine were free, people would be ready to receive. If some labor must be done, they are not ready. If something must break, if they must change, they are not ready. They want: let us remain as we are, and God should be given. Free of cost.

For wealth they are ready to do anything. For rank they are ready to do anything. For the Divine, not ready to do anything!

The heartless do not understand; only the lover knows the secret.

But in whose heart the fire of longing has begun to burn, to whom it has become visible that death will snatch all — hurry! dusk comes near — hurry! Do something so that a connection with the Eternal is made. Do not lose life’s chance in vain. He alone will understand — the Guru’s blow.

The Satguru’s Word strikes like an arrow from the archer’s bow.
It aches and does not come out; it becomes the sweet pain of love.

The Satguru’s words are arrows.

It aches and does not come out…
It cannot be taken out. Such an arrow it is: there is no way to remove it. Once it has struck, it has struck. Then it aches, it gives much sweet pain. But the pain is sweet — for it is upon the path to the Divine.

It aches and does not come out; it becomes the sweet pain of love.

The Satguru’s Word is a shaft that tears limb from limb.

The Satguru must tear you apart, he must demolish you. Therefore when someone takes sannyas from me, I ask: Are you ready to die? Ready to be erased? Ready to be beheaded? If not, there will be no benefit. Then sannyas will be false.

Only when you die can the Divine be. And only when the Divine is, are you. Before that all is false; play-acting.

The Satguru’s Word is a shaft that tears limb from limb.
In the field of love the wounded fall; no stitch can join them again.

This is a battlefield where, when the Guru’s strike fells someone… 'in the field of love the wounded fall'… this war is of love. The Satguru is not an enemy. The Satguru has loved you, therefore he longs to break you.

In the field of love the wounded fall; no stitch can join them again.

And the difficulty is: the wound of the Satguru’s blow cannot be mended. Once it lands, it lands. This bone, once broken, is broken. No medicine can join it. And this wound, once made, is made forever. It never heals. For this wound is not a wound; it is the doorway for the Divine to enter.

At first it seems a wound; until the Divine has come it seems a wound. When the Divine comes you will understand: what you took for a wound were lotuses in bloom. Your understanding was astray. What you thought a blow was a blessing. What you thought a curse was compassion.

In the field of love the wounded fall; no stitch can join them again.

So he draws the bowstring tight, and the shot goes clean through.
Those whose 'I' is no more become the very essence of That.

The Guru looses the blow with care, takes aim so that it goes clean through.

The Guru seeks the opportunity — when you leave your heart unguarded. He waits for that moment when you are not protecting your heart. When that moment comes, when you give him the chance, when he sees your heart lies unprotected, that you have dropped your guard…

So first the Guru showers love upon you, draws you close, so trust arises, so you stop protecting yourself, so you lay down your bow and arrows, so you remove your shield and say: where is the danger — he is my own.

The day the Guru finds no shield covering you, that day…

So he draws the bowstring tight, and the shot goes clean through.
Those whose 'I' is no more become the very essence of That.

When your 'I' is gone, the sense of 'me' has dissolved, then you become the essence of That — tattva-sara. You become of the form of That — tat tvam asi. But you must die. Without dying there is no attaining.

Jesus has said: He who loses, finds. He who saves himself will be lost. He who drowns, is the one who is saved.

Do not protect yourself from the Guru. With argument, with thought, with devices — do not protect yourself from the Guru. If you must protect yourself, do not go to the Guru. When you are ready for this — that nothing is kept; what is there to lose, what is there to fear? 'The body not worth a penny'… 'we were good for nothing'… then even if the Guru annihilates you, what is annihilated? If this rubbish is set on fire, what is the harm? Let it burn. This rubbish has no value.

The day it becomes visible to you that in this life there is no essence, that day you will be ready to say: Right — now finish it. Perhaps with staking everything, something meaningful may be found. It surely is found.

In this world those who stake never lose — but the stake must be total. Not the miser’s stake; not cautious — a little, a little. The stake must be complete.

Those whose 'I' is no more become the very essence of That.

The Guru’s word struck home; the crowns of kings fall away.

When the Guru’s word is understood, his speech revealed, his feeling opens in your heart, his color dyes you — then even thrones seem vain. Then even a cross placed by the Guru’s hand is more meaningful. Then the cross is more valuable; the throne is worth two coppers.

… the crowns of kings fall away.

Then even if someone would seat you upon empire’s throne, you would say: Forgive me, I have found a greater wealth; toys of children are not for me.

Pearls, diamonds, spouse and children, friends, house, elephants, horses —

Then pearls and diamonds, beautiful women, handsome husbands, houses, elephants and horses — all have no value. Toys. Chessmen.

The Guru’s knowing touched me; pleasures turned dry.

Once the taste of the Guru comes, the taste of his grace, once even a single drop of the Divine is drunk through the Guru and descends into your throat — 'pleasures turn dry' — then nothing remains in this world. All seems dry, all empty. And this is to be understood.

Therefore I do not tell you to leave the world. I tell you: experience the Divine. What is there in the world to leave? There is nothing even worth leaving. All this is ash.

Who renounces ash? It is refuse. There is no value. Those who leave it are the ones who still believe it has value.

Those who say: we have left a hundred thousand rupees — hearing them you can tell rupees still are valuable for them. They still relish them; even after leaving they enjoy. Now they enjoy the leaving! A new ego is formed: we left everything.

No — the Satguru says: what is there in the world to leave? Taste the Divine; then all will go pale, all will drop — without your leaving. If you must leave, it is wrong; if it drops by itself, it is right.

The Guru’s knowing touched me; pleasures turned dry.
Even Indra’s throne to them, says Charandas, would seem a disease.

Offer them Indra’s throne and Charandas says: even that will seem like a disease to be endured — for which sin are you making me suffer? Why thrust me into this entanglement?

He who has known the ecstasy of meditation, who has drunk the nectar of love, who has experienced the light of the Divine — even a little — the whole world becomes vain. Not only the world — even Indra’s heaven becomes vain.

Even a drop of the Divine makes this vast world small. One ray of His bliss surpasses all the bliss of the world.

To call it 'greater' is not right, because the difference is not of more or less, but of quality. It is a different thing altogether. It cannot be expressed in the language of this world.

But the devotee must pass through great pain, must break, must be shattered into pieces. Much remembrance, much thirst, great longing — how much the devotee weeps.

'Your vision was the purpose of this rain of tears.
Those longing eyes have turned to stone — will you not come?'

Often it seems to him: how much these eyes have wept; the eyes turn to stone. And this rain of tears was for You.

'Your vision was the purpose of this rain of tears.'

Only one desire: having lost all in these tears, let a single glimpse of You be attained.

'Those longing eyes have turned to stone — will you not come?'

The eye now has begun to stone; even tears do not fall. Will You still not come?

'Blossoms of spring, the nightingale’s songs, moonlit nights —
all that should have come has come — will You not come?'

Everything has happened: spring has come, flowers have bloomed, the nightingale’s songs have echoed, moonlit nights have descended — all has happened.

'All that in this world was to come has come…'

Whatever was to be here, has been seen. Will You not come?

Often the devotee begins to fear. The night of separation feels very long.

The night of longing alone feels long. An ordinary night is not to be compared. The days do not pass. When will union be? How will union be? Only one melody pervades.

'You did not know someone is leaving the world —
You were very late in Your kindness, in coming.'

The devotee says: Think a little. The world is slipping from the hand; morning is gone, noon is passing, evening draws near — soon all will set. The day sets, setting, setting, it sets.

'You did not know someone is leaving the world —
You were very late in Your kindness, in coming.'

Much talk I heard of Your kindness, but it is getting very late; You have not yet come!

'Always You delayed in coming.
We kept losing life as You kept coming.'

Ask a devotee how much he weeps. But remember, in that weeping there is no sorrow. In that weeping is sweet pain. Sweet, very sweet pain.

'It aches and does not come out; it becomes the sweet pain of love.'

Blessed is he. His tears are not only tears of grief; his tears are prayer.

Then my eyes became moist — O serpent…
Someone has asked about the temperament again!
A devotee’s eyes moisten in an instant. Raise the slightest matter and they grow wet. As if a tear is ever-ready in the eye, as if it will spill now, now— as if somehow the devotee is holding himself together.
“If you will not come, there are a hundred ways to die.
Death is not you, that I could not even summon it.”

Many times the devotee thinks, “Better to die than this. If only in dying I could meet you, then better to die.” How much calling and calling—how tired I have become! Sometimes he even gets angry. Sometimes he sulks:
“Who is to put faith in you?
Who is to wait every day?”
But even sulking comes to nothing; again and again, he remembers.

“There was indeed delay in their coming, O messenger,
but tell me, what was the manner of their refusal?”
Even in this he trusts. He says, “You do not come—no harm. But what is the style of your saying no?”
Many times lovers feel that a “no” is spoken, but it does not mean “no”; it means “yes.”
“There was indeed delay in their coming, O messenger;
but tell me, what was the manner of their refusal?”
He begins to ask: “You are refusing—does your acceptance hide somewhere in it? You are not coming—does a preparation to come hide somewhere within it?” In such countless feelings the devotee passes.

The whole journey through these moods is what is called devotion. Yet in every state, the remembrance is of the Beloved alone. Sometimes he is angry—but in anger too, it is he alone who is remembered. Sometimes he is pleased—but in pleasure too, it is he alone who is remembered.

And this is the first form of separation. Then, when the first glimpse is granted, an even more terrible separation begins. For after the first glimpse...
Until the glimpse is not received, it is one thing: he weeps, he calls. But when the first glimpse comes—lightning flashes across the sky—then after that the whole world turns dry, tasteless. Then he wants that a glimpse will no longer do—now, meet me wholly.

“The consolation of the wounded heart did not occur.
They even bestowed an effort of grace.
What shall one call this exertion of grace?
They soothed me, and they tormented me too.”

“The consolation of the wounded heart did not occur.”
“They even bestowed an effort of grace”—
and he came; his grace poured down. For one moment a glimpse was given.
“What shall one call this exertion of grace?”
What shall one call this grace?
“They soothed me, and they tormented me too.”
For a moment it felt he had arrived—and the yearning only increased.
After that light, the darkness deepened all the more.

So there is one separation—until the Lord’s vision is not attained. Then there is a second separation—the great separation—when his glimpse has been received. And then a third separation—when he has even been met, yet the devotee is still not satisfied with only that much. Until the devotee is drowned in him, until he draws the Beloved down into himself; until the devotee becomes God and God becomes the devotee...

Therefore the devotee’s journey passes through three separations. But all this separation is filled with a love beyond compare. All this separation is illumined by the flame of love.

Meditate on this sutra:
“I was good for nothing; no one would give a cowrie for me.
By Guru Sukhdev’s grace, this body became priceless.”
Your body too can become priceless. You too are worthy; it is your birthright. If there is delay, it is because you have not called. If there is delay, it is because your tears have not yet fallen. If there is delay, it is because the pain has not yet arisen.
“The heartless do not understand; only the love-lorn find the secret.”
If there is delay, it is because the arrow of the true Master has not yet struck—because you keep on saving yourself.
Now, save yourself no more.
“There is a pressure that will not find release—thus arises the ache of love.”
That is all for today.