Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #5

Morning did not come, evening did not come, on the day your remembrance did not come! On the day the life-breath did not ache, this body felt a mere heap of earth; On the day the breath did not sob, a few moments were shorn from my age; On the day the eyes did not rain, no song spoke, the lips did not tremble; Laughter was sold, joy was sold—the day your remembrance did not come! Morning did not come, evening did not come—the day your remembrance did not come!!

The mirror of the sun grew dimmed, the moon’s kohl-dot turned smudged; Noon’s anklets fell mute, evening’s henna took offense and left; Day and night felt like strangers, dream-stars lay plundered and lost; No brilliance spread, no clouds gathered—the day your remembrance did not come! Morning did not come, evening did not come—the day your remembrance did not come!!

The eyes wandered like mad, sometimes in the house, sometimes in the world; Some pain kept sobbing, this moment in the mind, that moment in the flesh; The kohl, waking and waking, grew languid, the veil, walking and walking, came tired; No market found, no path found—the day your remembrance did not come! Morning did not come, evening did not come—the day your remembrance did not come!!

Silent, the threshold sat; the courtyard door stood stiff and shivering; The bed looked like a sari of thorns, and the attic was pitch-black with soot; Agarwood’s fragrance turned a cold wave, sandal paste became the heat of the serpent Taksaka; Sunlight did not please, shade did not arrive—the day your remembrance did not come! Morning did not come, evening did not come—the day your remembrance did not come!!

All the scripture of Bhakti is the scripture of remembering the Divine. Bhakti has a single sutra: remembrance of the Lord.

Our mind is crammed with a thousand other memories; only the Divine finds no place within. Who knows how many desires, how many cravings—countless. Only one longing is absent: the fervent thirst to attain the Divine.

And you may obtain everything; if the Divine is not found, then all else that you obtained will fall to nothing. The whole earning is lost. And if you find the Divine—even if nothing else is found—you have attained all. In attaining Him alone is attainment; in losing Him alone is loss.

What is the meaning of remembrance of the Divine? Will chanting Ram-Ram on the lips bring remembrance? In that case parrots would have crossed the ocean of becoming! Yet no one calls a parrot a devotee.

Such hollow remembrance will do nothing. If one gets entangled in such hollow remembrance, he falls into more trouble. In the depths of the heart the memory of the world runs on; on the lips, the name of Ram runs on.

Your soul is not in the lips. By repeating with the lips, nothing will happen. You must move to where your life-breath is. From that depth the surati, the sumeeran must arise—from that depth where you are not even the doer, where you are only the witness.

It is not that you remember Ram; rather, you see that the remembrance of Ram is arising. You behold a miracle happening within.

But I am not saying a name invoked on the lips can never be of use. A name invoked on the lips can become a ladder to the final remembrance; but do not stop on the ladder.

Bhaktas have divided remembrance of the Divine into four parts. The first: remembrance by the lips. It is as when a small child learns at school—G for Ganesh, G for Ganesh. What has G to do with Ganesh? Once he understands, he will never read in life again: G for Ganesh. Wherever G appears, he won’t say G for Ganesh. It was only a device.

For the child, to understand G is difficult. G in itself is meaningless to him. But G is quickly linked to the picture of Ganesh.

A child understands pictures, not words. To make him understand words, we connect them with pictures—link what he understands to what he does not yet understand. That is why children’s books carry colorful pictures.

‘Aa’ for mango—‘aa’ is printed small, but a big picture of a mango stands beside it. The child knows the mango by seeing the picture. He even knows its taste; he has tasted mango. The word ‘mango’ is utterly useless to him. In it there is no taste, no fragrance, no color. He cannot pick it up in his hands, nor play with it. It is utterly bare. So: aa for mango; G for Ganesh.

Slowly the child’s memory begins to form. G gets linked to Ganesh. A path opens for the child. But if someone stops there and all his life keeps reading G for Ganesh and aa for mango—and the moment never comes when he can understand without pictures—then a mistake has happened. The ladder ceased to be a ladder; it became a barrier on the path.

In the world of Bhakti, this has happened to many. The Name invoked on the lips—G for Ganesh—this is the first lesson, for those who have no experience of devotion yet. But from there one must go further. It is indeed a beginning, but not the end. From the lips go a little deeper—to the throat.

So the bhaktas say: the second rung is the throat. Let the lips fall silent; let a resonance arise in the throat. Let the hum remain within; let it not come out.

Whom to show outwardly? If the Divine is, He will see that which is within you. And if the Divine is not, then however much you shout, beat drums and bands, nothing will happen. Only if it is within you does it have meaning.

Even your silence the Divine will hear. In truth, He hears only the silence. So slowly go from word toward silence. Begin with the word, then keep diving into the soundless.

First the lips, then the throat. Then go down from the throat to the heart. And even below the heart—to witnessing.

When you arrive at the fourth place, the place of the witness—when you begin to see within yourself the humming of Ram arising, begin to hear it; when you are no longer the doer—then know that remembrance has happened.

Such remembrance remains continuous—standing, sitting, waking, sleeping, eating, drinking; whatever you do, it does not leave. And when remembrance becomes thus continuous—unbroken, seamless, like the current of the Ganges flowing within you—only then have you arrived; only then know you have arrived. In that very moment true remembrance begins.

Today’s sutras are immensely precious. For the traveler on the path of Bhakti, all that is important is present within these sutras.

Jagae na pichhle pahar, take mukhde dhool. Sumarae na Kartar koon, sabhi gawaavae mool. Jagae na pichhle pahar...

The devotees divided the night into four pehar. The first watch: all are awake. In fact, sleeping in the first watch is difficult. This happens daily in every home. The mother forces the child: go to sleep; it’s nine o’clock now, time to sleep. And the child does not want to sleep.

In the first watch, sleep is difficult; waking is easy. Because you have been awake the whole day, wakefulness pervades. You have thought, reflected, worked; their vibration continues to hum.

Thus in the first watch sleep is difficult. The day’s sounds, noises, uproar do not let the mind become quiet, do not let it relax.

The more your life is full of activity, the more difficult it will be to sleep quickly. You will lie in bed and sleep will not come.

From where will sleep come? The day does not let go. The dust of the whole day keeps flying. You quarreled with someone—the quarrel is still going on. Someone honored you—that tickle still lingers. You got entangled in some hassle—that hassle does not leave you.

During the day you spread many nets to trap others—now you are trapped in those very nets. You practiced all day, forced yourself, nursed strains, gathered anxieties; now you sit atop that heap, now sleep does not come.

So the more activity-filled the day, the more difficult the first watch of sleep becomes.

As civilization grows complex, culture becomes complex, people begin to lose sleep. Not only in the first watch—even in the second watch sleep does not come! Nights become wakeful; sleep becomes a dream.

People toss and turn on the bed; they wish to sleep and cannot. They want to lose themselves for a while in darkness; to merge for a while outside the ego; to forget the world for a while—but the world is too much... Not because of the world, but because of you.

The world has not seized you; you have seized the world. But you practice seizing the whole day—how will you drop it all at once? The office comes home. Files enter the head. Ledgers sit by your side. What you do all day keeps running—keeps going. It has an unbroken stream.

As a devotee’s remembrance of God keeps running within, so your memory of the world keeps running within. Just as you remain the mere witness of the memory of the world; nothing happens by your doing; so the bhakta remains the witness of the Divine remembrance. Good—if you understand by way of the world, you will understand this matter.

As the world, however much you try, does not get forgotten, so the bhakta, however much he tries, cannot forget God. And just as to you God does not come by trying to remember—He keeps slipping away—so to the bhakta the world, however much it tries, does not arrive—keeps dropping away, keeps being forgotten.

The devotee is in a state utterly opposite to you.

This first watch of the night—everyone, generally, is awake. Therein waking is no distinction. Therein sleeping is distinction. There only one who is blameless can sleep. There only one can sleep whose grasp and obsession for the world is light; one who is not diseased by the world. There only the bhakta sleeps. There only the one whom I call sannyast can sleep.

A sannyast can sleep any time and can wake any time. For a sannyast, waking and sleeping have no hurdles. When he wishes, as he wishes, so it becomes. He closes his eyes—he sleeps; he opens his eyes—he rises. Neither at rising will he feel any obstacle nor at sleeping will he feel any obstacle.

He whose consciousness has become unobstructed—he sleeps in the first watch. Small children sleep; tribals of the forest sleep; or sadhus-saints sleep. Otherwise, sleeping in the first watch is very difficult.

Then comes the second watch. In the second watch the pleasure-seeker wakes. In the second watch the lust-driven wakes. Therefore in cultures full of indulgence, the second watch of the night becomes the watch of revelry. As in the West—night clubs, dance and song, hotels, eating and drinking, parties, festivals. All that in the second watch. Sleeping early at dusk appears primitive. Real life begins at night. So in the second watch the pleasure-seeker wakes.

If we go still further inward, the purpose will become clear!

In the third watch the thief wakes. The thief’s turn comes only when all have slept. For the thief to wake means: those from whom he will steal must now have slept. In the second watch the pleasure-seekers are awake—and they have the money, the clothes; whatever there is, it is with them. In the first watch only sadhus might be awake. They have nothing. What shall a thief do awake? The sadhu has nothing; what will the thief steal? Or what the sadhu has, the thief has no curiosity for it.

A Zen fakir’s hut—into it a thief entered. The fakir was asleep wrapped in his blanket. Seeing that the thief had come from so far... a dark night, the moon about to rise. Searching for this fakir’s hut, feeling his way through the jungle, he has arrived.

The fakir became very restless, and there was nothing in the house. And what was in the house the thief would not want. The fakir could pour out his Samadhi; he could give his nectar. But for that the thief’s vessel was not ready. And the thief had not come for that. And what comes unasked—we do not recognize it.

This was a great fakir, one who had attained Buddhahood. But the thief had no relish for Buddhahood. What will the thief do with enlightenment? The thief’s hand reaches only to the pocket, not to the heart.

And there was nothing in the house; the fakir grew restless: poor fellow, he has come from so far! Seeing no other way, when the thief was about to go, he said: Wait, brother! Forgive me. If you had sent word earlier I would have made some arrangement. You have come from so far, and if you go empty-handed, I will feel great sorrow. Take this blanket—this is all I have.

The fakir was naked; and the blanket was his.

The thief hesitated, grew frightened. He had never gone to steal in any house where the man would give of his own accord. And he saw the fakir was naked and it was a cold night; the moon had begun to rise, so it became visible that he was naked. From the window the moon peeped in. But the thief was so scared he could say nothing; quickly taking the blanket he began to go. At the door outside the fakir said: Listen—at least give thanks! What’s the hurry? And the blanket will be of use for a few days; gratitude will serve you long. Do give thanks.

In panic the thief also said thanks; and fled. Years later he was caught. He had many thefts in his name, and this blanket too was seized among them. It was that famous blanket of the fakir. The magistrate recognized it. The fakir too was called.

The magistrate said: If you say that this man committed theft in your house, we’ll need no other proof of any other theft. This will be enough. But the fakir said: No—this man and a thief? Not in the least. I gifted the blanket. He gave thanks; the matter ended. Theft? No, this man didn’t commit any theft at all.

When the thief was released he went straight to the fakir’s hut. He fell at his feet and said: That day I missed, for I had no eyes to see—but since that night you have followed me. What is this blanket of yours! It kept reminding me of you. That quiet face of yours; you, standing naked in the moonlight; your calling me and gifting the blanket! And your saying: give thanks. The blanket will be used up in a few days; gratitude will serve far longer. That kept following me. I could not forget your eyes. I could not forget your voice, your compassion. Today I have truly come to steal. But today give me that which you have. I have come to be yours.

Go to a fakir—there is much to steal. In Egypt there is a saying: until a disciple becomes skilled at stealing, he will not obtain anything from the Master. It is an important saying.

The Master has so much, but first there must be the eyes to see it, the longing for it. And then the Master cannot give you certain things. Some things cannot be given—only taken. If you want, take them; if you do not want, no one can give them to you.

The Master is a flowing Ganga. If you wish, drink; if you do not, you can stand on the bank and remain thirsty. And when you drink from the Ganga, it is indeed theft. For do you take permission from the Ganga? And what way is there to take permission? Such is the stream of consciousness. But only when you have the longing...

So those who sleep in the first watch—the thieves find nothing to steal from them. And those in the second watch who have something, they are awake in the first and second watch. When the pleasure-seekers sleep, the thief’s hour arrives. In the third watch of night the thief wakes. And in the fourth watch of night the sadhu wakes, the sannyasi wakes.

The fourth watch is the hardest to wake in. The first is the easiest to wake in—everyone is awake. Only the sadhus can sleep.

The fourth watch is the hardest to wake in, because sleep is deepest in the fourth watch. All sleep; only the sadhu can wake.

Now understand this rightly too.

We have divided consciousness into four states. The first is called Jagrat—the so-called waking state, in which we are awake. So-called, because it is not real awakening. Yes, the eyes are open. Awake—what awake!

Buddhas are awake. Even with eyes closed, they remain awake. And you—even with eyes open, you remain asleep. But you appear as though awake—appear awake—hence so-called awakening. The first phase, the first differentiation of consciousness.

Second: Swapna—dream. When you are asleep, but not quite; dreams are running. Your waking is not waking; your sleeping is not sleeping!

The worldly man is a great puzzle. He remains asleep while waking, remains waking while asleep. Even in sleep he is not complete; dreams are running!

And what are dreams? They are the reflections of your daily life. The same sounds, the same colors, the same patterns assume new forms again and again. The mind returns over and over to them. Now objects are not present; thought is enough. The world is closed because the eyes are closed. So you spread your own world. No need to go watch a motion picture; how many pictures do you watch daily on the screen of the mind? The second state is Swapna.

The third state is Sushupti—so asleep that even dream does not remain. But along with the dream, you too are gone; you do not remain either. Sushupti means: no dream remains, nor does the sleeper remain. You yourself do not even remain in memory.

A little of your self-awareness remains only when some hindrance remains. If outside some disturbance, a little memory remains; if inside some disturbance, a little memory remains. Only in hindrance does memory remain. If the thorn keeps pricking, a little awareness remains. If the thorn does not prick at all, you become completely unconscious; then you have no awareness left.

Sanskrit has a lovely word: “vedana.” It has two meanings: pain and awareness. Vedana comes from the same root as Veda; from which 'vidvan', knowing, consciousness.

It is a delightful word—vedana. And it carries two meanings which appear to have no harmony: one is pain; the other is awakening. But there is harmony. Whoever coined this word would not have been only a grammarian. He would have understood the scripture of life—that your so-called awareness, your Veda, depends on your pain. As pain goes, awareness goes.

You remain awake only because there is outer pain: this airplane is passing, this train is going, there is noise on the road, this child is crying; someone is weeping; someone is quarrelling. All this nuisance goes on. The thorns of this nuisance keep pricking; so a slight memory remains, faint, that “I am.” That too very faint, very soft. Not of any great use—just a slight glimmer, a flicker remains that “I am.” But to be in that slight being, all this outward uproar has to go on. Its blow must fall, then you remember.

At night, in dreams too, you remember. You are being thrown from a mountain and a rock falls on your chest—then you remember. If some unease persists in the dream, memory remains.

Sushupti means: neither outer unease remains, nor inner unease. But the moment ease arrives, you are gone. In Sushupti you faint. Sushupti—meaning swoon!

These are the three ordinary states. The fourth is called Turiya. Turiya means simply—the fourth state. The word itself means: the fourth. It has not been given any other name; because we have no word adequate to name it. So it is called only the fourth—Turiya.

Turiya means: not a trace of unease remains—neither outer nor inner; yet awareness is complete. Vedana—pain—is not, but Veda—knowing—is full. Now awareness needs no blow to be.

This Turiya is the state of awakening—real awakening. And it is a very unique state. It is so unique that the body sleeps, but the one abiding in Turiya remains awake. Then only the body sleeps; the inner consciousness never sleeps. The inner flame remains lit. It burns uninterruptedly.

There are these four states. On their basis the knowers have divided the night into four watches.

The first ordinary state is waking—so-called waking—everyone is awake. The second is dream-like—of indulgence. Indulgence means dream. Indulgence is dream. Someone is dreaming wealth—that if so much money comes, I’ll be comfortable. Someone dreams: if such a beautiful woman, such a handsome man comes; if such a position comes, if such and such happens—it is a dream. Indulgence is dream.

The second watch belongs to those full of dreaming. And the third is of sin, of theft, of murder, of hatred, of anger. That is the state of Sushupti. All awareness is lost—even that minimal awareness common people have goes too. So the third watch belongs to the thief, the murderer, the criminal.

And the fourth watch of night is parallel to Turiya. If you wake in the fourth, you wake in Turiya. Now understand this fourth watch in another way too.

By the scientists’ reckoning, in the last watch of night sleep is deepest. Three to five, or four to six. Each person differs slightly, but the last two hours are the deepest. They are of Sushupti—dreams do not remain. There is supreme peace. Though you too do not remain, yet there is peace.

The person who daily receives two hours of Sushupti rises refreshed. In the morning you will see a wave of freshness in his life. Fatigue gone, exhaustion gone. Again the zest of life, again enthusiasm, again festivity. Night steals all anxieties. Night steals all hurts. Night applies balm and bandage. Night heals all wounds. In those two hours when you were utterly lost, nature did much work. Whatever you had ruined the previous day, nature set right; everything was re-adjusted. The strings of the veena had loosened—were tightened. If strings had tightened too much—they were loosened. Balance was restored; the instrument was tuned. Therefore in the morning you are in tune.

Do you see mornings? You are of a different quality if the night’s sleep has been right. You are more loving, more compassionate, more kind. Trees appear greener; flowers redder; the birds’ songs sound clear in your ears. The sun, its light, the blue of the sky—all attract. In the morning, even if for a while, perhaps for a moment, two moments, a few moments—you are very fresh.

In the morning, if someone asks you to steal, you may not. If someone asks you to snatch from another, you may not.

In the morning giving is simple, snatching is hard. Giving is easy, begging is hard. In the morning alms are easy, grabbing difficult.

In the morning prayer can happen simply. The same prayer will become difficult by evening. In the morning you can trust man, because you trust yourself. By evening you distrust man, because you have lost trust in yourself. By evening you have stumbled, run, fallen, been dust-laden. All efforts made—and dismay in hand; what trust now!

In the morning you have freshness, self-confidence, trust. Those two hours of deep sleep... by scientific reckoning...

And the scientists’ reckoning matches exactly with the bhaktas and yogis. By scientific reckoning, in those two hours the body temperature dips by two degrees. That gentle, sweet chill you feel as night departs and morning approaches, and the urge to pull an extra blanket—that is not merely because morning is cool. The real reason: your body temperature drops by two degrees. You have become a little cold. You have become a little cool. That churning of the mind that kept you warm—that inward fever of the mind that kept you entirely heated—has gone. The noise ceased; the marketplace ended; dreams, too, departed. You became cool in every way. Due to that coolness of the mind, your body too becomes cool. By two degrees the temperature truly drops. And these two hours are the deepest sleep. If you sleep well in these two hours, you will feel fresh in the morning. Mind becomes healthy, body becomes healthy.

If someone disturbs you in these two hours, you will remain irritable and troubled all day. You may have slept six hours in the night—of no use. If these two hours go wrong, there will be obstruction. If you sleep only these two hours in the night and remain awake the whole night, even then work will do.

These two hours, scientists say, are utterly essential, because in these two hours your entire consciousness disappears into darkness. The ego is lost. Knowing sleeps. When you are not, only then can the Divine work upon you; nature can work upon you—because you offer no resistance.

That is why when someone is ill, the doctor’s first concern is that he sleep. Because only in sleep can nature heal him. If sleep does not come, he cannot be healed. Medicines will do nothing. So they give sleeping medicine to the patient. If he sleeps, then the Divine’s skillful hand will set him right again, tune the instrument. He has spoiled everything; now only God’s cooperation can set it right.

In sleep, silently, nature works within you.

So scientists say: these two hours are very necessary for sleep.

But now you will be a little astonished. The saints have always said: these two hours are for remembrance. On the surface it seems the opposite—for if in these two hours you are to remember, you must be awake. And if you are awake, you will remain irritable the whole day and nature will not get the chance. That is only the outer view. The saints have said this with a reason.

These two hours, the deepest sleep, are also the deepest depth. In these two hours you descend below even your heart’s depth.

In the first watch you keep wandering in the head. In the second you come to the throat. In the third you come to the heart. In the fourth you descend below the heart—dive into your inner consciousness.

So the saints said that just as these two hours are the most important for sleep, for Sushupti, so too they are the most important for awakening. For awakening has to be brought from there—from that fourth level, from that Turiya state.

But if you wake in the saints’ way, there will be no harm; no irritability. Why? Because the first sutra of saintliness is: let there be no ego-sense. If ego-sense is absent and you wake in these two hours, that benefit that was to come from sleep will still come—because it came due to the absence of ego-sense. And the supreme benefit that comes from awakening will also come.

And these two hours are the most important hours in your twenty-four. In this circle of twenty-four hours, these two hours are the most valuable. Here you are nearest to God. If you sleep deep, God gets the chance to set you right. And if you wake deep, then there is meeting with God. For God is near. If you sleep, still benefit comes—for the hand of God enters within and works. If you wake—what to say! You hold hands with His hand. If you wake, you catch God red-handed. If you wake, there is meeting, there is encounter. And once encounter happens, it continues twenty-four hours. Neither dusk nor dawn. Then morning and evening matter not. Where is day, where is night? All becomes one.

Once His hand is caught, once recognition happens—then you will find Him everywhere: in the marketplace too, in your wife too, in your son too; in the trees, in the mountains and hills too. Then there is none other than He. It is only a matter of that single recognition. Pratyabhijna—once eye meets eye, gaze meets gaze—then you will recognize Him everywhere.

This fourth watch is surely most precious. But the saints say: there is a way to wake in that fourth watch. If you wake just so, you will be irritable. Wake in remembrance of the Lord, wake in prayer, wake in meditation.

Make that fourth watch the meditation of the night. At that time meditation will happen with such ease as never otherwise. Therefore Patanjali has said: Samadhi is very close to Sushupti.

Patanjali made a most courageous declaration: Samadhi and Sushupti are alike—just a small difference. Call it small, or call it vast—the same thing. The difference is only this: in Sushupti there is no awareness, in Samadhi there is awareness; all else is alike.

In Sushupti, you are not; in Samadhi, you are not. In Sushupti everything has become cool; in Samadhi everything has become cool. In Sushupti the whole world is lost; in Samadhi the whole world is lost. In Sushupti thoughts do not remain, dreams do not remain; no inner content remains—only consciousness remains. And so in Samadhi. But in Sushupti consciousness is asleep; in Samadhi it is awake. That is all the difference.

From Sushupti to Samadhi is nearest. Sushupti is the door to Samadhi—if there is understanding.

Therefore the saints have always spoken of waking in the fourth watch. And not only in this land—they have said it everywhere. For this has nothing to do with any country. It is a matter of understanding human inner-nature.

Whether China, or Israel, or India—whenever and wherever people have sought the Divine, they came to understand that in the twenty-four hours, in these two hours the flow toward the Divine is the simplest—never otherwise. There are also the opposite hours. There is a circle of twenty-four hours.

For example—if between four and six in the morning your temperature drops by two degrees and you are lost in Sushupti; then as from four to six in the morning the Divine is nearest, so from four to six in the evening the Divine is farthest. That is the opposite point.

So he who has discovered exactly when the Divine is nearest to him, will also know exactly when he is farthest from the Divine.

And then let me remind you of one more sutra. If you have found certainly that four to six... I say by way of example. For one it will be three to five; for another two to four; for another four to six. But somewhere around four—on this side or that. Two hours on that side—two to four; two hours on this side—four to six. Sometime between two at night and six in the morning those two hours occur.

If you have found those two hours, then first: those two hours must be spent wholly in remembrance of the Lord. When the nearest moment is there, talk then; converse then; say something then, and listen. If there is something to submit, submit it. At that time the connection is very clear. Face-to-face is happening; what is said will reach. If you wish to send a message, it will be heard. And if from that side an answer comes, it will reach. Otherwise your prayer cannot even reach if you call from too far. If perchance it does reach and a reply comes, you will not hear it; the distance will be too much. There will be a thousand obstacles in between—that is one.

And the second: exactly the opposite. If four to six in the morning is your time—the fourth watch—then four to six in the evening is your time when you will be farthest from God. Be alert then. For these hours of evening will be the hours of your sin. Guard them carefully. In these hours you will make those mistakes for which you will regret all your life. For in these hours you will be farthest from God. In these hours you may commit crimes; in these hours anger may arise, hatred may arise, jealousy may arise. In these hours you will be most irritable. In these hours you will be most heated. In these hours your head will be deranged.

If your sutra is clear, then spend the morning two hours in remembrance of the Divine—and spend these evening two hours also in remembrance. Although your voice may not reach God in the evening, still spend those two hours in remembrance, so that there be no convenience left for mischief to do something else. At least shut the doors and windows and try to sit quiet.

And the third point in this context: On the day, in those two hours that are farthest, you begin to experience the same as in the morning two hours—know then you have arrived. Then no difference will remain—neither dusk nor dawn!

When you were farthest, if even then you begin to feel as near as in the morning—the revolution has happened. On that day the real bhakta is born. Listen to these words:

Jagae na pichhle pahar, take mukhde dhool. Jo in the Brahma-muhurta of dawn does not wake, who does not utilize that unparalleled time—disgrace will be his; dishonor, unesteem.

...take mukhde dhool. Only death will be in his hands; not nectar. Dust will fall into dust one day; the whole opportunity is lost.

From this dust a flower could also have arisen—but you wasted the chance. You were dust, and remained dust. Before the dust falls into dust, bring forth the flower. Use the chance.

Before the veena breaks, release the music hidden within. Before the throat is gone, hum the song of the Lord. Before the heart’s beat stops, let every beat resound with remembrance.

This body is a veena—and for one purpose only: that the song of the Divine may rise within it. That a divine song may arise.

Jagae na pichhle pahar, take mukhde dhool. Sumare na Kartar koon, sabhi gawaavae mool.

Why speak of interest—he loses even the capital; loses everything. He who did not remember the Creator, who did not remember his Source...

Pichhle pehre jagi kari, bhajan karai chit lay. In that last watch wake, do bhajan. And let bhajan not be mechanical; do it with your whole heart.

Otherwise there are also those who do mechanical bhajan. I know them. They get up and sit; doze as well—and keep repeating Ram-Ram! Ram-Ram keeps being repeated—mechanically! There is no meaning in it, nor any link with the life-breath. It has only reached the lips. Do not do this. Better sleep deep—that’s better. Otherwise you will remain irritable the whole day!

Have you noticed? Those who rise early in the morning—the so-called religious people—you will find them irritable all day. If an old man or woman in your home gets into this trouble of waking at Brahma-muhurta to remember, you will see: he takes revenge all day. As if you are to blame. He will be irritable, angry; filled with wrath over every small thing. He will seek pretexts. He will be ever ready to be filled with rage. He will find fault in everything. He will display irritability all day. If one person in the house becomes “religious,” the whole house falls into trouble.

A lady in my neighborhood once came and said: my husband comes to you. Explain to him. He will listen to you; he listens to no one else. He doesn’t count anyone. We are troubled. The children too are troubled; their exams are near, and he gets up early. Not early—at midnight—two o’clock—and recites Japji!

He was a Sardarji, a robust man; he would wake the entire neighborhood. His wife said: the whole neighborhood is angry. No one wants to hear Japji at two in the night! No one even says anything, for who will obstruct someone’s religion? But people come and tell me to explain to my husband. And now the children’s examinations are near, they are very troubled. They can neither study nor sleep. And this midnight nuisance... and he listens to no one, saying: an obstruction to religion! So no one can say anything before him.

When he came I asked him. He used to come to me. I asked: Charan Singh, what is the matter? You rise at midnight? He said: Not midnight—I rise at Brahma-muhurta; I rise at two in the morning. I said: two in the morning! The whole world calls that midnight. And what do you do? He said: I do nothing; I recite Japji. Who complained to you—my wife came? It doesn’t please her. She is not religious. No samskaras. Otherwise she would be delighted—Japji being recited free of charge without asking to hear it!

I asked him: tell me what your state remains all day—for that is the touchstone. He said: irritability, annoyance. Anger at everything. To remove that I recite Japji from two in the morning! I said: that is the cause of it—leave it.

He could not believe. He said: you say—leave it? I said: neither you are getting benefit, nor anyone else. You are stuck in stubbornness. Do you feel sleepy during the day?

I feel sleepy all day.

Of course. If you rise at two... When do you sleep?

He said: eleven or eleven-thirty—no later.

But if you sleep at eleven, eleven-thirty, twelve—and rise at two—then you will be restless the whole day. I inquired in his office. He was in the military. His captain also used to come to me. I asked him. He said: we too are troubled. He dozes all the time. Seated at the table, if no one is watching—he sleeps! And he makes mistakes in everything. Such is his religiosity. Sitting at the table he recites Japji as well...

Eventually he went mad. I explained to him much that these are signs of madness. But he said: one should recite uninterruptedly.

So he kept reciting Japji inwardly in all his actions. One day it grew worse. He was on the road; the bus driver honked. He went on reciting Japji. He did not hear the horn. He was hit and fell down. Then a spell of madness began. It took nearly two years to pull him out. And he had orchestrated it all himself.

The morning waking can be dangerous if done by force. And if in that wakefulness bhajan is not from the heart—if it is only formal, verbal, mechanical, born of greed—you will ruin your life. Do not enter bhajan that way.

Let me give you a few pointers—otherwise, listening here, many foolish ones will begin from tomorrow Brahma-muhurta—two o’clock.

First: if you are to rise at Brahma-muhurta, then go to bed at least by nine. And one who has to sleep by nine should leave his office in his office. Before nine he should remove himself from the world—he should get ‘sulky’... as if sulking with the world. Become indifferent.

When leaving the office, consciously bow to the office. When leaving the shop, say: will come tomorrow; till then—farewell. Then do not think of it even by mistake. Old habit will be there; for a few days it will come. But slowly, with awareness, bid it farewell. If you have come home, the office should be forgotten. The shop, the market should be forgotten.

If you must sleep by nine, begin preparation by seven—for sleep cannot come at once. And in the first watch it is most difficult.

Take a bath; sit quietly. There is no need to read the newspaper—because the newspaper brings tidings of the world’s madness. Its stories are of the world’s insanity: somewhere a murder; somewhere a theft; someone is killed; somewhere a bomb fell—somewhere a war—something, something. All news of uproar.

At evening, if you read news of uproar, you will dream of sorrow at night. You will read perhaps when Indira Gandhi will go to jail—but at night you will go to jail. For that resounds in the skull. Its waves remain.

Do not listen to the radio; do not read the newspaper; do not watch television. In truth, if you must sleep by nine, do not sit in bright light either. Do not read. Relax yourself—lie down in the bathtub; to lie there a while is better; soak in warm water; become relaxed.

Eat light. Do not overeat. For the more you eat, the more difficult waking in the fourth watch will be. The longer the body will take to digest. If you eat lightly, you will suddenly find that around three o’clock sleep begins to leave by itself—because the body has no need. The heavier you eat, the more you stuff the stomach, the longer the body will take to digest. And until the body digests, awakening does not come.

Remember—sleep and food have a deep relation. That is why whenever you fast, sleep does not come at night. Without food, the need for sleep is less. The greatest need of sleep is to digest food. Therefore after you have eaten, immediately drowsiness comes. Why? Because the life-energy that keeps the brain luminous flows at once toward the stomach—to digest. Digestion is the first need; awareness is secondary.

Food has come into the body, so the body’s energy is employed in digestion. Hence you feel sleepy.

If you wish to wake at Brahma-muhurta, eat lightly—so that by three, four the work of the food is complete. You will find the body awake by itself. Around four you will find—your eyes have opened.

Do not get up by alarm—for that is force; not needed.

Learn a new art instead of the alarm. As you lie down to sleep at night, fall asleep remembering the Divine—and say to the Divine: wake me at four. Within three or four weeks you will find this art begins to work. You will suddenly find: as if someone woke you.

And to be awakened by the Divine is a different joy. As if someone says: rise, Gopal. Someone will surely say it. If you asked for four, the event will happen at four.

But when you go to sleep at night, fall asleep praying. Fall asleep remembering. For whatever remembrance you fall asleep with, its tune will go on through the night. If you count money while sleeping—you will count money all night.

Mulla Nasruddin runs a cloth shop. One night in the middle of the night he got up and tore the sheet. When he was tearing the sheet, his wife said: Oh! What are you doing? Mulla said: Be quiet! Are you now coming to the shop as well? Then he came to his senses. He was giving cloth to a customer in a dream—tearing the sheet.

What you think as you fall asleep—that melody continues within you.

The last thought at sleeping is the first thought at waking. This is mathematics—one hundred percent correct. There is not the slightest deviation.

So never fall asleep with a thought you do not wish to confront in the morning.

If you sleep with anxiety, you will wake with that same anxiety. Test it. What I say is scientific. Test it for two-four days. Watch as you fall asleep: which thought remained last? Then you will be startled. When you wake in the morning, you will suddenly find that same thought stands at the door. That which last remained at night will be first in the morning. You will meet it. You fell asleep thinking of it; the thread remained unfinished. When you awake you will pass through it again, you will meet it again. Therefore the bhaktas have said: when you go to sleep, fall asleep remembering the Divine—so that in the morning the remembrance remains.

And say to the Divine! There is no better waker than He. Say to Him: You wake me. Wake me at four.

Just yesterday I received a letter from London—from a sannyasin’s mother. The sannyasin was here for about three months. A month ago he left. He had cancer. Some three months ago doctors had laid him on the table for surgery. A coincidence... sometimes coincidences are very important.

Thinking that perhaps he would live, or not live... for it was a dangerous operation. His entire leg had to be amputated. Even then, it was not certain he would survive—because the cancer had spread in the leg, and there was a possibility it had spread above as well. Perhaps it had; who could say? But the leg had to be removed anyway—perhaps he would be saved, perhaps not. So at the university where the youth... in Cambridge, he was a student—they called the Christian chaplain, that he might give him some counsel before the operation.

This was the coincidence: the chaplain of Cambridge was curious about me. He has now come and taken sannyas too.

So that chaplain went and gave the young man my book ‘The Mustard Seed’ and said: read this as much as you can. And my suggestion is: instead of getting operated, go to Poona first. The operation can be done later. Whether you will live or not live is another matter. But first learn a little meditation.

The youth felt the point. He got up from the table. He said: let me first read this book, then I will decide. After reading the book he came to Poona on the third day.

His condition was certainly bad. The doctors had said that going was dangerous, for the cancer could spread. I too told him: you have come—in such dangerous condition—stay here three days, then return. He remained three days. Then he said: now I do not feel like going. If death comes, let it come. Before dying let me become a little quiet, a little joyful. Death is bound to come. And since death is so near, I have no time to waste. You all have time to waste; he had none.

He took sannyas immediately. He remained here three months; slowly his joy increased—the cancer increased too—and the joy increased as well! By the time he left, the lumps had come to his neck. But there was not even a trace of anxiety; not even a trace of pain; he was delighted. His face was worth seeing. One felt pity for him that he was a guest for a day or two.

So are all guests for a day or two. One feels pity for all. But his case was very clear. And seeing his carefree-ness brought great joy too. Seeing his joy, much joy arose.

A smile had come upon his face; a certain rasa had entered his face. A sparkle had come to his eyes. When I told him now go. You have stayed three months; you have learned meditation; now go. Get the operation done.

He said: I can go now. Now I have no worry. Whether death or life—no difference. I am blissful. I can die remembering the Lord.

Yesterday his mother’s letter came—he passed away. But before going he gifted ‘The Mustard Seed’ to his mother. And before passing a unique event happened. For that event I mention this. Some two hours before... it must have been three in the afternoon—he became unconscious. He was happy, delighted. His mother wrote: we are not sad that he died. We are happy that in the five-seven days after he returned from Poona he was so joyous! We had never seen him so joyous. Since childhood he had been restless—the leg’s trouble was from childhood. And never had we seen him so loving. And death was so near. And never had we seen him so alive. So we are happy, we are pleased. He has departed, but after his departure he has left such peace in the house as we never knew.

Two hours earlier he became unconscious, and in unconsciousness he murmured twice: five to five; five to five!

Father and mother were both present; the doctor was present. They did not understand. ‘Five to five, five to five...’ But it was clear he was speaking of the clock. It was three! Five to five was not far. They waited. They were afraid that perhaps something would happen at five to five... When nothing happened then, they were reassured. But next morning exactly at five minutes to five, he died. His father was present. The moment he died he looked at the clock—five to five!

If you become quiet, then to know when you have to wake in the morning is nothing—you will even know the moment of going into God. Your death’s hour too will be revealed. Waking’s hour—what to speak! Death’s hour too will become clear.

Sleep early at night. Sleep after eating little; eat lightly. Something that brings no burden—so that the body does not even sense it. As if eaten or not eaten.

Lie for half an hour in warm water. Be free of all day’s anxieties. Bid them all farewell. Close the doors of the world for the night. Then fall asleep remembering the Lord. Say to Him: wake me in the morning—when Your auspicious moment arrives. And in a few days you will find you begin to rise at the right moment.

And when you rise without any outer pressure—without alarm or someone waking you—you will find great peace all day, no irritability. Then remember with your heart.

Rise and bathe; sit under the shower. And do remembrance in such a way that it begins to come from all sides. That stream of water falling upon you—that too is His stream. It is His water; His air; His sky. Experience Him alone.

Having become clean in every way, sit quietly in a corner; light a gentle lamp. Fill the room with fragrance—incense or whatever you find lovely. Let that place where you pray be the same daily; the same place is good. And do it in the same way—it is good.

The same bath daily, the same feeling daily—slowly it grows dense. Little by little such a moment comes that at Brahma-muhurta the resonance of Him begins to arise in every fiber of your being.

It happens, does it not? If you eat daily at eleven, hunger comes at eleven. If you sleep daily at ten at night, drowsiness, yawning begins at ten. Just so with prayer.

If you do it daily with a rule; daily at the same place, daily in the same way—day after day—slowly, growing denser, it will sink into your life-breath and mind. Then one day suddenly you will find: this too is a hunger—a deep hunger. And the Divine is the food.

When hunger arises, food too is found. When thirst arises, the stream of water too pours down.

But these morning two hours are unparalleled—if you can rise naturally. Not unnaturally, not by effort—simply. Even if it takes a month or two to rise simply, rise simply. And arrange your life thus.

Arrange the other twenty-two hours around those two—so you can rise simply in those two. Let the twenty-two hours be lived in a way that those two hours become your summit. Let all be dedicated to them. When you rise, rise for them. When you eat, eat for them. When you sleep, sleep for them. When you speak, speak for them. Whatever you do, keep in view: what will be the effect on those two hours?

If I insult this man, will anger stick in the mind and spoil those two hours? If I become so greedy, will I be able to fall asleep in the evening without greed? If I worry so much about money, desire, ambition—will the morning Brahma-muhurta be accessible to me? Think in this way.

Let those two hours be your temple. You have to build only that. And let your whole life become bricks to build those two hours’ temple. If you move thus, you will one day hear what Charandas is saying:

Pichhle pehre jagi kari, bhajan karai chit lay. Charandas wa jeev ki, nischai gati haway jay.

He definitely attains the supreme state—Moksha.

In this world, only those have movement who fill with remembrance of the Lord. For only with His remembrance is there movement. If the boat of His remembrance is found, only then can the farther shore be crossed; otherwise you will remain on this shore—this rot, this decay, this hell!

Charandas wa jeev ki, nischai gati haway jay.

Pehle pehre sab jagain, duje bhogi maan. Teeje pehre chor hi, chauthe jogi jaan.

Jo koi virahi Nam ke, tinkoon kaisi neend.

And then comes such a moment:

Jo koi virahi Nam ke, tinkoon kaisi neend— For then sleep does not come at all. The body does sleep—out of its need. When tired, it sleeps. But consciousness never tires; it has no need for sleep.

The body needs sleep, for the body is transient, mechanical. Mechanisms tire. Your car—if you drive eight-ten hours—you have to stop. The mechanism tires.

Consciousness is not a mechanism; consciousness is eternity. What tiredness? It has been flowing since timeless time; it will go on flowing till timeless time. No tiredness anywhere.

Consciousness is not some mechanism that tires. In a mechanism there is friction—among different parts—that is the cause of fatigue. Consciousness has no parts. Consciousness is indivisible.

The body feels hunger—because energy is needed. It feels tired—because energy has drained. It needs rest—so that energy is available again.

But consciousness is eternal, nectar. Neither tiredness nor hunger nor need of rest. But you do not yet know that consciousness. What you call consciousness is but a far-off tune of it: a distant echo, a reflection.

As the moon is formed in the lake and you take the moon formed in the lake as the real moon, so the image of consciousness that falls in your intellect is not real consciousness. Therefore I said: your awakening is superficial; true awakening is of the Buddhas.

Jo koi virahi Nam ke, tinkoon kaisi neend. Sastar laga neh ka, gaya hiye koon beend.

The weapon of love—of Divine love—has pierced the heart—what sleep now? What sleep!

Soye hain sansar soon, jagay Hari ki or.

Understand.

You are awake toward the world, asleep toward the Divine. The bhakta wakes toward the Divine and goes to sleep toward the world.

Soye hain sansar soon... Asleep toward the world...

...jagay Hari ki or.

Remember these two words: Kaam and Ram. He who turns his face toward lust turns his back toward Ram. And he who turns his face toward Ram turns his back toward lust.

Soye hain sansar soon, jagay Hari ki or. Tinkoon ekras hi sada, nahin sanjh nahin bhor.

Then there is neither morning nor evening—twenty-four hours, day and night, only That. Then no difference. Wake—That; sleep—That. Rise—That; sit—That. Live—That; die—That. In every condition only That—and That; one single tone. One single flavor. ‘Tinkoon ekras hi sada, nahin sanjh nahin bhor.’

Now, you be estranged—let the whole world be estranged—I do not care.

The bhakta even says to God: what to speak of others? If you too sulk, I do not care. He knows that now there is no way to be separate from you.

Now, you be estranged—let the whole world be estranged—I do not care.

The lamp itself has become a moth, from burning and burning; The traveler himself has become the goal, from walking and walking; Singing and singing, the singer himself became the song; Truth itself became a dream, deceiving itself again and again; Wherever the boat sinks, there itself is the shore now. Now even if every wave becomes midstream—I do not care.

Now, you be estranged—let the whole world be estranged—I do not care.

This is a word of great love.

Now the bird no longer hopes for a roost; Nor the gardener longs for the spring; Now every distance is near, every nearness is far; One definition of joy-sorrow remains to me now; Now neither laughter on the lips, nor tears in the eyes; Now cast embers upon me daily—I do not care.

Now, you be estranged—let the whole world be estranged—I do not care.

Now my own voice calls me back; Now my world follows at my heels; My picture now looks at me; My own ancient thirst drizzles nectar upon me; Now worshipping myself, I worship You; Now, even if You keep the temple doors shut—I do not care.

Now, you be estranged—let the whole world be estranged—I do not care.

Do you hear?

The lamp itself has become a moth, from burning and burning... When the moth falls upon the lamp, what distance remains? The lamp itself has become a moth, from burning and burning... Now the moth has become the lamp; the lamp has become the moth.

A moment comes for the bhakta when he falls into God as the moth falls upon the lamp. Then the bhakta himself becomes God.

The lamp itself has become a moth, from burning and burning; The traveler himself has become the goal, from walking and walking; Singing and singing, the singer himself became the song; Truth itself became a dream, deceiving itself again and again; Wherever the boat sinks, there itself is the shore now; Now even if every wave becomes midstream—I do not care.

Separation pierced, non-separation arrived. Duality went, Advaita arrived. Now the lover is not different from the beloved.

Now my own voice calls me back... That voice which one day seemed like God’s voice—saying: rise, Gopal—the morning has come. Now that voice is not God’s voice—it is my own voice. The voice of my innermost—my own inner soul.

Now my own voice calls me back; Now my world follows at my heels; My picture now looks at me... The bhakta becomes so one with God that now his own picture and God’s picture do not appear different.

My own ancient thirst drizzles nectar upon me; Now worshipping myself, I worship You; Now even if You keep the temple doors shut—I do not care.

This is a word of great love.

Now worshipping myself, I worship You... Now no difference remains. Neither dusk nor dawn!

Sovan jagan bhed ki koik janat baat— Rare is the one who knows the difference between sleeping and waking.

Sadhujan jagat tahan, jahan saban ki raat— The sadhu wakes where it is night for all—that fourth watch. What is deep Sushupti for all—that is the sadhu’s awakening, meditation, Samadhi.

Sadhujan jagat tahan, jahan saban ki raat.

Jo jagai Hari-bhakti mein, soi utarai paar— He who wakes in devotion to the Lord, he crosses over.

Jo jagai sansar mein, bhav-sagar mein khwaar— And he who wakes in the world—he is ruined in the ocean of becoming.

Jagae na pichhle pahar, take mukhde dhool. Sumarai na Kartar koon, sabhi gawaavae mool.

Satguru se maangu yahi, mohi gareebi dehu— From the True Master I ask only this: grant me poverty.

Poverty means: take from me all that obstructs remembrance of the Divine. Remove from me whatever becomes a wall between me and the Divine.

Satguru se maangu yahi, mohi gareebi dehu. Door barappan kijiye, nanha hi kar lehu— Take away the greatness—make me small.

Make me so small, take away all my “bigness.” But let one thing be fulfilled. However small you make me, make my condition such that the Divine’s grace may pour upon me.

To make small has this meaning.

When the child is small, the mother runs at his slightest cry. As he grows, the mother begins to leave her worry for him. When he becomes young, the mother need not worry for him.

The more big you consider yourself, the more you are announcing: I have no need for God.

The bhakta says: make me small. Make me so small that I remain only capable of crying. My crying itself will become prayer.

Satguru se maangu yahi, mohi gareebi dehu. Door barappan kijiye, nanha hi kar lehu.

Erase me. Let me not remain—so that only the Divine remains. Wipe me out; remove me.

So that the path of love is never empty, Where I tire—there You walk. Like a grave the dumb earth lies underfoot, Over head a shroud-like sky is spread; On the path of death, in the shadow of death, The caravan of breath moves day and night; I go on, I move on, But I do not know where evening will fall; Where the step will halt, where the path will end, Where there will be cold, where there will be heat; So that the earth may smile forever, Where I shed—there You bloom. So that the path of love is never empty, Where I stop—there You walk.

If the path of love becomes empty, What lane will still remain inhabited? If the flower of love itself does not bloom, Who will then smile as a bud in the garden? If love itself finds no honor in the world, This earth, this universe is only a cremation ground; Man is a walking corpse, And living here is an insult; So that man may learn love someday, Night and day let me melt—night and day, You too melt. So that the path of love is never empty, Where I tire—there You walk.

Where man becomes poor, there the power of the Divine begins to be received. Where man falls, there the feet of the Divine begin to move you. Where you shed, there the Divine blooms.

Let me become destitute, humble, small—in this longing of the bhakta there is only one declaration: let my ego not remain. Burn me. Have compassion. Burn me, turn me to ash.

Adi Purush kripa karau, sab augun chhuti jaahin; Saadh hon lachan milain, charan-kamal ki chhain.

Adi Purush kripa karau... The bhakta says: I am doing what can be done by me. But by my doing the final thing cannot happen. That happens by Your grace. The final thing is not in my hands.

I will call; I will weep; I will pray; I will remember; I will do everything—that which I can. But what is my capacity? How long my hands? Even if I stand with hands outstretched, my hands are short. I will not be able to touch You. Without Your grace it cannot be.

Therefore understand the principle of grace correctly. On the path of Bhakti, grace is the essential, the final factor.

The bhakta does everything, but ultimately he knows: it will happen by His grace. Therefore ego does not arise in the bhakta’s mind.

If there is no trust in effort, how will ego arise? The bhakta knows that what he does will not help in attaining; only the news will reach the Divine that I want to attain. My longing is true; my honesty is true. I am not asking casually. I am ready to do everything for asking. Yet by my doing—what will happen? His grace is needed.

Adi Purush kripa karau, sab augun chhuti jaahin. If I try to drop my vices, I drop one and another traps me. From one I escape, I get entangled in another.

Here there are thorns upon thorns. If you escape ego, the stiffness of humility arises. If you renounce the world, the stiffness of renunciation arises. If you drop wealth, you grow proud that you kicked so much wealth. There are great troubles here. Remove one thing, another clings. There seems to be no escape from here.

Adi Purush kripa karau, sab augun chhuti jaahin. Saadh hon lachan milain... I try to be a sadhu, says Charandas, but I cannot become one. Whatever I do, out of it non-saintliness arises. I sit as a saint, and at once I find ego has come there too. Only if Your grace be there will the signs of saintliness arrive—otherwise not.

Saadh hon lachan milain, charan-kamal ki chhain. If the shade of Your lotus-feet is received, all is received. In that shade the flowers of my heart will bloom—not by my forcing. In Your compassion, in Your rain, in Your prasad...

Hiy hulaso anand bhayo... And when the shade of Your lotus-feet is found—even for a moment—‘hiy hulaso anand bhayo.’ Then my heart begins to dance. And then bliss happens.

...rom-rom bhayo chain. And without doing anything, every pore becomes peaceful. Rest, cessation spreads in all directions. All running falls away.

Hiy hulaso anand bhayo, rom-rom bhayo chain. Bhaye pavittar kaan ye, Muni suni tumhare bain.

The Divine is silent; therefore His name—Muni. He does not speak—yet He speaks.

The Upanishads say: He has no feet, yet He walks—then He does come to the bhakta; how else would He? He has no feet. And He has no hands—or has a thousand hands—because He supports all. And He does not speak—but in His silence is the sermon.

Bhaye pavittar kaan ye... Charandas says: these ears of mine have become pure. You did not speak, and my ears became pure.

...Muni suni tumhare bain. From Your silence the message that was received; sitting in the shade of Your feet the message that was received; in Your compassion the blessing that was received—my heart rejoiced, bliss happened.

The words said in Your silence, the unspoken words, carried away all my impurity. The wave of Your silence came—and I bathed. It is the wave of the Brahm sea...

As the wind passing through the bamboo grove speaks; As the wind passing through the bamboo grove speaks; Or as, at dawn, the ray among clusters of cloud mixes color; Or as, in the stillness of midnight, fragrance grows deep; Or as the meter gets bound up in the languid black serpent— So the Divine speaks all around through silence.

As the wind passing through the bamboo grove speaks— If you learn to listen, you will hear the same One in the birds’ songs.

As the wind passing through the bamboo grove speaks— Then even the wind passing through the bamboo grove is the flute held at His lips. What is a flute beyond bamboo? To hear the flute’s sound, must the flute be at a man’s lips?

As the wind passing through the bamboo grove speaks— Or as, at dawn, the ray among clusters of cloud mixes color— That too is His hand. That very painter who colors the clouds in the morning, who decks the stars in the evening. His art everywhere. His signatures everywhere—on every leaf, every stone.

Or as, at dawn, the ray among clusters of cloud mixes color— Have eyes to see, ears to hear—then He alone, and only He, is.

Or as, in the stillness of midnight, fragrance grows deep— Then every fragrance is His fragrance. From all sides His signal comes.

Or as the meter gets bound up in the languid black serpent— Have you seen—when the snake-charmer plays his reed? Here the charmer plays the reed; there the meter gets bound into the black serpent.

Scientists say an amazing thing: the snake has no ears. So there was a great difficulty. The direct experience is that when the charmer plays the reed, the snake dances, becomes rhythmic.

Scientists worried for years: what is the matter? Because snakes have no ears; the snake is thunder-deaf. To say thunder-deaf is not right either—at least the deaf have ears. The ears can be seen—even if they do not function. But the snake has no ears at all. The sense of hearing is not in the snake. So scientists were very concerned. And one could not deny the fact. They proposed theories like: perhaps the charmer sways with the reed, and seeing that... But if the charmer plays the reed from another room, out of sight, the snake sways too.

The technique to capture the snake is: if the snake is hidden in a far lair, and the charmer plays the reed, it emerges from its hole. In the hole, it cannot see—so the matter was not solved.

Then slowly, by further analysis, it was known that though the snake has no ears, the snake’s entire body is sensitive to sound. The entire body—just as when someone touches us, we experience touch—so the snake’s entire body feels the touching of the sound-wave. The entire body experiences it. So it is not right to say the snake has no ears; we should say the snake is entirely an ear. Therefore the ear cannot be caught. Its entire body is an ear.

Or as the meter gets bound up in the languid black serpent— Just so, the day the silent voice of the Divine is heard by you, you will become rhythmic like the snake.

These words of Charandas have arisen out of such rhythm. Charandas is no poet. This poetry is not poetry; it is experience, self-experience. It is not a tangle of rhyme built by rules of grammar, language, meter. No—what has been known within, and wished to be said to you. And what has been known within is so rhythmic that what is said under its influence has become rhythmic too.

All the words of Buddhas are poetry. Whether they be in verse or not—no matter. The Mahakavya born within them—having been dipped in it, all words come musical.

Meditate much on these words of Charandas today. Just as:

As the wind passing through the bamboo grove speaks; Or as, at dawn, the ray among clusters of cloud mixes color; Or as, in the stillness of midnight, fragrance grows deep; Or as the meter gets bound up in the languid black serpent—

Enough for today.