Peevat Ramras Lagi Khumari #1

Anand Maitreya, Kabir is indeed profoundly dear to me. There are many reasons. I feel great love for Buddha too, but Buddha is like a royal garden—cultivated, refined, beautifully adorned. Splendor is there, polish is there, but the wildness, the raw spontaneity of the forest is missing. If Buddha is a garden, Kabir is a forest—untouched, virginal. No gardener has trimmed it; there is no tutoring, no polish, no scholarship—and yet the supreme light has dawned there. When a highly educated, refined person realizes the supreme light, his expression will naturally be complex, arduous; whether he wills it or not, theory casts its shadow. His utterance cannot remain unhewn.

Kabir’s speech is unhewn—like a diamond just brought out of the mine, not yet in a jeweler’s hands. No chisel, no facets—just as Existence made it, with no human signature on it. That is why in Kabir you find what you find in the far Himalayan ranges and primeval forests: that hush, that music, that deep silence, that profound peace.

With Kabir begins in India a new lineage of awakened ones—Nanak, Raidas, Farid, Meera, Sahajo, Daya. This is a different stream. Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—this is another stream. Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna sing the songs of palaces; Kabir, Nanak, Farid, the veena sounds in huts. In palaces it is almost natural that a song of renunciation should arise; if it didn’t, that would be the surprise. One who has lived in palaces tires of the world; his attachment breaks in spite of himself. Try as he may, it is hard to hold it together.

The poor can still hope in wealth—“Once I get money, everything will come; what else will remain to be gained?” But the one who has had everything has no sky left for hope—only despair remains in his hands.

Buddha had everything; Kabir had nothing. What did Buddha not have? What did Kabir have? So if Buddha dropped the worldly race as futile, it isn’t surprising. If someone lives in palaces and does not renounce, he would be a great fool—he only proves his stupidity.

But in the huts… Kabir was a weaver. What he earned today, he ate today. Tomorrow he would earn, tomorrow he would eat. He didn’t even have enough to feel secure about the morrow. To see the futility of the world in such poverty demands a great wisdom. That Buddha saw it is fitting, that Mahavira saw it is fitting; but that Kabir saw it—that is the marvel.

As I said: only fools can remain entangled in palaces; remember too: only the supremely wise can attain Buddhahood in huts.

So naturally my love for Kabir becomes deep. And because Kabir is unhewn, his words strike like a blow. Buddha’s speech is delicate, soft as a flower. Kabir’s speech falls on you as if a rock had been dropped on your head.

“Kabir stands in the marketplace, a firebrand in his hand!
Whoever dares to burn his house, come along with me.”

He stands with a cudgel in hand, calling out: “If you have the courage to burn your house down to ashes, come, come with me.” Why the firebrand, the cudgel? Kabir’s words fall like a sword-blade on the neck. Buddha too cuts, but with finesse, method, artistry—subtle strokes. Kabir lifts the axe and cleaves you in two.

Kabir’s utterances are fiery; his words are incandescent. In Buddha’s words there is coolness; you can even find consolation there, because they soothe. In Kabir’s words consolation is impossible—there you meet a blazing revolution. There the invitation is only for those ready to be burned to ash.

And because Buddha was trained entirely in logic—educated like a prince—when he speaks, reason undergirds his expression: philosophy, even mathematics. Kabir is baffling, a riddle, upside-down speech. Logic is not his concern; coherence is not his business. Precisely because he has no idea of arranging things to fit, the truth manifests in him with a completeness that cannot come through Buddha. In Buddha truth arrives pruned, polished—truth presented so the intellect can accept and digest it. To agree with Buddha is not too difficult.

Buddha’s whole process is intellectual, rational. So he never even raises questions that entail paradox. He simply declares them “unexplainable.” Questions whose very expression would need Kabir’s upside-downness. Kabir says: “A wonder I saw: the river caught fire!” Buddha cannot say that. He too saw the wonder, the river aflame, but education stops him: “How can I say this? Where is the proof? Where is the argument?” He has seen, so he says: “I’ll show you the method; I’ll take you to that riverbank. See for yourself—then you will understand. But I won’t say the river caught fire; don’t ask me that. Ask for the path, the method, the discipline—not the description of the experience.”

Kabir is a rustic—carefree he blurts, “The river caught fire.” Does a river ever catch fire? If you argue, Kabir will be in trouble—how to explain? Kabir speaks of many such wonders: “A fish climbed the tree.” Since when do fish have feet? But when Kabir says it, he has a purpose—beyond reason. He is unconcerned whether it sits in logic’s frame or mathematics’ schema. No such tutoring ever trained him to fit into frames.

Recently some Western painters stopped framing their canvases. When asked why, they said, “Nothing in the world carries a frame. You paint a sunset—there is no frame to say where it begins and ends. It spills into infinity.” But your canvas has edges, and then you add a gilded frame—at once your sunset becomes false. The real sunset had no frame. How did you bolt one on?

Reason too is a frame—beautiful, gilded, finely carved. But truth bears no frame.

Buddha and Mahavira spoke within reason’s frame. They had no choice; their very training made it hard to utter what Kabir can say shamelessly, without embarrassment. They too saw the sunset without edges, the infinite where contradictions dissolve. But when they spoke, they spoke with great logic, in crafted order.

Naturally, thinkers, scholars, philosophers gathered around Buddha. Perhaps no one ever influenced philosophers as Buddha did. The entire world’s philosophical branches—if you grasp the Ganges of Buddha’s thought, you can understand any philosophy anywhere. All the world’s philosophy on one side, and on the other, Buddha’s single Ganges—they balance.

This benefited Buddha too: philosophers refined his words. But as the words got refined, they became airy, less existential, more verbal. That is the cost; every gain has its loss. Buddha left a vast imprint; all of Asia was influenced.

Who gathered around Kabir? No philosophers, no pundits. His talk didn’t “fit” for them. How could it? Kabir had no arguments. He could say, “I saw with my own eyes the river burning,” but who would accept it? “He’s mad,” they’d say. Yes, the mad gathered—the passionate, the intoxicated, the moths who came to lose their heads. So one “loss”—that thinkers didn’t come—turned out, over time, to be a blessing. A different kind of sangha assembled.

Kabir’s words carry an integrity, a completeness. But whenever something is complete, it must go beyond logic; it must leave the frame behind. That is why I love Kabir.

Kabir then birthed a new stream—the line of rough-hewn saints. Their beauty is the beauty of a forest’s hush, of a storm at sea, of a mountain on fire—the same virginity, the same carefree ecstasy, the same intoxication. Think of Kabir as the confluence of Umar Khayyam and Buddha—both meeting as one.

Kabir founded a fraternity of carefree fakirs, and even a language evolved for them, Sadhukkadi—the saints’ talk. In that tongue no one asks for logic. If you want logic, go to the philosophers. If you want to drink truth, sit with Kabir. Kabir has no use for books—he says, “I have not touched ink or paper.” For him, the black letters are like buffaloes. He opposed Vedas and “kitab”—Vedas and scriptures alike stand between you and truth. Remove the books; the door is open—see with your own eyes the river in flames. That “river on fire” means opposites meeting; the impossible happening. The world is mysterious—don’t strip it of mystery. Don’t force it into logic’s frames and kill its life-breath.

So, Anand Maitreya, I am naturally drawn to Kabir. In a single line of his, thousands of Vedas and Kitabs can fit. Consider this small line: “Pivat Ramras lagi khumari.” Nanak says the same: “The intoxication of the Name, O Nanak, mounts day and night.” They are one brotherhood of carefree drinkers—rinds—bibbers. “The intoxication of the Name mounts day and night.” Once it rises, it does not recede.

Understand this line word by word—Kabir doesn’t have many words, so each one must be dived into.

“Pivat Ramras lagi khumari”—first, “to drink.” Truth is not to be known; it is to be drunk, lived, let down the throat. Not to be filled in the skull, but to reach the innermost breath. Why? Because truth is not a curiosity, not mere inquiry—it is thirst. And thirst ends only by drinking. You can sit before a thirsty person and discourse on water, teach all the science of it, explain that water is H2O—what will that do? The thirsty one will say, “Stop this nonsense; I’m thirsty. Give me water.” He does not want to know about water—what will he do with knowledge? Can he drink it, eat it, wear it? Give him water.

And note: to drink, knowledge is not needed. If it were, humans would have died long ago, because H2O has been known only recently, yet man has lived for millions of years. Not only man—animals drink, birds drink; even trees drink. Without knowing a thing, they drink and dance in the wind and sunlight; flowers bloom. No tree worries, “I don’t know chemistry—how can I bloom?” Without shame they blossom and spread fragrance. Good that thirst is not linked to knowledge—else trees would have withered, nights would carry no scent, jasmine would not waft, roses wouldn’t bloom, lotuses wouldn’t open; beasts and men would perish. Knowing and experiencing are different. Hence the insistence on drinking. Drink the nectar of Ram until intoxication arises.

And thus Kabir, Nanak, Farid, Raidas, Dadu created another kind of pilgrimage. The Jains have their twenty-four tirthankaras and their “tirthas,” very logical. Kabir too made a tirtha—but of another order: satsang. Sit by the true Master, sway, sing, dance—sometimes drown in his words, sometimes in his silence. Sometimes drink his song, sometimes his emptiness. Sit in satsang—silent, empty, like a bowl with space for the monsoon cloud to pour. The Master is a rain-filled cloud of Ashadha; if you are empty, you will be filled. Dance like the peacock when the monsoon gathers. Let the Megh-Malhar rise. This is another way altogether.

Mahavira explains with logic, debates, refutes. Kabir has none of that. Around Kabir there is a fellowship of drinkers. And what do they drink? Ramras—remember, this Ram is not Dasharatha’s son. What juice could be made of him? You’d become a cannibal! Here Ram means the Supreme, the nameless Absolute—call it Ram, Rahim, Rahman—any name will do, for He is beyond name. And it is ras—essence, nectar. The Upanishads say, raso vai sah—He is nectar. A single drop of this and your thirst is quenched forever. The art of letting this nectar descend within was called rasayana in this land. Today there is confusion; “chemistry” has been translated as rasayan-shastra. Rasayan was a beautiful, spiritual word. Don’t call chemistry rasayan. Rasayan was alchemy: satsang, where the nectar is cooked, drips, and is drunk. “Drinking Ramras, intoxication arises.”

And “khumari” is a deep word. It is neither unconsciousness nor mere alertness; both—and neither. A little wakefulness, a little swoon—their meeting. Like twilight, where day and night mingle—you cannot call it day, nor night. Within, there is such a state. From one side you will see swaying ecstasy; from the other, utter stillness—sthitaprajna. On one side Meera’s dance, on the other Buddha’s silence. Where these two meet, that is khumari.

Ask Buddha about khumari—he will remain silent; it won’t fit his logic. He will speak only of awareness, mindfulness. Mahavira too—of discrimination, of bodhi. Krishnamurti speaks of awareness—he cannot speak of khumari. He belongs to the Buddha–Mahavira lineage. Denials won’t change that; the very intensity of denial betrays a fear of being counted in that stream. But the matter is clear.

What Buddha calls samma-sati, right mindfulness; what Mahavira calls vivek; what Gurdjieff calls self-remembering; what Krishnamurti calls awareness—they differ only in words. But none of these speaks of khumari. Meera speaks of khumari, Sahajo speaks of it, Umar Khayyam, Al-Hallaj, Sarmad speak of it. Yet they speak only of intoxication; they do not talk of awareness. Kabir is that wondrous confluence—he speaks of khumari: neither sleep nor mere wakefulness, but their twilight, where awareness becomes intoxicated and intoxication becomes aware. A marvelous state—swaying in ecstasy, yet awake; dancing, yet alert.

Let the song rise, let the instrument be plucked.
Let silence touch the soft strings of words,
and let words sing the ghazal of silence.
Open all the windows, lift the curtains—
let new winds enter the shut house.
For long the moon-maiden has peered from the roof—
blow out the lamp, let her descend into the courtyard.
The colors of spring have begun to spread in the air—
let the jasmine bloom, let champa grow fragrant.
Let Meera’s tinkling anklets find their balance,
let Gautam’s measured steps grow a little tipsy.
Let laughing lips taste the damp of tears,
and moist eyes smile once more.
Let the heart’s talk fall like parijata blossoms,
and sometimes let the eyes fill without words.
Let the night whisper secret things to buds,
and let those secrets open from the lips of flowers.
Let the earth rise now on her own feet,
and let the arms of the sky bend down a little.
Let the call to prayer rise from a temple some day,
and let mosque-bells ring some day.
Let the caged parrots repeat their false phrases—
but let my myna spread her wings and warble.
Let them mourn the waste of dead rituals—
let us build a new earth, a new sky.
One day we shall lift them to our eyes in honor—
today, let our own feet find their balance.
Let the ocean rain down as a cloud,
and the cloud’s river lose itself in the sea.
Let the body bask in the moon’s soft sunshine,
and be drenched in the sun’s moonlight too.
Let what was never ours be lost,
and what was never lost be found again.
Yes, yes—we became madmen in others’ eyes—
let people too come a little to their senses.
It is true, the cupbearer’s wine is very bitter—
it will take color if it enters the breath.
The goblets will overflow when the cloud of intoxication gathers—
let the wine-bibbers steady their measures.
Let the cupbearer’s mood change a little.
Let there be no tavern, no drinker, no cupbearer, no wine—
let the drunkenness itself cross the last limit.
Let Him sing His song through my lips,
and let me hum His silence.
Let Meera’s tinkling anklets steady a little,
and let Gautam’s measured steps go a little astray.
Let the song rise, and the instrument be struck.

That hour, that twilight—where Meera comes into awareness and Buddha begins to dance—that is khumari. “Drinking Ramras, intoxication arises.”

Anand Maitreya, call this experience nirvana if you wish, or brahman-experience—it is indeed the supreme intoxication.

Supreme intoxication means: once drunk, it is drunk; once it rises, it does not subside. What is the worth of a wine that keeps wearing off? If you must drink, drink that which never recedes. Your life has become a cycle—how many times were you born, how many times did you repeat the same acts, how many times did you set out to win and fell into defeat? Again and again the same. Like an ox at the oil-press going in circles. You drink every day and every day it wears off; you color yourself every day and every day it fades; you build every day and every day it collapses. How long will you build palaces with playing-cards? How long will you sail paper boats? Drink something that never subsides—that is the supreme intoxication.

Call it what you like—brahman-experience, Bhagavat-experience, Buddhahood—mere differences of name. Don’t get tangled in names; the mind loves to. You—drink. Listen to your throat, learn the language of your life-breath.

What is being created around me is not a temple; it is a tavern. And those who come to me are not the usual “pious people”—they are rinds, drinkers, moths. Therefore, with me, you too will be criticized. Abuse will rain on you as it rains on me. This has always been the fate of drinkers; the crowd has always mistreated the intoxicated, and it will go on. But the joy of drinking is such—who cares?

Sarmad shouted, “I am God.” The mullahs conspired, tried to bend him. They threatened to cut off his head. Sarmad said, “Cut it if you like; you will cut nothing of me. And I tell you this—my severed head will still cry, ‘I am God.’ Cutting will change nothing. I will go on proclaiming.”

And so it happened, they say. In Delhi’s Jama Masjid, Sarmad’s head was cut off, and as it fell on the steps, it paused on each one and cried, “I am God! Anal Haq! Aham Brahmasmi!” Perhaps it is only a story, but sometimes stories are truer than facts.

Madmen perish, yet their voice does not. The intoxicated are killed, yet their intoxication remains. There is no way to annihilate the masts.

This is a fellowship of the intoxicated. You have gathered here to drink Ramras, to be seized by khumari—to dance outside and be still within. Within, the state of the sthitaprajna; without, the dance of the moth. Have you seen the moth dance around the flame? Let your inner consciousness become the lamp—an undying, unwavering flame—and let your whole life be a dance around it. The union of this dance and this awakening is khumari. To me, khumari contains the very essence of religion.

Nikhilanand, those who have known have said exactly what I am saying. It cannot be otherwise. But the ones who know religion and the ones who manufacture religions are different people. Buddha knows—but who builds the religion? The pundits. Mahavira knows—but who builds it? The pundits. The knower is one person; the maker is another. The one who knows did not construct; the one who doesn’t know is the one who constructed. Hence all the distortion.

And those who constructed without knowing had their own purposes. They turned religion into a basis for exploitation. For exploitation to work in the name of religion, the notion of a personal God is essential. Without a personal God, whom will you worship? Whose scripture will you recite? For whom the sacrifices, the fire rituals? Whose temples, whose idols? Whose mosques, whose churches? The priest’s entire business collapses. There is no need for the mullah. The officiating priest is out of a job. All these agents and middlemen lose their place. If God is a person, all of them remain necessary.

And if God is a person who speaks only Sanskrit—because that alone is the divine tongue; all others are human languages—can you imagine a Brahmin agreeing that God speaks Hebrew too? He speaks Sanskrit—Vedic Sanskrit at that! Naturally, only one who knows Vedic Sanskrit can be the mediator. Someone must do the translating, after all! So, quite “naturally,” the Brahmins declared that a Shudra has no right even to read the Vedas. Thus they deprived almost half of society. And what understanding could the Vaishyas possibly have of the Vedas? “You do business, run your shops, mind the worldly affairs; what would you know of the other world?” There goes another quarter. Then to the Kshatriyas they said, “Your work is war—that is your dharma; keep to your own duty.” Who remains? The Brahmin—and the franchise is his. He alone will mediate. He will worship, pray, and perform the rites.

Only with a personal God can this entire apparatus function. If there is no God as a person but godliness as a quality, the whole thing changes. Then there is no “someone” there, no question of language. The Jews say he knows only Hebrew. The Muslims say he knows only Arabic. Every language and every religion has its contractors. And these contractors have organized all this, Nikhilanand—not those who know God, but those who exploit in God’s name. More exploitation has been done in the name of religion than in the name of anything else. Religion allows exploitation by very clever means. The religious operator becomes highly skilled at it.

Dada Chuharmal Fuharmal once went into a milk shop. “Brother, how much is the milk per liter?”
The shopkeeper said, “Dada, three rupees plain, four rupees sweet.”
Dada said, “What? Four rupees sweet!”
The shopkeeper said, “Dada, have you seen the price of sugar? Sixteen rupees a kilo!”
“All right then, give me a quarter-liter of sweet milk.”
The shopkeeper served it. After drinking, Dada said, “There wasn’t any sugar in it.” Now that it was already drunk, there was no proof left. The religious man has his own arithmetic. “Give me sugar now—I’ll eat it on the side.”
The shopkeeper was taken aback, but what could he do! A crowd gathered, and people said, “The saint won’t lie! He’s a great religious guru—would he lie for a little sugar? Give him the sugar.”
In the bustle of the marketplace, not wanting to be disgraced, the poor fellow gave the sugar. Dada ate it—and then began tumbling about. Headstands, somersaults, all sorts of asanas. The crowd grew larger. Quite a circus Dada set up! What won’t a religious man do! The shopkeeper got terribly nervous. “Saint, what’s happening? What do you want now—please tell me!”
Dada wouldn’t say a word—just kept somersaulting. The shopkeeper thought, “Maybe something’s wrong with my milk.” He had all the milk thrown out. Other milk sellers did the same. When everyone had thrown away their milk, Dada got up and said, “Return my money! Will you kill someone? I’ll go report to the police right now.”
In a panic, the shopkeeper returned his money and then pleaded, “Saint, at least tell me what happened to you. I’ve sold milk all my life. My father and grandfather sold milk. Their fathers and grandfathers sold milk. Never has milk done anything like this. What on earth happened?”
Dada performed every yogic pose he knew, added a few of his own, and then said, “I could accept that the milk was bad; I could accept that the sugar was bad. But I’ve never heard of this kind of badness nor seen it. A man might fall ill, might vomit—but this tumbling and this circus! Tell the truth, saint—what happened to you?”
Dada laughed and said, “What happened? Why, I was just mixing the sugar into the milk!”

These dadas have founded religions—great arch-tricksters.

Dada Chuharmal Fuharmal once tied a cart to a tractor and went with his devotees to loot a rich old woman. After they loaded all her valuables into the cart, the woman began to raise a hue and cry. Dada picked her up and sat her in the cart too. She screamed, “I’ve been looted! I’m finished!” Then Dada and his devotees, with harmonium and tabla, began singing, “The old woman speaks the truth, the old woman speaks the truth!” All along the road she wept and cried, “I’ve been looted! I’m finished!” and Dada and his devotees kept singing in rhythm, “The old woman speaks the truth!” People on the roadside laughed, the policemen laughed, and said, “Indeed, the old woman speaks the truth. In this world everyone is being looted!” The old woman screamed louder, “Help! I’m being robbed!” But Dada’s hymn and the devotees’ beat went on. Everyone said, “Wonderful kirtan troupe!”

This is called a religious heist. Robberies have been carried out in the name of religion.

Nikhilanand, the reason all religions formed a notion of God as a person is that the pundit-priest, the mullah-maulvi, the pastor-pope cannot survive without a personal God. But those who have known have not called the Supreme a person; they have called it an experience, truth, the highest peak of consciousness, the taste of godliness. God is not a person who made the world, runs the world, does all this hocus-pocus. It is the samadhi-state of your own consciousness. When your consciousness is free of mind, empty of thought, when all inner storms subside, when the lake of your consciousness becomes utterly rippleless, when you become a mirror—what is experienced within then, that very experience is the Divine. Better we use the word godliness.

That is why I say God is not a person, but a presence. When you are steeped in that intoxication, you will know.

Shailendra, awakening in life becomes possible only when, while still alive, the awareness of death becomes crystal clear to you. Awakening always happens because of death—whether it happens in life or at the time of death. When you begin to see that this life of ours is surrounded by death on all sides—now here, now gone; it is only a matter of sooner or later—death has already arrived. We are standing in a queue. One by one people keep slipping away; the line grows shorter, the queue thinner. We are drawing close to the doorway of death.

On every birthday you should celebrate not a birthday but a death-day, because one more year has been subtracted from life. The child begins to die the very instant he is born, because moment by moment life gets pruned away, and drop by drop, as the drops run out, the whole pitcher becomes empty. Not just a pitcher—the ocean too is emptied.

Those who have such awareness, whose intelligence is so sharp that they can see death hidden within life, awaken while still alive. And if it is a little late, then at the moment of death a supreme opportunity presents itself. But even that can come only if in life some experiment with meditation has been made. If there has been no experiment at all, it will not.

Death happens in two ways—the death of the meditator and the death of the non-meditator. The non-meditator becomes unconscious even before death arrives; therefore he dies in unconsciousness. But the meditator, who has practiced even a little meditation, manages to preserve in death a fine ray of awareness. And because of that subtle ray the distance becomes clear: the body is dying, the mind is dying; I am not dying. And the very moment this is experienced—“I am not dying; nirvana has happened; the eternal is attained; the nectar has been tasted.”

We cannot dwell here; this is a foreign land.
This world is a packet of paper; let a drop fall and it dissolves.
This world is a hedge of thorns; entangled and struggling, one dies.
This world is brush and bramble; when the fire catches, it all burns.
Says Kabir, listen, O seekers: the True Master’s Name is the only refuge.

Yet to have this experience while living is a little difficult. Where is awareness in childhood! In childhood toys ensnare us. Then youth arrives—the toys change, but the play goes on. Small children play with dolls, arranging the dolls’ weddings. The young begin arranging their own weddings. It is the same game of dolls and puppets, only the scale has grown.

The eyes fill with tears for no reason—what can one do?
We are maligned for free by their cruelties—what can one do?
Though the friends’ sincerity is my life’s only capital,
Each attempt at kindness wounds the heart—what can one do?
Like arms in dance that arc into a rainbow,
The curves of the road outshine the destinations—what can one do?
With love each hour of pain touched the heart—
What claim can one press upon the world’s grace—what can one do?
Be it for a few moments, regret did enter the heart;
The claim of composure stood exposed as illusion—what can one do?
Who can ever trace the likes of us, with vagabond temperaments?
Our footprints kept writing the tale—what can one do?
Where is the solace for the longing just to behold?
The idols still sleep in stone—what can one do?
It is but the accidents of time—whether autumn or spring;
What must pass will pass; why grieve—what can one do?
All of a sudden, Taban, many lamps of memory flared—
Once again the evening of sorrow won—what can one do?
The eyes fill with tears for no reason—what can one do?
We are maligned for free by their cruelties—what can one do?

Life shows every scene; the choice is ours. Thorns and flowers, days and nights, joy and sorrow—life brings everything. But the choice depends on us. The capacity to see depends on us. We must recognize. Jewels are stones too—for the one who can discern. And for the one who cannot, even stones can look like jewels. The eye of a connoisseur is needed.

Like arms in dance that arc into a rainbow—
The curves of the road outshine the destinations—what can one do?
Forget the destinations; the bends of the road themselves seem so lovely that we get entangled in them.

Like arms in dance that arc into a rainbow—
As if arms in a dance had drawn rainbows.
The curves of the road outshine the destinations—what can one do?
The very twists and turns of the path appear so charming, so sinuous, that we lose ourselves there. We talk ourselves into it.

It is but the accidents of time—whether autumn or spring—
All is a matter of coincidence, we console ourselves. Boat and river—mere happenstance.
It is but the accidents of time—whether autumn or spring—
Whether spring comes or fall, it’s all coincidence.
What must pass will pass; why grieve—what can one do?
We keep consoling ourselves that whatever must pass will pass. What must pass will certainly pass—but you, wake up! Do not pass away with it; do not be swept along with it.

In life you have the very same opportunities that Kabir had, that Nanak had, that Buddha and Mahavira had—the very same opportunities are there for all. But each person chooses according to his own awareness. Children cannot be expected to do otherwise. The young are filled with ambitions. But the surprise is that even the old keep the same rigmarole, the same stupidities, the same topsy-turvy affairs of the world. Right up to their last breath people do not refine themselves even a little. Then death comes—and brings unconsciousness.

But Shailendra, if the current of meditation keeps flowing, then death is the supreme opportunity, the great opportunity—because death is the last chance. If throughout life even a small stream of meditation has been flowing within, then at death it deepens and bursts into flame: what was flickering like a little lamp, in death blazes up, becomes a forest fire. And if awareness is maintained at the moment of death, liberation is certain, nirvana is certain.

Even greater than life is the opportunity of death. But death is an opportunity only if you have dedicated at least a little, at least a fraction of life to meditation. Then death too is not death at all; it is only the doorway to the deathless nectar.

Withdraw yourself, little by little, from entanglements. Do not look for arguments. There are endless arguments for entanglement.

How can I call certainty a delusion, reality a dream?
How can I call the festival of longing a wave of mirage?
A distance in which there are a thousand intimacies—
How can I call it avoidance, how can I call it withdrawal?
Where a hundred gardens of wounds are in bloom,
Let it be my heart; how can I call myself ruined?
A thousand relations may be hidden, but still—
How can I call your cruelty your quiver of unrest?
My very being is an embodied question, but
How can I say what answer the world will give me?
The school, O Taban, is empty of the merchandise of passion;
How can I call the lesson of madness a lesson from books?

He keeps on explaining himself.

How can I call certainty a delusion, reality a dream?
How can we call this reality a dream? Yet it is a dream—because one day it was not, and one day it will not be again. What else does “dream” mean? Call it what you will. A dream is that which is here now and gone now; that which was not here just now and will not be here again. But if you want to explain yourself away, you can.

How can I call certainty a delusion, reality a dream?
How can I call the festival of longing a wave of mirage?
How can I call this world of desires a mirage? This world so dear, such lovely dreams, such sweet aspirations, such honeyed fancies!

How can I call the festival of longing a wave of mirage?
How can I call certainty a delusion, reality a dream?
A distance in which there are a thousand intimacies—
How can I call it renunciation, how can I call it flight?

Where a hundred gardens of wounds are in bloom—
Let it be my heart; how can I call myself ruined?

A thousand relations may be hidden, but still—
How can I call your cruelty your tremor of anxiety?

My very being is an embodied question—
But what answer will the world give me—how can I say?

The school is empty of the capital of love.
The lesson of ecstasy, of divine madness—
How can I call that a lesson from books?

Thus a person goes on explaining himself. One who keeps explaining himself like this will find Kabir a madman; he will find Buddha a simpleton. He will feel that these lovers have gone astray. He will see all his life as clinging where wealth is earned, position is won, prestige is gathered.

In life there are countless delusions, countless mirages to keep you entangled. In death, everything stops; a full stop comes. Where now can you carry your hopes? Where can you race your desires? What shop now, what wealth, what status? If a little meditation has been cultivated, then at the moment of death the dam of that meditation forms—because there is no way forward; the door has closed. The dam is built. And when there is a dam—even a small rivulet, if it meets the dam of meditation, becomes a great lake. That very lake can become the cause of liberation; it can become the great parinirvana.

That is all for today.