Nam Sumir Man Bavre #9

Life is not a problem; otherwise it would have found its solution. If life were a question, an answer could be searched. If it were a riddle, we could guess it. Life is a mystery; there is no way to solve it—there is a way to live it, to be intoxicated by it, to drink it. There is no way to understand it, to figure it out. That is why philosophy fails. Philosophy’s quest is a futile quest. For centuries man has thought and thought; he has raised a thousand questions and a thousand answers, yet neither the questions touch the depth of life nor the answers. Life is a matter of taste. Life is wine; only by drinking will you know. Drink, be drunk—and only then will you recognize.

This is the difference between philosophy and religion. Philosophy thinks; religion drinks. If you are thirsty, what will thinking about water do? Even if you know everything about water, your thirst will not be quenched. The real issue is not to know about water; the real issue is to let water pass your throat.

And do you think that those who know nothing about the chemistry of water cannot quench their thirst? If they drink, it is quenched. The ignorant man’s thirst is quenched by drinking, and the learned man’s thirst is not quenched by mere knowing-thinking-contemplation.

Religion is the way to dive in. Philosophy sits on the shore and broods; religion pushes the boat into the ocean. It collides with storms, accepts challenges—and from those very challenges, those storms, those tempests, the birth of the soul happens, experience is born.

Today come Jagjivan’s final sutras—and they are very dear ones.

'Sunu sunu sakhi ri, charankamal ten lagi rahu ri.'

He addresses his disciples, his friends. In the search for religion the disciple is indeed a friend; hence he uses the word 'sakhi.'

From the disciple’s side the Master may seem far away; from the Master’s side the disciple is never far. The disciple bows at the Master’s feet. In bowing lies a secret; a method of attaining is hidden in bowing—the key. But the Master knows: what I am, that you are. There is not even the slightest difference between me and you. The Master recognizes the disciple’s Buddhahood just as he recognizes his own.

Buddha has said: The day I attained Buddhahood, the whole existence attained Buddhahood. He whose eye opens and who sees the light within, sees light everywhere. The disciple’s state is such that the light is within him and he does not recognize it. The Master sees the light within him too.

That is why Jagjivan has done well to address his disciples as 'sakhi.'

'Sunu sunu sakhi ri!'

Listen, listen, O sakhi—O sister-friend!

Why 'sakhi' and not 'sakha'? Why 'sister-friend' and not 'friend'? Because in the search for religion, each person must become feminine. On the path of religion, the mode of the masculine does not work. Mind this: when I say the masculine cannot move there, I do not mean men cannot reach. Jagjivandas himself was a man. Men reach there too. But the way in which they reach can only be called feminine.

Understand the distinction.

By 'masculine' I mean ego, selfhood, the sense of 'I.' By 'feminine' I mean humility, the capacity to bow, egolessness. The masculine means aggression, conquest, campaign. The feminine means waiting, prayer, patience. The masculine sets out to search for truth; the feminine waits for truth to come. The masculine initiates the pursuit of the beloved; the feminine keeps watch for the lover. Even to propose love is not the feminine’s way; she waits silently. A woman’s verbal proposal of love sounds crude. A man’s proposal is apt; his initiative is fitting.

Those who set out to search for God—if they go with the stiffness of manhood—they will not arrive. God cannot be attacked, nor can He be conquered. And the masculine thinks in the language of victory. Before the Divine, victory lies in defeat. There, those who bow are lifted up. There, those who fall rise to the peak.

You have heard the saying: if His grace falls, even the lame climb mountains. I tell you, His grace falls precisely on those who are lame. The lame alone climb mountains. Those stiff with confidence in their own legs, those proud of their strength—they wander in the valleys. The valleys of darkness are endless. You can wander for lifetimes. If you would attain God—He is the bridegroom; we must learn to wait. Prayer and calling, remembrance and mindful recollection—yet waiting!

The devotee should be like a mother’s womb—willing to receive, eager to receive, ready to contain within, full of prayer; with doors open to welcome new life. But if we are to look for life, where shall we go? If we are to seek God, where shall we search, in what direction?

Those who know say: He is everywhere. Those who do not know say: Where is He? Show us. Where then should the devotee go? Where should he seek? On one side stand the knowers: particle by particle, atom by atom—only that One; that One, and none other. On the other side stand the unknowing: everything is, except God.

The devotee stands between the two. He neither knows it is everywhere, nor is he so filled with ego as to declare: it is nowhere. For he says: I do not know; how can I say it is nowhere? I have no such self-assertion.

What then should the devotee do? Wait, pray, weep, sing, dance, call out. Make the call so deep that it descends into your very life-breath—so deep that every hair calls, every breath calls, and if God is anywhere, He will come, surely He will come. If God is anywhere, tears will not be wasted; the calls will be heard. The deeper the call, the sooner it is heard, the faster it reaches. If someone can call with his whole being, the happening can occur this very moment.

Therefore Jagjivan does not use 'sakha.' He says: 'Sunu sunu sakhi ri'—listen, O sakhi. 'Charankamal ten lagi rahu ri.'

God Himself is not seen, but His feet are seen everywhere. He is vast, yet His feet are seen everywhere. What does it mean that His feet are seen everywhere? It means: if you wish to bow, you can bow anywhere.

A rose blooms—one who knows the art of bowing will bow. A miracle is happening: mud has become a rose, and you pass by like a blind man without bowing, without a salutation?

Mud has become a rose—does a greater magic happen anywhere? From ordinary earth such fragrance has arisen—what miracle are you waiting for before you will bow? If you have decided never to bow, that is another matter; otherwise, at every moment, at every step, there is occasion to bow. The sun has risen—what are you waiting for? How else will the glory of God be revealed? Where else will you find His feet? The sky becomes laden with stars—and if you do not bow, where will you bow, how will you bow?

I am amazed to see people who go to temples and bow, yet who do not bow when the sky is filled with stars. Their bowing in a temple will be false, certainly false. It cannot be true; there can be no heart in it. What can they see in a man-made idol, if in God-made forms they see nothing? So blind! They bow before a carved marble statue—where is the heart in that? They bow by habit. They were made to bow in childhood; mother and father said, bow—and so they bow. They bow out of fear—lest there be a hell, lest there be punishment. Or out of greed—by bowing, heaven will be attained; rewards will come. What is lost by a little flattery? Best to keep God pleased, then live as you like while keeping Him placated.

'Maybe it was only my own cry of helplessness
Which—in my simple-mindedness—I had mistaken for God.'

People bow out of fear, weakness, impotence—and imagine they are bowing to God.

'Maybe it was only my own cry of helplessness
Which—in my simple-mindedness—I had mistaken for God.'

In ignorance—you took it to be prayer? There is no prayer there at all, no love. It is sheer falsehood. Why? Because if love were in your eyes, would you not feel like bowing near the trees that stand by your side? The cuckoo calls—and you would not bow? A peacock dances—and you would not bow? The sky fills with clouds—and you would not bow? Moonlight showers flowers—and you would not bow? Someone laughs—and you would not bow? Even in dust there is laughter—what miracle are you waiting for? His lotus-feet are present every moment, at every place. On every grain of sand His signature is inscribed—but sensitivity is needed.

Jagjivan says:

'Sunu sunu sakhi ri, charankamal ten lagi rahu ri.'

Cling to His lotus-feet. The expanse of His feet is everywhere. His face is far—vast—but His feet are near to everyone. Whoever knows how to bow finds His feet. Do not think you will first find His feet and then bow. Learn the art of bowing—and the feet will be found. Wherever you bow, there a temple rises. Wherever you lay your head upon the earth, there is the Kaaba. If you kiss the earth, you have kissed His feet; you have kissed Him. There is no need to journey so far to kiss the Black Stone of the Kaaba. Wherever you bow, the pilgrimage is fulfilled; there you become a Haji.

But if you do not know how to bow, what will you do even if you reach the Kaaba? One who has not bowed all his life—who has not bowed before the moon and stars—what will he do at the Kaaba? It will be mere drill. The head will be lowered, but the inner ego will stand erect; perhaps it will grow even stiffer by the very bowing. If an egoist goes to the Kaaba, he will return even more egoistic. A few more ornaments have been added to the ego. He has come back a Haji. A pilgrimage done—if an egoist undertakes it, his stiffness increases. Do a little meritorious deed, and a little more wealth is added to the ego, a little more nourishment is given. This is the reverse of bowing. You have used religion too to puff up the ego. The more you stiffen, the farther you are from God. The more you bow, the nearer you are. If you bow totally, He is enthroned within your heart.

For now, to see Him directly is difficult. For now, seek Him indirectly. The immediate vision is not yet possible. Therefore bow. In bowing, your hands will touch His feet. Slowly, gently, by and by, you will gain recognition. The fragrance of His feet will begin to fill your nostrils. That is why His feet are called lotus. His feet are very fragrant—of an incomparable fragrance. His feet are very tender, very beautiful—of an incomparable beauty. His feet are miraculous—like the miracle of the lotus rising from the mud; in such mud He too is hidden. The one who bows finds the diamond even in the mire. Direct seeing is not yet possible.

A lover sent a messenger to his beloved, and said to the messenger:

'We will take our joy by looking into your eyes—
so drink deeply, O courier, of my beloved’s eyes.'

We cannot go directly. We cannot yet look straight into our beloved’s eyes; cannot see her face. But you go as messenger—gaze closely upon her face. Drink in her beauty, so that when you return we may take delight by looking into your eyes.

'We will take joy by looking into your eyes—
so drink deeply, O courier, of her eyes.'

Devotion is love’s expansion. Devotion is love’s refinement.

'Today, in His glance, we secretly saw something—
and here my unbelieving heart learned worship.
If there is a Merciful Lord, then it is upon your path.'

If you have ever loved anyone, you will come to know.

'Here, in love’s very path, my infidel heart learned to bow—
If there is a Merciful Lord, He passes along your way.'

Begin with love. Of God you may not yet know, but of love you know a little. Start with what you have. Even a small coin can attract in millions. Love is with you; it is enough. With such capital it will do. In the infidel, faith will arise. One who could never bow will learn to bow. Thoughts will fade. The energy trapped in thinking will be transformed into feeling.

'Neeche ten chadhi oonche pau...'

Jagjivan says: Become lowly—then you will reach the heights.

Exactly this has Jesus said: Those who stand at the back shall be brought to the front. And unfortunate are those trying to be in front, for they will be pushed back. Here those who tried to climb the mountain wandered in the valleys; and those who bowed, who accepted life as it was and called from where they were—their voices rose to the summits; they attained the heights of life.

'Neeche ten chadhi oonche pau...'

Become low; bow down. 'Charankamal ten lagi rahu ri'—cling to His lotus-feet. Become lower than the lowest.

'...Mandil gagan magan hwai gau.'

And once you learn this bowing, the temple within—the temple of emptiness—begins to sing; the hidden Samadhi within begins to dance.

'Pad ghunghroo baandh Meera naachi re!'

You too can dance. All that Meera had is present in you. Only one art is missing—you do not know how to bow. The masculine stands stiff. Therefore I say again: without becoming feminine, no one comes to truth.

And by becoming feminine I do not mean a woman’s body. Even if the body is female yet within there is stiffness, that is masculinity. And even if the body is male, but within there is no stiffness, that is femininity.

To symbolize this, look carefully at the idols we have made of Buddha, Mahavira, Rama, Krishna. In all of them there is a sweet, feminine grace. The masculine mood is not expressed. Have you ever wondered where Buddha’s beard and moustache went? What became of Mahavira’s? Krishna’s? Rama’s? Did they never grow old? Either all of them lacked male hormones, because no hair grew on their faces—or it is a poetic symbol.

It is a symbol. They did have beards. Buddha too grew old; he died at eighty. But we did not make images of their old age. Why? Because the life within them remained ever young. Their freshness never faded. They remained fresh as the morning dew. And they were not the body. We cared about their soul. The Atman is ever young. Bodily youth is deceptive—young today, old tomorrow; life today, death tomorrow. Within flows the unbroken stream of life. They had beards and moustaches, but we did not carve them—knowingly. We use symbol. We express the feminine mood. We deliver the message: When you enter such a feminine state of surrender, God will descend within you.

'Neeche ten chadhi oonche pau, mandil gagan magan hwai gau.'

And once you bow, you will find the inner temple—the empty sky within is the same as the sky without. Yet the sky without, the stars without, the moon without, the sun without—are pale before the inner sky, inner moons and stars and suns. What you see outside is the reflection—as if seen in a mirror. What you will see within is the real. Outside is the imprint, the shadow. The outer is the shadow of the inner. And one who sees within—if he does not sing, what else will he do? It is not quite right to say 'he sings'; rather, songs burst forth from him.

Thus we have said the Vedas are apaurusheya—'not of man.' What does apaurusheya mean? Those who sang did not sing; God hummed within them. There is no human stamp upon them. They bear not man’s signature; that speech is the Divine. For the singers had bowed so utterly that they had disappeared; they were not. They had become hollow reeds of bamboo. The notes that arose in the bamboo—by whose invisible lips the bamboo was made a flute—those notes are God’s.

There is one sort of song that you sing. Your song is never greater than you; it is smaller—very small. And your song is often a lie, because you have become a lie. Your way of being has become a lie, a hypocrisy. One thing on the surface, another within. And this story begins in childhood. We instruct children too—outside one thing, inside another. We say: Guests are here—do not make noise. And if turmoil is happening within them—now the lie begins. There are guests, so they will sit suppressed, showing one thing on the surface, another within.

I was a guest in a home. They took me in the evening to a nearby lake. The lake was beautiful. They went down to buy something; their small child and I remained in the car. A cool breeze! The child got drowsy and fell—his head bumped the steering wheel. I picked him up and seated him. It seemed to me he wanted to cry, but he did not. If he does not want to cry, what can I do? I said: Sit.

He sat. Half an hour later his father returned. As soon as he came, the boy began to weep. I said: Now this is dishonesty. You fell half an hour ago. He said: I did—but I looked at you, and it felt there was no point in crying. I asked: Are you in pain now? He said: Now it doesn’t hurt. Then why are you crying? He said: Now it seems proper to cry because father has come.

Now the child has begun to be false. When he wants to cry, he will not; when there is no need to cry, he will. The duality has begun. Hypocrisy has begun.

We tell people: Believe in God sincerely. This is falsehood. If you use the word 'sincerely,' belief cannot happen—because how can one believe sincerely in what one does not know? And we say: Bring faith with sincerity; bring 'iman.' Now falsehood is happening. God is unknown, and we have 'brought faith'—that is dishonesty from the very start. When God becomes known, then faith appears. That will be honesty. When experience happens, trust will arise—and that trust is called shraddha.

This shraddha we speak of is fake—a counterfeit coin; it is not. From the root it is dishonest. And when there is falsehood at the root, what else can the leaves be but false? Our roots stand upon untruth.

We teach people to maintain an outer form—a mask. Then we lose all recognition of the inner. We begin to live only outwardly. Then even our weeping is shallow—tears perhaps only from the eyes, not from the heart. Even our laughter is shallow—spread only upon the lips, like the color of lipstick.

Look at the color of lipstick. That lips be rosy is understood; that there be life and redness—understood. But you plaster color and go about—whom are you deceiving? No shame arises? No hesitation? Lips red—good; they should be—healthy, alive, blood flowing, the juice-stream flowing—this makes sense. But to smear color from above!

This is the style of our entire life. The whole tale of man is hidden in lipstick—his entire story, his grief. Because everything is false. All show.

Even when you say to someone, 'I love you,' you are perhaps just saying it. There is no purpose, no awareness. It has become a habit to say it.

So when man sings, his songs are lies. There is also a song that man does not sing but is sung through him—and that song is religion. There is a dance that man does not dance but is danced through him—and that dance has been called apaurusheya. Just as the Vedic words are apaurusheya, I tell you: Meera’s dance too is apaurusheya—even though no one has said it before. For who would confer such glory upon Meera, upon a woman! Her dance too is apaurusheya—just as apaurusheya as the Vedic words, as the verses of the Quran.

Aparusheya means only this: the ego is no more, the 'I' is no more. If there is singing, He sings; if there is dancing, He dances. If there is sitting, He sits; if there is rising, He rises. All is His. I have bowed from all sides—I am His.

'...Mandil gagan magan hwai gau.'

Then a rapture comes, a bliss, an intoxication descends. A wine that never wears off. A wine not of grapes, but of the soul. A wine not to be taken from outside in—but flowing from the inside out.

Do not drink outer wine. But there is a wine that flows from within outward—drink that surely. About that, do become a drunkard. In truth, man drinks outer wine because he is in search of the inner.

Do you know—wine was first discovered by monks? The first wine was distilled in Christian monasteries—and still is. Just as tea was discovered by Buddhist monks, wine was discovered by Christian monks. It is surprising: the earliest, most precious wines come from Christian monasteries. Hundreds-of-years-old wines lie stored in their cellars.

How did monks discover wine? Why did they? And why is the attraction to wine so universal? Wine fills a lack. For a moment—even if only a moment—it gives a glimpse. The glimpse is false; a delusion, a mirage. Yet there is a true hunger within of which it is a hint.

We all wish to live in ecstasy. It is our innermost longing—to live intoxicated, that our lives have the note of masti, the sound. Where to find masti? It can come in two ways: through outer intoxicants—which will make you tipsy for a while and leave you with a headache at dawn, break the body, make you ill—a heavy price; and the masti is not deep, only unconsciousness—a cheat, not ecstasy. Then there is an inner masti, in which there is no unconsciousness—there is awareness. When the inner wine starts to flow, you are in masti—and the more the masti grows, the more awareness grows. If unconsciousness grows, somewhere you have erred. Awareness should increase. Buddhahood is attained by awareness. Masti will grow, dance will grow, song will arise; peace will deepen, wakefulness will sharpen; love will blossom, meditation will deepen.

When love and meditation grow together—when masti and awareness grow together—know the direction is right. Then your compass points true. Go on. This is the gate.

'...Mandil gagan magan hwai gau.
Dridhkari dori, podhikari laav; it-ut kathun nahin dhaav.'

The mind runs here and there. Now tie the cord. Bind the mind—bind it firmly. Make the rounds with God; wed your mind to Him. Do not let it stray here and there.

'Firmly tie the cord, strongly fasten the knot...'

Wherever it runs, catch it and bring it back. Persuade it home again. Remember the Lord again. Bow again, awaken remembrance again. By awakening, awakening, awakening—one day the spring of nectar bursts forth. As by digging, digging, one day subterranean waters are found, so by awakening, awakening, the springs of rasa are found within.

'...Do not run this way and that.'

For now the mind runs much. It runs here, it runs there; later it does not run at all. Then it sits, intoxicated. Then—having drunk—where is there to go? For what would one go? What was sought is found at home. The treasure for whose sake we ran in all directions is found within.

Otherwise the mind keeps running—concocting a thousand designs: This too, that too; go here, go there—choice upon choice.

'Now that youth is on, let me sin to my fill—
Who knows if this station of life shall come again?'

The mind says: Now do it—this too, that too. Who knows about life! Tomorrow you may survive, you may not. Youth may remain, it may not.

Look closely: the argument of the mind and the argument of those who went beyond the mind stand on the same ground. Buddha says: Wake up, for this life will slip away. Do not waste it. This is a house of sand; do not be too busy in it. If the real house is to be built, do not squander time. This life is passing—it is gone, slipping before your eyes. It is a dream.

The mind says the same: life is passing; before it slips away, enjoy. Do you see? The premise is the same. The mind says: Life is two days—four at most. Enjoy. Who knows if the chance will return?

'Now that youth is on, let me sin to my fill—
People may call it sin, call it bad, call it evil—let them.
Now that youth is on—
let me sin to my fill—
Who knows if this station of life shall come again?'

On the same premise Charvaka says: Enjoy. And on the same premise Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ say: Awaken.

Reason is a double-edged sword. Walk with great care. The mind is a master craftsman; it offers arguments that belong to the Buddhas, while delivering results fit for fools. The premise is clean and clear; the conclusion entirely wrong.

'Sat samarath piy jeev milav...'

There is but one thing in this world that will give you truth, give you strength, fill you with love: let the cord of love with God be tied firm—let the meeting with God happen.

'...Nain daras ras ani pilav.'

And when from His eyes the nectar pours into your eyes, when His eyes and your eyes dissolve into one expression, one mood, when you feel yourself not different from Him at all—then you have drunk the wine.

'You, O pious moralist, tell me: repent and swear off wine—
But what will I say, if Someone bids me: drink?'

You say to me: swear never to drink—but a time comes when the Beloved Himself says: Drink.

'You, O moralist, say: repent, renounce the cup—
What shall I answer if Someone says: now drink?
With His own hands the Beloved placed the goblet in mine—
Then farewell to vows; it became necessary to drink.'

On that day I had to abandon all oaths—all vows and rules. When the Beloved Himself, with His own hand, filled the cup, it could not be refused.

Therefore, if someone claims to have arrived and yet looks forlorn—know he has not arrived. The Beloved has not yet placed the cup in his hand.

'Eyes that speak—and eyes that speak not;
In the arching brow a curved bow—there is bow and there is arrow;
Liquid tears—liquid pearls—the aching of the heart;
Eyes playful—and eyes innocent.'

The Divine is paradox. He is the confluence of all opposites. There the feminine and the masculine become one; hence we made the image of Ardhanarishvara—half man, half woman. There night and day become one; therefore we chose twilight as the hour of prayer—because in the sandhya night and day fuse. The word Brahman we kept in the neuter—neither male nor female; there all duality dissolves.

'Those pupils voyage to touch the fathom of mind beyond—
or they drown in the surge on this near shore;
Eyes that waver—and yet do not waver;
Sometimes with these eyes their eyes have mingled;
Sometimes these tears have dissolved in their tears;
Weigh on the scales of love—measure immeasurable.'

God is attained—and upon attaining, one finds there is still infinitely more to attain. The Upanishads say: take the complete from the Complete—and the complete still remains complete.

'When those two eyes—these eyes of existence—meet your eyes, masti descends.
...Nain daras ras ani pilav.'

Then you become saturated with rasa; a flood of nectar.

'Maati rahahu—sabai bisarao...'

Then everything is forgotten. Then there is no need to forget; a divine intoxication, a holy madness.

'Forget all, be lost in dust—and from the beginning to the end, attain great bliss.'

That bliss you find which was at the beginning and is at the end—the source and the goal—our origin and our home, and our final destination.

'...Aadi ant ten bahu sukh paav.'

'Face to face—do not turn back...'

Only remember this: do not panic; do not be afraid. Once those eyes peer into yours, do not turn back in fear. Many retreat from the final moment of meditation; many retreat from love’s ultimate moment. It seems: I am gone! I am gone! Now I am no more; this is death; there is no saving now; I am drowning.

Do not turn back in fear. Jagjivan says well: 'Sanmukh hwai pache nahin aav'—having come face to face, do not return. Keep courage. Do not take even a single step back. Having come before Him, go closer and closer.

'...Jug-jug bandhahu ehai daav.'

For ages you have been waiting to stake your life on life itself. The moment has come—now do not retreat. This very stake—place your whole being upon it. Do not save even an inch. If you save an inch, you miss—saving an inch proclaims your trust is incomplete. Only if your trust is total will the Total become your guest. If the least fraction of trust is lacking, there will be a miss. If even an inch of distance remains between God and you, there will be a miss—and that inch can become miles, endless miles. Once you are face to face—do not turn back.

These are very tender words, spoken to disciples who are drawing near. When a true Master speaks thus, it is not for nothing; not to everyone. Such things are not said in the marketplace—not to the crowd. They are said to those who are arriving.

'Face to face—do not turn back; stake this wager for ages.'

'After a lifetime we have entered the tavern—
Why sit guarding our hem now?'

With such difficulty you have reached the tavern of nectar—why clutch your robe now? Let all worries go. Drink. Dance. For lifetimes you have awaited this. Do not turn back now; do not step backward. Mind—up to the last moment—a backward step is still possible. Until you have utterly dissolved, you can still step back.

'...Jug-jug bandhahu ehai daav.
Jagjivan sakhi—banaa banaav...'

The moment has been made. The opportunity has arrived. Ages you have awaited this wager—now the hour is here.

'Jagjivan sakhi—banaa banaav...'

Do not miss it now—do not lose this chance.

'...Ab main kahuk nahin deraav.'

Decide: now I fear nothing. If death comes—let it. To die at God’s feet is a million times more precious than to live without Him. To be annihilated at His feet is far better than to be saved. Jesus said: Remember—one who saves himself will be lost, and one who is willing to be lost is saved. Kabir said: This is a strange journey—here, those who save themselves drown; those who drown, are saved.

'Ask the drinkers of wine the delight of wine—
What can the pure, the fastidious, know of this joy?'

But about this—do not go seeking counsels from anyone. Take counsel only from those who have drowned; who have been annihilated.

'Ask the drinkers of wine the delight of wine—
If you would know this wine’s delight, ask the drunkards.
What can the pure and prim know of this joy?'

Those who have never drunk—do not ask them. And the strange thing is: those who have never drunk keep offering advice. Those who know nothing of God keep dispensing counsel.

Two days ago, a woman asked me: What shall I do? The meditation you have given brings me supreme delight, but my doctor says: stop this method, or you’ll go mad. What should I do? I said: first ask the doctor—has he ever meditated? He, or his forefathers—has anyone meditated? If his forefathers had meditated, he could not have been born like this!

Has he meditated? If yes, he may advise. What does a doctor know of meditation! And your own experience says you are becoming intoxicated. She said: It is because of this very intoxication my husband suspects I am going mad. So he took me to the doctor: You must go. He says: You sit alone and smile—this is not right.

And the woman said: Sitting alone, I become so blissful that if I smile in public people will think I am mad, so I smile alone. In public they will wonder: why, what reason? So I seek solitude... and my husband investigates—peeking through windows, from here and there: Am I doing something...? I do not do it in public to avoid trouble. In solitude I do what I am moved to...

The husband suspects: You smile alone, sometimes you weep, tears fall in a stream. One day he caught me talking with you alone—your picture before me—and that was the end: your mind is gone. He said: Right now—to the doctor. Now I am intoxicated—first time in life I feel joy. The doctor says: Stop meditation, or you will go mad.

What does the doctor know of meditation? And what does he know—that there are insanities far better than your intelligences—insanities given only to the fortunate. Ramakrishna was mad; Meera was mad; Buddha was mad.

Do you know how the word 'buddu'—fool—was born? From 'Buddha.' When Buddha left palace, wealth, wife, family, people said: Look—what a buddu! Thereafter, if anyone did such a thing, they said: You too have become a buddu? Come to your senses. When Buddha sat alone, silent, under the Bodhi tree, attained meditation, attained Samadhi—then whenever anyone sat quietly under a tree with eyes closed, they said: See—he is becoming a buddu. The word was born as an insult to Buddha.

If physicians had their way they would have fixed Buddha too. Good that he escaped physicians. And it’s not that physicians did not come—they did. Wherever Buddha went there was trouble—especially at first. He came from a great family; his father’s name known across the land. News spread: the son has run away. He left his own kingdom so the father would not harass him—otherwise he would send men, or come himself, there would be tug-of-war, the wife would come and weep—there would be trouble. He left the state, went to another.

But the other king was a childhood friend of Buddha’s father. They studied together, learned archery together. He thought: It must be that the boy is angry; some quarrel happened. I know Shuddhodana—he is hot tempered; he must have said something. He came and said: Don’t worry. If it doesn’t work with your father, make me your father. This kingdom is yours. Come to the palace. This realm is greater than your father’s. I have one daughter—marry her. Become the lord of this land. Why run away? Why leave?

Buddha tried to explain: I am not angry with anyone; I have not fled in quarrel. But how could they accept? People flee only in anger. He asked: What then is the matter? A quarrel with your wife? What is it?

Buddha said: There is nothing—only that there was nothing there, so I left. I seek something of substance—so that life may have meaning; so I don’t go empty. The king said: I do not understand. Are you mad? The whole world seeks wealth—you leave it! I’ll send my physician—he will examine you.

Buddha had to leave, to escape the hassle.

Nothing new—it has always been so. Those who have never meditated—even they advise. If you are ill, seek a doctor—but if your shoe needs mending, you do not go to a doctor; you go to the cobbler—he is the specialist. If your clothes are torn, you go to the tailor.

A beggar came at five in the morning—at the door of Rothschild, the richest of the West. In India it might be fine—brahmamuhurta. In the West, at five in the morning, someone bangs on the door—a loud ruckus. Rothschild rose and asked: Is this any hour to beg? Do you know what the beggar said? He said: I have come to beg, not to take advice. And what advice can you give me! If someone wants counsel on how to make money, they should ask you. If someone wants counsel on how to beg, they should ask me. It’s a hereditary trade—since my forefathers. Come at five—you’ll surely get alms, because the man is so harassed, he gives something to get rid of us! Don’t teach us—we know our art.

Even a beggar can say to a millionaire: Don’t advise me—this is my experience. Ask the doctor: Do you have any experience of meditation? Have you tasted this madness? If you have, you have some right to advise.

'Jagjivan sakhi—banaa banaav...'

Jagjivan says: The moment is made. The opportunity has come to be intoxicated. Do not miss it. How many times has the bargain nearly been struck—then failed.

'In the marketplace of love, fate makes short the measure—
The deal of my heart forms—and falls apart.'

But this time the moment is made—do not lose it. The Master is found, satsang is found, the urge for meditation is in you, the longing for love has arisen—a wave is rising within, a thirst is awakening to attain the Divine.

'Jagjivan sakhi—banaa banaav...'

Now drop all fear. Now take the plunge. Dive to cross.

'Tirtha-vrata ki taji de aasa.'

Do not get entangled in the useless. The mind is cunning; it says: Fine—you want God? Let’s go on pilgrimage, let’s take vows and fasts. Anything to avoid meditation, to avoid satsang. The mind says: Do the rest—go to Kashi, go to the Kaaba, go to Kailash; set off for Kedarnath-Badrinath. Do all this—there is no harm, for none of this destroys the mind.

Whether you go to Kedarnath or to Badrinath—the mind does not die. It is the mind’s running about.

'...Do not run here and there.'

This mind drives you hither and thither: Do this, do that. Give in charity. If the itch grows too much, fast. Go hungry four days; sense will return by itself. After four days hunger will make you sensible—you’ll come back to the track.

Jagjivandas says:

'Tirtha-vrata ki taji de aasa.'

Drop all hopes attached to pilgrimages and vows. Never has anything essential happened through them.

'By chanting the True Name, ascend the sky—and behold the spectacle.'

If ever anything essential has happened—if God has descended—it has been through Satnam: by remembrance of the True Name. By kindling the memory of Him again and again—melting in that memory—dying into that memory—then 'ascend the inner sky and see the spectacle.' Then one sits in the empty sky within—and from there sees the mystery, the spectacle of the whole.

Existence is a great mystery. Therefore I said: life is not a problem; it is a mystery. If you look from the right place—you will be amazed. Every small thing here is a miracle. A seed breaks, green leaves emerge—what greater wonder could there be? Yet you are entangled in conjurers’ tricks. Someone draws ash from his palm—and you take that for miracle? From ash, flowers are blossoming—there you see no miracle. You are blind. You are asleep.

All around, miracle upon miracle is happening. The whole of existence is a fair of miracles. But sit in the right place; then you will see. The right perspective is needed; the right height is needed.

'...Ascend the inner sky and behold the spectacle.'

Those entangled in pilgrimage and vows, in temple and mosque—they cannot reach the inner sky. They remain enclosed in small courtyards—how will they find the vast sky? One becomes a Hindu, another a Muslim, another a Christian. And within these—smaller houses within houses: one is a Brahmin, another a Shudra. Within Brahmins—yet more houses: Deshastha, Kokanastha... People keep making tiny mouse-holes—and only then feel at ease. Until man becomes a mouse, he finds no peace. He wants a little hole—live inside, poke out and in, go on living. How will you know the vast sky?

'Is it the fault of the shrine that it is walled in?
If breadth could not be born within your own bounds?'

The Kaaba is not at fault; it is walled around. If those who go to the Kaaba fail to grow spacious-hearted—is that the Kaaba’s fault? Obviously the Kaaba is walled.

'Is it the fault of the sanctuary that walls enclose it?
If in the prison of bounds no vastness could be born?'

Temples have bounds; within those bounds your heart too will be bounded. Seek the unbounded. Seek a place where the Hindu is no longer Hindu, the Muslim no longer Muslim; where the white is no longer white, the black no longer black; where the Chinese is no longer Chinese, the Indian no longer Indian. Seek a place where vastness is born, where there is the spread of sky. There you too will become vast. Then you can ascend the inner sky and behold the spectacle.

'In that temple there is no end—
Light abounds without a sun.'

And that sky within has no end, no boundary. There, wonders abound—the greatest wonder: without a sun, rays of light! Without wick, without oil, the lamp burns—there the light is eternal.

'That ray spoke not—
She danced.
The water trembled—
The sky, mad with joy,
Turned over into the lake.
The wind kept time—
Silence, a still emptiness, remained unshaken.'

Become silent, like a placid lake.

'That ray spoke not—
She danced.
The water quivered—
The sky, in rapture,
Fell upside-down into the lake.
The wind kept rhythm—
Silence, a void, remained unmoved.'

Let all happen around you—at the center become unmoving, silent—and you will see the world’s mystery; you will experience it. And that experience is the experience of God. The experience of mystery is the experience of the Divine.

'Tahan niraas baas kari rahiye...'

Abandon the hopes of 'religion and suchlike' outside; dwell there—within—in hopelessness toward the outer.

'...Kahek bharamat phirai udaasa.'

Then no sadness will remain in your life. A wondrous saying. He says: If you become hopeless toward the outer, sadness will vanish from your life. It seems contradictory: in a single breath—

'Dwell there in hopelessness—why wander sad?'

There—be utterly hopeless toward the outer, and all sadness will be gone. Contradictory—but precious. Truly, there is one way to speak Truth: paradox. And yet, Truth cannot be spoken.

'Hopeless' means: now no hope remains outside. All has been seen, tested—there is no real outside. One becomes utterly hopeless toward the outer.

People do not become hopeless about the outer; they become hopeless about one thing and hang their hope upon another. Tired of the shop, they grasp the temple; bored of ledgers, they grasp the Gita or Quran—still wandering outside. The ledgers were as outer as the Gita and Quran. The shop as outer as the mosque and temple. From one trouble freed, into another you are absorbed. From one jail, before you can exit, you hurry into another. The mouse exits one hole, enters another. The open sky does not appeal; habit has grown of chains. Prison suits us.

Become utterly hopeless regarding the outer—neither shop gives, nor temple; neither ledger holds anything, nor scripture. When nothing remains to hold onto outside—only then someone goes within. And the moment he turns within—hopes are fulfilled. All hopes bear fruit. All that you sought through lifetimes is found. What sadness remains then?

'Deun lakhay—chhipavahun nahin...'

How lovely Jagjivan speaks: I will show you—if you are ready; I will hide nothing.

Buddha too said to his disciples: My fist is open. I have hidden nothing from you. All has been said. The intelligent will understand and awaken and arrive. The foolish will keep wrangling—what to do, what not to do, what did Buddha mean, why did he say so? They will pick what suits them, selecting and choosing.

'I will show—hide nothing—
Exactly as I see Him near me.'

Not a bit will I hide. I will show everything as it is.

'...As I see Him with me.'

Just as I see Him close, so I will show you. He is that close to you too—but hear me.

'If anyone can hear and understand this word—
cut off half-actions, and become a servant.'

If my word can enter you, I say only this: Bow down. Be willing to disappear—and the rest will happen of itself.

'Nain chakhi—darshan-ras peeve—
For him, there is no fear of Yama.'

And if you bow, then and there drink the nectar of vision. One who has drunk that nectar—who has once looked God in the eye—fear of death is gone. For he has known Amrita; he has known: I am immortal; immortality is my very nature.

'For him, delusion remains not; at the Guru’s feet he plays in bliss.'

There remains no confusion then. At the Guru’s feet he attains supreme joy and delight—sukha-vilasa. Do you hear this word?

Religion is not to give you sorrow. Religion is not to deprive you. Religion gives you the art of supreme enjoyment. Religion leads you into the supreme luxury of life. Religion makes you capable of enjoying God. If you are willing—as Jagjivan says:

'If anyone can hear and understand this word—'

If my word makes sense to you—

'I will show—hide nothing; exactly as I see Him near me.'

For He is so near there is no difficulty in showing. Be willing only to see. Just open your eyes, lift the veil a little.

Though lifting the veil once will not remove it forever. Habits are ancient; the curtain will fall again. Habits are old—you will look, and close your eyes again. Like looking into the sun—the eyelids flutter. He is supreme light. Many times this will happen—

'Sakhi, bansuri bajaye—kahan gayo pyaro?'

The flute will be heard—Here! Here! It comes into your hands—and slips away. You had heard the note; it had come so close it danced upon you—then moved far off again.

'Sakhi, where have you gone, Beloved—playing your flute?'

The lanes of home are forgotten in enchantment—
My limbs forget to hold their garments.

What happened to me? Who played the flute? Who lifted my veil? Who tied bells upon my feet? Who gave me a vision of a new life—a new thrill, a new elation, a new nectar, a new meaning? Who? And where has He gone?

'Sakhi, where have you gone, Beloved—playing your flute?'

When God’s first glimpse appears—then both true joy begins and true pain too. Before that, both were false—your joy and your pain. Everything was counterfeit. If you laughed—it was false; if you wept—it was false. Your flowers were false; your thorns were false. Seeing God, joy becomes true—and pain too becomes true. Only the devotee knows that pain. For as soon as the glimpse comes, he is filled with delight—and as soon as it is lost, a dark night descends—such darkness as never was before.

'In the enchantment, the alleys of home are forgotten—
I forget to hold my clothes.'

What has happened? The home I had taken for my home—I have forgotten its lane.

'...My limbs forget to hold their garments.'

I do not remember to hold my dress; the clothes have slipped down. The way home is forgotten; the very home I took as mine is forgotten. My identity is gone—Who am I? This very question is finished. What has happened? Who played the flute? What new note is this, by which all old notes have turned pale, gone useless? And where has that new note vanished?

'He came like a bubble—came and went.
We burned like lamps waiting for him.
A wind rose—and a wind went.'

One gust—fragrance from the heavens came and was gone. Now the world will never again seem home. The world is empty now. Noise, only noise. One who has heard His flute—even once, even a single note—finds all other music merely noise.

'In the mirror, look at your face—
A shyness in the eyes, a stammer on the tongue,
In the body a state of self-forgetfulness—
This is what they call love.
In the tilt of the glance, a sign;
In the eyes, today, is your heart—
In silence, the intensity of conversation—
This is what they call love.
From those intoxicated, heady eyes,
From those beautiful windows of the eyes,
A reality peers again—
This is what they call love.
In the chest is a fire,
A sob rises in the heart—
A pain—and in that, delight—
This is what they call love.
Half-choked sighs upon the lips,
Stumbling, bewildered looks,
A lost, absorbed temperament—
This is what they call love.'

'Sakhi, where have you gone, Beloved—playing your flute?
The alleys of home are forgotten in enchantment;
My limbs forget to hold their garments.'

'As I walk, my steps falter upon the earth—
As if oars were walking.'

What has happened to me? I began to reel; my feet fall upon the road like a drunkard’s steps. The memory of home is lost; the awareness of garments is gone. I cannot even steady my own feet. What has happened to me?

'Innocent worries remained, trying to stop me—
But upon His lips, the mention of my soul finally came.
Where love confesses its helplessness to desire—
Blessed the station—that moment finally came.
As a wave of wine spills from the sea—
Upon his trembling lips my name finally came.'

Once upon God’s lips your name arises—when you have called, called deeply—He too calls. That is the meaning of 'Sakhi, where have you gone, Beloved—playing your flute?'

You have called much. Once God calls you—when your call becomes worthy—then He too calls.

'To the one who comes from your side I ask only this:
Tell me—was there also a mention of me there?
When I heard that you too remember me—
What can I say of the limit of my wonder!'

It is not only you who call God. This fire has not been lit from one side alone. If it is lit from one side only, it is futile. From the other side the fire blazes as much. God is calling you too. When you call with such depth, you will hear His call—and then you will know: He was calling you before you called Him.

'As a wave of wine spills from the sea—
Upon His trembling lips my name finally came.'

Once your name comes upon His lips—you have heard the flute.

'As I walk, my steps falter upon the earth—
As if oars were walking.'

'Home and courtyard no longer please me—
The arrow of sound has pierced my heart.'

These small houses, small courtyards, small limits—no more do they appeal.

'Home and courtyard no longer please me;
The arrow of His sound has struck my heart.'

Such a blow you have given, such an arrow you have shot into my heart—such pain you have filled me with.

'Lagi lagan mein—magan bahison—
Lok-laj, kul-kaani bisaro.'

Now, apart from Him, no one else is remembered.

'Engrossed in the bond of love—
I am drowned in Him—
Forgetting reputation, family, lineage.'

All propriety is gone, all order gone, all discipline gone, all public shame gone—the concern of 'what will people say' has vanished.

'By showing me Your glance, You stole my mind—
I desire not to be apart even for a moment.'

Once You showed me Your glimpse—You took captive my mind.

'...I desire not to be apart.'

Now only one desire burns within—to not be separated even for a moment; that image must not leave my eyes even for the blink of an eye.

'Jagjivan—this visage forgets not—
To you I make this my sole plea.'

Jagjivan says: The image does not fade now, does not forget. There was a time I tried to remember, and could not. There was a time I tried to remember God, and could not; and now—I try to forget, and cannot. When the moment comes that you try to forget Him and cannot, know you have come home; know you have reached the goal.

'...To you I make this plea.'

And there is another meaning: 'To you I say this—make it your call.' I speak to you for the sake of those who will come after. I speak to you, that this call may echo on. You are but a device. If you awaken, well; if not, another will.

I speak to you—but through you, to thousands who are not here. To those scattered on earth’s far corners—the call will reach; to those who will come tomorrow—the call will reach. You are the pretext.

And you are fortunate that you have become the channel of this call. Through you this call reaches others. The merit is yours too. If you hear, good—awake as well. Even if you do not hear, you are a participant in a meritorious work. That much merit is yours.

'Jagjivan—this visage forgets not—
To you I make this my plea.'

So the call endures; the invocation endures. Whenever a wanderer, lost, sets out upon the search, these lamps by the wayside will give him light. Whenever someone remembers God, lost and astray, these words will become his support.

Do you hear? 'As I walk, my steps falter upon the earth...' The feet falter—it is loss of control; this is what they call madness. This is the madness I spoke of—one that is worth a thousand times more than your cleverness. Your cleverness is worth two pennies against the madness that seizes Meera, that seizes Jagjivan, that seizes the Buddhas.

The same madness by which others waste their lives—wise ones use the very madness to climb the steps of the goal. One is mad for wealth—that is madness. One is mad for status—that is madness. If you want to see such madmen, go to Delhi. Delhi is worth viewing; the nation’s greatest mad are there. If you want to catch the world’s mad—lock down a couple dozen great capitals. All the mad will be caught. In truth, capitals should be turned into asylums; physicians should be stationed there.

Madness for the chair—what a race! Whatever happens must happen—but reach the chair. Whoever will fall, let him fall; whoever is destroyed, let it be—but I must reach the chair. And one who has reached—he says: Now I must cling to it. However they may pull, I will not leave the chair. Only when I die will the bier be lifted.

One who has not reached runs to reach; one who has reached runs to hold, lest he be dislodged. Others approach—the crowd surges, shouting: 'Vacate the throne!' Even the friends standing nearby—they are standing only so that if opportunity arises, they can give a push. You fall flat, and they mount the chair. You know it, they know it.

In politics, no one is friend. In politics, all are enemies. How can there be friendship among the ambitious? He will stab you in the back at the chance. So when politicians stab one another—do not be shocked. It follows the rule; it had to be so. Politics means this entirely.

One is mad for wealth: 'Collect so much that none has as much'—and then he dies. This is madness—truly madness.

Meera’s madness is supreme intelligence. She attained a status extraordinaire—one that need not be snatched from anyone, first point; Meera receives it and none is deprived. Second—once attained, none can take it away. There is no ambition in it, no struggle, no competition. And she gained such wealth that even death cannot steal; the body burns upon the pyre and the wealth goes along.

Meditation is such wealth; love is such status. The union of meditation and love is the name of God. Where meditation and love meet within you—there God appears. You too will become mad with God. Your feet will falter—but this madness is different.

'I worship God; I sulk with God—
Such are the coquetries of devotion—ask God Himself.
Once there was a life when God was embarrassed by me;
Now there is a life where I am embarrassed by God.
You are the tress, groomed by comb, afraid of the breeze—
I am the unruly curl that became beautiful in the wind.'

Some people are like hair carefully set by comb.

'You are the tress, groomed by comb, afraid of the wind—'

Hair set by comb fears the wind—it will dishevel.

'You are the tress, comb-groomed, in fear of the breeze;
I am the wild lock that was made beautiful by the wind.'

There is a madness—the madness of politics, wealth, fame—that drags you down; makes you worth two pennies; gives you the stature of insects; pushes you below the animals. And there is a madness that gathers you, whose staggering is another name for steadiness; that leads you up the steps of God; that lifts you above man. One madness drops you below man; the other raises you above man. Seek the second madness. Search for this second madness. The name of this madness is bhakti—devotion.

These are sutras of bhakti. Understand Jagjivan’s sutras; reflect. But that alone will not do. You must drink. You must experience. And it can be experienced. It is your birthright. If you do not—no one else is to blame. You could have—but did not. You are free to not do—but do not lay blame elsewhere. You alone are responsible.

'Jagjivan sakhi—banaa banaav; ab main kahuk nahin deraav.'

Do not miss the moment. The moment has been made. With such difficulty it becomes the right moment—now it is here.

You are sitting here before me. Within you, the Divine is as visible to me as within myself. You do not see. Even if you do not, He is. Not everything that is, is seen by you. Your capacity to see is very small. You know only how to look outward; you do not know how to look within. You know to see with eyes open; you do not know to see with eyes closed. You know to see through thought; you do not know to see through no-thought.

But the moment is made. You sit with one who knows how to see without thought; who knows how to see with eyes closed. My fist too is open. I am ready to give you everything—be you ready to receive.

'Face to face—do not turn back; for ages stake this wager.'

Who knows for how many births you have sought satsang. Now the moment is made. Do not turn back. Do not put your foot behind. Do not turn away.

'I will show—hide nothing; as I see Him near me.
If anyone can hear and understand this word—'

Who among you understands—begin to live. Only by living will you give proof you have understood. Begin to drink. This is a tavern, not a temple. Here too we pour wine—but such wine as drowns and rescues; that brings unconsciousness only to grant awareness; where, if your feet stagger—blessed the hour—there you are steadied; where staggering is another name for discipline; where staggering is the fruit of sadhana.

Enough for today.