Piv Piv Lagi Pyas #1

You are a treasure whose key has been lost. Or a seed that has not yet found its own soil. A sovereign who has taken himself to be a beggar.
And there is a deep sleep. And in that sleep there is no real possibility that you will awaken yourself. Even if you wish to wake up by your own hand, it will not happen. It will not happen because the one who is asleep—how will he wake himself? To awaken, one who is awake is needed.
And if, filled with your self-importance and ego, you go on thinking, Why ask anyone to wake me? I shall awaken myself—then at the most there is only this possibility: that you will dream that you have awakened. A sleeping man can dream of awakening; he cannot truly awaken. At the very most, the sleeping man can see in a dream that he has awakened. To break sleep, someone from outside—someone outside you—is needed to startle you.
Guru has no other meaning than this; the word guru means only this: one who is awake, and who can break your sleep. Nothing else is to be done. Nothing is to be gained, because all that is worth gaining you have brought with you. Nothing is to be lost, except sleep; except stupor; except a certain unconsciousness.
Therefore a guru does not give you a code of conduct—and the one who gives you conduct, know well, is no guru. The guru grants only awakening. And behind awakening, conduct arrives on its own. Conduct is the natural process of the awakened one’s life. And a sleeping man, though he make a thousand efforts to perfect conduct—even if he succeeds—still it is all a dream. It is a bubble raised upon water. It has no real significance.
If in a dream you become a saint, what difference does it make? In a dream you were a thief; in a dream you became a saint—but both are dreams. When you truly awaken, you will find that neither the dream-thief was real, nor the dream-saint.
Therefore the real question is not of becoming a saint from a thief; nor honest from dishonest; nor good from bad; nor pious from sinful. The real question is of becoming awake. From sleep to wakefulness.
Conduct can be supplied by scriptures too. The society can also give you conduct. After all, society cannot function without conduct. There are so many people there; without conduct there would be much friction, much conflict, much restlessness and trouble. Life would become difficult. Society imposes conduct; the family also gives conduct; the scriptures too prescribe conduct. The guru gives awakening.
And when even gurus start giving conduct, know that they have become a part of society. Their connection with religion is broken. When they too begin to advise you—Do not steal; do not cheat; do not lie—then their usefulness has become merely moral; it is no longer religious.
Religion and morality are very different. Morality can be cultivated; for it, awakening is not necessary—only the dream has to be changed. Even changing the dream is difficult; yet it can be changed. If you can be angry, you can also practice non-anger. If you can commit violence, you can also take a vow of ahimsa. If you are filled with lust, you can also practice Brahmacharya.
For all these, awakening is not necessary. You will remain as you are; only the outer shell will change. You change your garments; you do not change. The concern of the guru is to change you. And when you change, then a conduct is born. That conduct is not moral; it is religious.
Moral conduct has no fragrance in it. It is as if plastic flowers have been fixed above. Religious conduct has a fragrance, an aroma. As if flowers grow upon the tree; as if the flowers’ roots spread into the earth, the blossoms drink light from the sun, greenness from the soil, freshness from the winds—they are alive. The religious man becomes a part of this vast existence. The moral man arranges a code of conduct around himself, but fails to become a part of existence.
Therefore a moral man may be moral without any search for God. God is not necessary. But a religious man cannot be religious without the search for God. And sometimes, from afar, it may appear that the plastic flower looks even more beautiful than the real. And certainly, it is clear that the real flower blooms in the morning and withers by evening; the fake does not wither; it is very sturdy.
If conduct is living, it changes every moment. Change is the signature of life. If conduct is inert, plastic, it does not change. Once you grasp it, you hold on. False conduct has a certain consistency. True conduct carries a living revolution. True conduct is a continuous current—the current of the Ganga. It keeps flowing, flowing every moment.
There is only one sign of true conduct: that current ever flows toward the ocean. The ghats change, the land changes, the mountains change, the people change, yet in the current there is a deep inner harmony. Everything changes, but the journey toward the ocean does not.
Moral conduct is like a pond, like a still lake. It neither changes nor goes anywhere. Closed in upon itself, it only stagnates.
If you have come to become moral, you have come to the wrong man. If you have the courage to become religious, then your meeting with me has happened of itself. I do not know for what reason you have come, but I do know why I am here. So it is necessary to warn you in the beginning: I am not content with halves, I am content only with the whole.
Until the beggar becomes the emperor—until then, nothing has happened. Until this deathlike life attains the perfect immortal, until then, nothing has happened. Until you find such a treasure that can never be exhausted—that grows even as you lavish it—until then, even if you acquire small possessions, they have no value.
And this event can happen only when someone strikes at your sleep. It can happen only when someone kills you. Only then will the inner note of the immortal resound in you.
Dadu is speaking of this very wondrous story. His every word is worth understanding.
Dadu: In the gaib I met the Gurudev; I received it as Prasad.
This word gaib—the first thing to grasp. It means: along the way—but unasked, unexpectedly.
The guru is found unexpectedly, for how would you search for him? If you already had so much light that you could find the guru, in that very light you would have found yourself. There would have been no need to seek a guru. If you were so awake as to recognize a guru, then with that degree of awakening you would have recognized yourself; the question of recognizing the guru would not arise. If you were so discerning as to judge who is a guru and who is not, then such discrimination would suffice to bring revolution in your life.
You cannot search for the guru. How will a sleeping man search for the one who can awaken him? And if a sleeping man were to find the one who can awaken him, then what need would there be to awaken? That man would already be awake.
Therefore the guru is met unasked, unexpectedly. This is the first thing to understand. Unasked means: before you even know, he is found—accidental, sudden. It seems accidental to you. There is an ancient Egyptian proverb: When the disciple is ready, the guru becomes available. It is not that the disciple searches for him; rather, the guru finds him.
From the surface it seems that you came here; from within you will find that I came to you. Before you came here, I had reached you; otherwise how would you have come? There is no other way to come. You are here—not by your own doing; you have been drawn. Perhaps it is not clear to you today, but whenever a little awareness dawns and your eyes open, then you will understand.
Dadu speaks of that very moment:
Dadu: In the gaib I met the Gurudev...
I had not searched. Nor did I have any capacity to search. Even if he had appeared, I had no measure to recognize. Even standing before me, my eyes were closed. Even if he had embraced me, my own heart did not yet beat. How to recognize? How to know, This is the guru? No—the disciple does not find the guru; the guru finds the disciple. The guru may not move a fraction, and the disciple may have traveled a thousand miles—yet the guru finds the disciple. The disciple cannot find the guru.
The disciple can only do this much: remain available; that when the guru calls, he hears the call—that much is enough; that when the guru pulls, he allows himself to be pulled, he does not resist—that much is enough. Do not raise obstacles; when the summons comes, set forth according to the summons.
There is a Tibetan saying: A thousand are called, one arrives. That is true. For nine hundred and ninety-nine place obstacles of every kind. They do not wish to come. They do not want anyone to draw them. For when someone draws them, they feel, We are becoming dependent. Our power is going. We are falling into a kind of slavery—that someone draws and we are drawn; someone wakes and we awaken; someone lifts and we arise. The ego raises great obstacles.
All the disciple can do is not to create obstacles. Nothing else is needed. Only be willing to flow. Then whenever you are willing to flow, suddenly you will find the guru stands at your door—or you have reached the guru’s door.
Life is woven of very mysterious laws. Wherever the need is, the event happens.
Heat grows, the sun pours its blaze from the sky as if fire burns; then the rains come. After heat, the coming of rain is a natural law. When it becomes so hot, everything heated, the waters dry up, the earth parches, trees begin to look forlorn—it is because of this state of heat that an invitation reaches the clouds. The clouds come rushing.
The scientist says: When it becomes very hot, the air rarefies. When the air becomes rare, the surrounding winds rush to fill that vacuum. With those winds the clouds also come running. Therefore the hotter the year, the more the clouds arrive.
There is a deep order in life. Nothing here is disorderly. Nothing is chaotic. When the disciple’s heart becomes heated, burns, cries, is tormented by the miseries of life—suddenly a cloud is drawn toward him. That cloud is the guru. And the meeting is accidental—from the disciple’s side, not from the guru’s.
Dadu: In the gaib I met the Gurudev...
And gaib has a second meaning too: the road, the path. One meaning is unasked, sudden; the second is the way, the path.
This too must be understood: until you are on the path, the guru will not be found. A little bit, you must be upon the way. The path means: you must make at least a little search—even knowing that by your searching nothing is going to happen, you will not arrive. All your searching is like groping in the dark. But only if you go on groping will the guru be found. Those who have not groped cannot find the guru.
A little of your seeking is needed—that alone will reveal your thirst. A little of your effort is needed. Granted you are asleep, you cannot walk—but you can at least turn over. Granted you are asleep, you cannot properly call the guru—but even in sleep a man mutters, speaks incoherently. Behind that incoherence there will still be the longing to call. In the deepest sleep, if you are searching for the guru, well knowing that you cannot find him—since you have no touchstone by which to assay who is gold and who is not; yet you are searching, there is longing, ardor—upon the basis of your ardor the guru can arrive. Therefore, being upon the path is necessary for you.
There are millions in the world; the guru is not found by all. They have no longing. They are bewildered. If you find the guru, they are astonished: What craziness have you fallen into? You were a decent person, all was going well—why entangle yourself in this confusion? They even try to save you.
For the finding of the guru means you are no longer a part of their crowd. It means you will no longer walk upon the royal highway where the whole world travels. You have chosen a footpath. You have become dangerous. You are walking off the road. You have entered the wilderness; you have fallen in love with the unknown, you are drawn by the unfamiliar. You are committing a great audacity.
The crowd will say to you, Do not be mad! Walk where all are walking. The road is clean, paved with cement; the milestones are set along the side; maps are available. We know exactly where we are going. And then, everyone is together; we are not alone. You are going alone. After whom are you going? What guarantee is there that he will lead you and not mislead you?
To take the hand of a guru is the greatest audacity in this world. Therefore only a few courageous ones can do it. To climb the Himalayas is not such a great audacity. To reach the moon is not such a great audacity—because before going to the moon, all arrangements are made, risks minimized. But when you begin to walk with the guru, then, except for trust, there is no other support. Only trust. And trust is a very delicate thing. And trust is trust—there is no guarantee that it will be so.
So whenever someone finds a guru, the entire society tries to pull him back. And society has even developed a device: to save such dangerous people from danger, society has produced false gurus. They are part of society. They do not take you onto the footpath; they keep you on the highway. The Christian priest, the cleric; the Hindu temple-priest, the pundit; the Jain monk, the muni—these are no longer gurus. Because they too lead you upon that very road upon which the crowd is walking.
Mahavira was a guru. Those who walked with Mahavira must have been courageous. But the Jain monk today is no guru. In fact, if you look carefully, you will find the Jain monk walks behind his followers; he does not lead. Go and observe closely.
A Jain monk wished to come to meet me. He sent a message—but he said, I am in great trouble; the followers do not permit me to come. Now, this is a strange thing: the guru wants to come, the disciples will not allow it; then the disciples are the guru and the guru has become the disciple. He could not come because the followers opposed it. They said, There is no need to go there. The guru is dependent, because if he goes, the followers will withdraw. He lives supported by them. He is a part of society.
Remember, the guru is never a part of society. The guru is always a rebel. He belongs to the Divine, not to society. And society is opposed to the Divine. Otherwise all would arrive. Very few can—rarely someone, once in a while. Because to go, you must be alone.
So first the guru takes you with himself, along a footpath utterly unknown to you; you have no map in hand. No key, no guide. And the guru too cannot say much—again and again he can only say, What I have known, I will bring you to know, but I cannot tell you—for it does not come into words. You walk on trust. A slender thread of love is the only support.
And there comes a moment when the guru will leave you utterly alone in that wilderness. For the guru too is society. As long as two remain, there is a little society. The meeting with Paramatma happens utterly alone. So, first, the guru will snatch you from society, from the crowd, will free you from the highways. And one day you will find he too has dissolved into the wilderness, leaving you. He is nowhere to be seen. His disappearing is necessary. Only then does Paramatma appear. Otherwise, if the guru stands in between, you will continue to look at his back. When the guru steps aside, you will stand face to face with God. This is the greatest of audacities.
But only those on the path find a guru. Path means: those whose hearts are restless, who long to search, who are thirsty, who burn with yearning—who do not know where to go, but want to go; do not know how to lift their feet, but want to lift them. Only such a person can be taught. Only such a person can be awakened. Because if you want to awaken someone contrary to his own longing, how will you wake him? If he is unwilling to awaken, lost in his sweet dreams, relishing them—how will you wake him? To awaken, the hand from outside is required, but the inner one’s support is also needed. The inner one must cooperate, must not resist.
In the gaib I met the Gurudev; I received it as Prasad.
So gaib has two meanings: the guru is found unasked, but only by those who were somehow searching. Blind searching perhaps, unknown—going wrong perhaps, doing anything without knowing what will happen; but groping. Whenever anyone has found the guru’s hand, he found it only while groping in the dark. Only the groping hand meets the guru’s hand. The one who has not even begun to grope—how will he meet the guru’s hand?
...I received it as Prasad.
And Dadu says: then what the guru gave was Prasad. It was no bargain.
Understand properly the meaning of Prasad. What is given to you—not because of your worthiness, but because the giver has too much, therefore he gives. Not because you are worthy to receive, but because he has abundance.
Understand well this difference.
If it is given due to your merit, it is not Prasad. You have earned it. It is the fruit of your labor. You were entitled to receive it. If you obtained it by your own effort, it is not Prasad. You had a right to it. There is no need even to say thank you, because you labored, you received; the matter ends. There is no question of grace.
Prasad means: that which you did not deserve, though you may have had longing; you did no labor because you did not know how. You devised no method, you made no effort. You had deep ardor, deep thirst. That alone was your merit. The guru gives out of his abundance.
There is an old story of Jesus; it is a story of Prasad. The owner of a large orchard sent his manager in the morning to hire laborers. The sun was rising; he brought some. But the work was much, and the owner wanted it finished by evening. So at noon he sent the manager again; more workers came. Still the work was much and the laborers few; he sent again. By the time the manager returned with men, the sun was near setting; the day had passed.
Then the owner gathered them all—the ones who had come in the morning, those at noon, and those who had just arrived, who had not worked at all—and he gave all of them the same wage.
Those who had come in the morning were naturally angry, full of complaint. They said: This is the limit of injustice. We came in the morning, labored the whole day, sweated blood, and we get the same as these. Those who came at noon should get half—yet they too receive the same. And the limit of injustice: those who have just now arrived; who have done nothing, only come when it is time to leave—they too get the same.
The owner said: Do not concern yourselves with what I am giving to others. See whether what you are getting is sufficient for your hire or not. Have you received proportionate to your labor?
The laborers said: We have received proportionately.
Then he said: Let go your worry. I am not giving to these because of their labor; I give because I have so much. I have so much that I do not know what to do with it—so I give. Those who came at dusk, just now—I give to them too. You should have no cause for complaint.
Understand this a little. Prasad was for those who came at dusk. Those who came in the morning did not receive Prasad. They worked; they earned.
In India there are two cultures. One is the culture of the Jains and the Buddhists; it is called the culture of the Shramana—the austere. Its emphasis is: labor, and you will get. As much as you do, that much you will receive. Their approach to life is that of the mathematician.
Quite different is the Hindu culture; it is the culture of Prasad. No one has named it so, but one should. The Jains and Buddhists call their culture Shramana. The Brahmin, the Hindu culture should be called Prasad—because it says: however much merit you may accumulate, you can never be worthy to attain Paramatma. He is so vast—your merits will always be small. If He is to be attained by merit, then forget it—you will never attain. He is attained by Prasad.
This does not mean you should do nothing. You will find Him on the path. Do what you can; but He does not come because of your doing. Your doing only increases the possibility. Like those who came at dusk—they had at least come. They had done nothing. You should be found upon the way, searching; and Paramatma showers as Prasad. And whoever has known Him has said: when we look back, what we did was nothing.
What did we do? What can you do? You sat with closed eyes for an hour each morning, turning your beads. Do you consider this a sufficient basis for attaining God? That you chanted Ram-Ram daily for an hour—do you think that is sufficient merit for liberation?
On the day you attain, you will also see that what you did seems to have no relation with it. What was done is as good as not done. Your doing only revealed your longing; no merit was earned. That you desired to meet God—that thirst did become known; but you did not accumulate any wealth to buy Him with—nothing like that happened.
Paramatma is not attained by your effort, though if you do not make effort, He will also not be attained. Understand this subtlety well. He will come only if you make effort, yet He does not come because of your effort. Because how small is your effort! You go with a spoon to fill the ocean. When the ocean pours over you, will you say it is because of the spoon? You will then throw away the spoon. The spoon only made your thirst known. You sent your petition to His feet. Word reached Him that you are willing. Dadu says:
Dadu: In the gaib I met the Gurudev; I received it as Prasad.
What the guru gives is also Prasad. He has so much. He has attained Paramatma. He wants to share. In truth, he is burdened—like a cloud heavy with water, seeking a land upon which to shower. A thirsty, unsated earth that will accept him. When a lamp is lit, light begins to spread all around—sharing begins. When the bud opens and becomes a flower, the breezes carry its fragrance to the far horizon—sharing begins.
Whenever you have something, you want to share it. Only those who have nothing cling and are miserly. Understand this well, for it seems a riddle.
I say: those who have nothing are the only ones who cling and are miserly. Those who have something are never mean and never hold tight. For those who have, know that by giving, it increases. Those who have nothing are afraid, thinking by giving, it will decrease.
The guru gives you not because you have acquired merit by austerity or labor—no. The guru gives because there are tears in your eyes; because there is thirst in your heart; because in every breath there is a search. That is enough. You are a vessel because you are empty. Not because of worthiness are you a vessel.
This word patra—vessel—is very beautiful. From it arises patrata—worthiness. We take patrata to mean merit; but rightly understood, patra means only this: one who is empty, who is ready to be filled; if someone should pour, he will not resist. That is all patra means. In the realm of religion, this alone is worthiness—that you stand with an empty heart; the guru’s Prasad will fill you.
...I received it as Prasad.
He placed his hand upon my head—and I beheld the Unfathomable, the Inconceivable.
Dadu says: The guru placed his hand upon my head.
Upon what head can the hand be placed? Upon the head that is bowed. Otherwise, there is nowhere to place the hand. Only upon a bowed head can the hand be laid. Only the bowed head receives the guru’s hand.
As the river’s current flows downward toward deeper and deeper valleys and ultimately meets the ocean—because the ocean is the vastest valley. The Pacific is a trench five miles deep. So all the waters of the world flow toward the oceans. The East discovered a whole science of this. Let the disciple bow, so that the guru may give. If the disciple does not know how to bow, even if the guru is ready to give, there is no way to give.
Many come to me; they say, Is it necessary to take sannyas? Only then will you help us?
I tell them: My help is available to you always. But only by becoming a sannyasin will you be able to receive it. It makes no difference that it is available from my side. The capacity to take must be on your side too. Sannyas means nothing else; initiation means nothing else—it means only this: I bow. That’s all. It means: I am willing to bow. From my side there will be no obstacle. If you shower, my vessel is set before you.
It is hard for them to understand, for they think: If you are willing to help, then what need is there of sannyas, initiation? Why not receive help without them? Perhaps they think I am a bit partial.
They are mistaken. I wish to give to them also, but they are not willing to receive. It is like a mountain peak saying to the flowing Ganga, Will you go only to the ocean? We are also standing here. Why do you not come our way? And the Ganga will say, I am willing; but you stand so high there is no way for me to reach.
The stream flows downward. From the guru to the disciple a living current flows. If you understand rightly, it is the very Ganga of heaven. From the guru’s side, a Prasad flows—but to bear it you must be bowed; only then will you hold it. Otherwise it will rain and you will remain empty. If you are already full, you will remain empty. If you are empty, you will be filled.
That is why religion seems like riddles. They are riddles and yet straightforward. With just a little understanding, there is no difficulty.
The river is flowing; you stand thirsty—bow, form a cup with your hands, and your thirst can be quenched. But if you keep standing rigid as if your spine were paralyzed, the river will flow beside you and you will remain thirsty. There was only the distance of a hand—had you just bowed a little, you would have received all. But you were not willing to bow even that much. And there is no way for the river to leap into your cupped hands. And even if it did, if your hands were not cupped, nothing would be gained.
Disciplehood means: the readiness to bow. Initiation means: now I will remain bowed. It is a lasting attitude—not that sometimes you bow and sometimes you do not. Disciplehood means: now I will remain bowed; now it is your will. Shower when you will—you will not find me unbowed.
He placed his hand upon my head—and I beheld the Unfathomable, the Inconceivable.
And when the disciple’s head is bowed, a great revolutionary event becomes possible.
In man’s body there are seven chakras. Ordinarily you become acquainted with the first, because nature runs all her work from that chakra—the sex center, Muladhar—from where lust arises, from where the stream of life flows on.
But it is the lowest chakra. To live in that chakra is as if a man who owns a palace builds his dwelling in the portico. The portico too is part of the palace and beautiful. I have no condemnation of anything. There is nothing wrong with a portico. It is beautiful; it is needed. Entering from outside, you pass through it; going out from within, you pass through it. In sun or rain, the portico shelters—but it is no place to live.
In Greece there was a great thinker, Zeno. His school is called Stoic. In Greek, the portico is stoa. Zeno lived in the portico, so his entire philosophy was named Stoic—from stoa. He never entered the palace. He lived and died in the portico. And when asked, Why do you live in the portico? he would say: out of renunciation.
But such renunciation is foolish. This is what you are doing—living in lust. It is the portico of life, nothing more. The palace is vast; within it are wondrous chambers; and in its innermost sanctum, Paramatma Himself abides. Sit in the portico, and you will waste life for nothing.
There are seven chakras: the first is sex; the seventh is Sahasrar. When the disciple’s head bows at the guru’s feet—and not only the outer head bows, the inner ego bows too; when that moment comes in which, along with the outer head, the inner pride bows—remember, to bow the outer head is very easy. At least in India it is very easy. People are habituated—it is formal. It costs them nothing; it is merely traditional. But if you could photograph their ego, you would see the Indian bowing—his head would appear bowed in the picture, but the ego would be standing erect. It may even be that by bowing, the ego becomes stronger. Life is intricate: a new stiffness may arise—See, what a humble man I am; I bow my head anywhere. Behold my humility!
When your head bows, and your inner head also bows—your ego—when this meeting happens, when you are bowed through and through, then if the guru’s hand touches your Sahasrar in that moment, his life-current begins to flow into you. And what you cannot do with your own hands in lifetimes happens in a single instant. It becomes Prasad. Your whole life-energy rises with the guru’s life-energy; your seventh chakra is activated.
And when this chakra becomes active, Dadu says: I beheld the Unfathomable, the Inconceivable.
Hence he calls it Prasad. It did not happen by his own power. He had done nothing but bow. Is that even a doing? But the guru’s hand fell upon the head—and in a moment, revolution. The flowing energy of the guru joined together all your severed inner strings. The fractured veena became unbroken. What till yesterday was a broken current, became united. Until a moment ago the inner temple was unknown to you—now its finial became visible.
If you look at life from lust, the world appears. If you look from Sahasrar, from Samadhi, this very world is seen as the Unfathomable and Inconceivable. The world is the same; nothing changes—but your vision, your standpoint changes.
And on the day you see from the center of Samadhi, the world disappears; only Paramatma is seen. In every leaf and flower—only That. In every pebble and stone—only That. In the sky, the moon and stars—only That. Look into people, and you find only That. Touch the gust of the wind—only That is touched. Close your eyes—only That appears. Open them—only That appears. But this life-energy sees thus only when it looks through the gate of Samadhi...
In the gaib I met the Gurudev; I received it as Prasad.
He placed his hand upon my head—and I beheld the Unfathomable, the Inconceivable.
Dadu: The Satguru met me so naturally, clasping me to his throat.
Blessed is the compassion of the Compassionate One—then he lit the lamp within.
Try to understand every single word. For men like Dadu do not use even a single word in vain. Speaking is not their indulgence. Each word points toward a deep inner science.
The Satguru met me so naturally...
There is only one way to meet the Satguru: remain natural. The more tense, complex, difficult you become, the more the meeting becomes difficult. Meet the Satguru as a small child. Leave your erudition at home. Where you take off your shoes, there take off your head as well. Bathe before you come. Not only dust off the body—leave your inner thoughts there too. Go to the guru as a small child, who knows nothing; whose being has no twist or crookedness; who is straightforward, simple, natural.
Now, this is very perplexing—for all civilization, society, culture is making you complex. Society says to you: Be whatever you are within, but show something else without. Inside there is anger—no matter, keep it held; smile outside. You see a man and feel, From where did this wretch appear?—but say to him, How delighted I am to see you, what joy, after so many days! Say just that! A guest arrives—you feel like hanging yourself, but spread the red carpet.
The whole arrangement of life is built on lies, complexity, hypocrisy. No one gives you the means to be simple.
But this will not do with the guru. If you go bringing these clevernesses, you will not be able to come near. You may come physically close, but not near the guru. To be near the guru there is only one way—naturalness. If you are far from the guru, there is only one cause: you are unnatural. Become natural—instantly you are close. A distance of thousands of miles—yet if you are natural, you are near the guru. And you may be sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, but if you are unnatural, there are thousands of miles in between.
The Satguru met me so naturally—he clasped me to his throat.
If you are natural, the guru will clasp you to his throat.
The word throat is worth pondering—for these are names of distinct chakras. At the throat is the fifth chakra. When the throat chakra awakens, even prose becomes poetry. There comes a sweetness to speech; within words a silence is felt; and in his silence there is great eloquence. And the eloquence is overshadowed by silence. When the fifth chakra has become alive...
When energy moves upward, it passes through the chakras one by one. The first is the sex-center. The second is below the navel. When energy reaches the second chakra, fear disappears, fearlessness is attained—because the second chakra is linked with death. When you transcend the second chakra, you have transcended death.
That is why whenever you feel afraid, you notice immediately some disturbance in your belly. In extreme fear a man may even evacuate his bowels and bladder. It happens because the fear-center becomes so active that it becomes necessary to empty the belly.
In the fearful, ulcers appear in the stomach. In the anxious too. Ulcer simply means that the fear chakra is whirling so powerfully it has begun to digest your own body—it has begun to digest the lining of the stomach, hence ulcers.
When energy passes beyond fear, you become fearless, deathless appears everywhere; everywhere you sense Amrit.
The third chakra is above the navel. As soon as energy comes to the third chakra, an exquisite balance begins to be felt in your life. Extremes vanish. Ordinarily life sways between extremes. Either you indulge or you renounce. Either you overeat or you fast. You keep oscillating between such extremes. You sit four hours in meditation, then sleep off for four or six days.
As soon as you come to the third chakra, the extremes dissolve. Balance is born.
When you come to the fourth chakra, the heart chakra—then, for the first time, love is born in your life. Before that you speak of love, you discuss it. Those are only discussions. Before that, all your so-called love is but disguised lust. Whatever wrappings of words you use, within, lust stands naked. Only when energy comes to the heart does love manifest in your life; lust dissolves.
Then the fifth chakra is at the throat. Upon reaching the throat, energy gains the capacity to express truth. It is not necessary that the listener understand. He too will understand only when his fifth chakra becomes active.
So when the guru speaks to the disciple, if the disciple’s fifth chakra is also active—this is the meaning of clasped me to his throat—only then will the disciple understand exactly what is said. Otherwise the guru will say one thing, the disciple will understand another. You will understand according to your own level.
If your energy is at the first chakra, the guru will say something; you will understand something—your understanding will be filled with lust. If you have not transcended fear, even your search for God will be based on fear. Even if you pray, you will pray only when your breath is trembling with fear—otherwise you will not.
That is why people do not remember God in happiness but in sorrow. In happiness, who cares for God? What to do with Him? In misery they go, trembling with fear. Even the atheist becomes a theist at the time of death. When a man is successful, young, healthy, triumphant in life from all sides—even the theist becomes an atheist. When the legs begin to tremble, the life-energy scatters, the ebb-tide arrives—the flood has receded—and the moment of low tide comes—even the atheist becomes a theist. At death, he thinks of God.
So if your energy is not at the fifth chakra, the guru will say one thing, you will understand another. If it is at the fifth, the guru need not even speak—you will understand what he intends. A wire connects. The possibility of communion begins.
Truth cannot be said—because the listener is not present. If the one who can hear truth is present, truth can certainly be said. In fact, there is no need to say it; without saying, it is conveyed. The guru sits silent; the disciple sits silent—and between their throats a transaction begins.
The Satguru met me so naturally—clasped me to his throat.
Blessed is the compassion of the Compassionate One—then he lit the lamp within.
And out of compassion the guru lit the lamp. The lamp is the sixth chakra—the third eye, Shiva-netra—between your two brows. That is the lamp—because from there the light pours within.
The guru explains, indicates, points—so that your energy may journey from the fifth to the sixth. If you are willing to listen, ready, absorbed, very soon the energy becomes a lamp. When the third eye opens, there is light upon light within. And when there is light within, there is no darkness without. Wherever he goes, he walks in his own light. For him there is no darkness anywhere in this world.
Blessed is the compassion of the Compassionate One—then he lit the lamp within.
The Satguru struck with words, and by looking and looking he brought me to my home within.
Ram alone remained; nothing else entered the mind.
And with the arrows of words the guru took such aim—
The Satguru struck with words, and by looking and looking he brought me to my home within—
that the inner crowd of thoughts died, one by one; each thought became lifeless.
And there came a moment of such silence that when I looked within, I found—
Ram alone remained; nothing else entered the mind.
—no one else can be seen. All except Ram the guru has slain.
The guru speaks, he uses words—just as, if a thorn gets lodged in the foot, we use another thorn to remove it. One thorn has entered; we find another and remove the first. The second thorn is also a thorn. When the first is out, do not, even by mistake, keep the second in the wound, thinking, This is a good thorn; it served me well. No—when the first is thrown away, throw the second also.
The guru’s words are like thorns—to draw out the thorns within you. They are arrows—to cut down your thoughts. Thought is cut by thought. Arrow by arrow; thorn by thorn. Poison must be killed by poison.
The Satguru struck with words, and by looking and looking he brought me to my home within.
And if you are frightened—for the guru will break your beliefs, erase your faiths, kill your imagined doctrines—if you become afraid: He is snatching my religion; he is erasing my scripture; he is destroying the creeds I have hoarded for so long—and you run away, you will miss.
Scriptures must be left, doctrines dropped. Only that is to be saved which cannot be destroyed; all else must be discarded. Once you have recognized That, there is no fear. But until you recognize It, your Ram is lost in a mob of doctrines and scriptures. How much babble of words goes on within you! You want to find Ram, and your mind is such a marketplace—Ram is nowhere to be found. All must be cut down one by one. There is no way to cut Ram—He cannot be cut. He is the immortal within, the eternal, the beginningless, the endless—that is Ram. The guru will drop everything—if you consent. This is the greatest operation possible in the world.
No surgeon performs this operation. At most he cuts away your rotten limbs. The guru cuts away your rotten mind in its entirety. Only then does your soul shine. If you are willing to die—for first it will feel like dying. You have mistaken these thoughts for your very life.
If one is a Hindu and you say something against Hinduism, he becomes ready to kill or be killed. If a Muslim—and you say something against Islam—he will stake his life. Either he will destroy you or be destroyed himself.
Man is ready to kill or die for words. He has valued words more than life itself. How many millions have died for the sake of churches, mosques, temples! It is astonishing that words have such value that you are ready to lose your life. Someone abuses the Gita, someone criticizes the Koran—and you go mad. You are ready to erase Ram, but you will not leave words.
So when the guru begins to break your doctrines and destroy your beliefs, it will feel as if your very life is going. This is the time you need courage and daring. This is the time trust is required. For then you place yourself in the guru’s hands: All right.
Just as you place yourself in the hands of a surgeon. It is dangerous to do so—who knows, when you lie unconscious under chloroform, he may cut your throat! Yet you give yourself to him. Surgery cannot exist without trust; for who knows what the surgeon may do? You wanted your appendix removed; he might remove something else. No—you leave yourself in his hands: All right. There is trust.
To leave yourself in the hands of a guru requires even greater trust. For this is not merely a matter of the body—it is a matter of your very consciousness.
The Satguru struck with words, and by looking and looking he brought me to my home within.
Ram alone remained; nothing else entered the mind.
The word is milk; the ghee is Ram-essence—rare is the seeker who can churn.
Dadu: Draw forth the Amrit—turning the guru’s word over in deep contemplation.
The word is milk—what the guru speaks is like milk. Do not be satisfied with only what is spoken—for then you will receive only milk. Good, milk is good. But something else may be there which you will miss.
The word is milk; the ghee is Ram-essence...
But if you churn that milk within—in contemplation, meditation; if you live immersed in it—then the ghee hidden in the milk will become available. That ghee is the Ram-essence.
...rare is the seeker who can churn.
Many carry milk away. But only a true seeker knows how to churn milk, how to turn it—manthan, manana, dhyan—into ghee.
And between milk and ghee there is a revolutionary difference. Milk is good today; tomorrow it will spoil. Ghee will not spoil for years—never. The older it is, the more valuable it becomes. Milk is good today; tomorrow it will be fit only to throw away. In the same milk something is hidden—eternal, deathless—Ram-essence, the ghee.
Words are fresh today; stale tomorrow. And if you hoard words, you are mad. You are storing milk—it will rot, stink up the house, become useless—fit only to be thrown out.
Those who have hoarded scriptures have stored milk. All scriptures have rotted. From all scriptures stench begins to arise. If the seeker is intelligent, he will churn the word, discard the whey, and preserve the ghee.
In every word the guru’s truth is hidden. But do not try to preserve the whole word. Preserve the meaning, the gesture of the word—not the word—the space between two words; the emptiness between two lines—there the Ram-essence is hidden.
The word is milk; the ghee is Ram-essence—rare is the seeker who can churn.
Sometimes, a rare seeker churns it.
Dadu: Draw forth the Amrit—by taking the guru’s word into deep contemplation.
What the guru is giving is not a set of ideas through words. Through words he is trying to give you the wordless. Through words he is not giving you a doctrine; through words he is trying to give you attainment. Through words he is not giving a path; through words he is trying to give you the goal. But only the seeker who churns rightly will understand.
Dadu: Draw forth the Amrit...
Take the essence; leave the dregs of words. The word then becomes an empty cartridge—no substance in it; there is no point in carrying it. The shot has been fired—take the essence and throw the casing.
People ask me: Should we remember what you say?
There is no need to remember it. Understand it—and the matter ends. If you have to remember it, it means you have not understood. We remember only those things we do not understand. What we understand, do we need to remember? What we have understood becomes our very flesh and blood, our bone and marrow. What you truly understand, you never remember. What you do not understand, you remember. What you have understood is digested. What you have not understood remains undigested, a burden upon you.
There is no need to remember. Gather the essence. Take the meaning; leave the meaningless. Meaning is very small. However big the word, meaning is small—but meaning is the essence, the distillation. As from a large rosebush, only a few flowers bloom, and the life-energy of the whole bush moves into the flowers; then the perfumer extracts attar, and from thousands of flowers only a spoonful of attar emerges—
Words are many; sift out the wordless—that is the attar. And the day you receive the attar of the wordless—Dadu says, You have drawn forth the Amrit. That day you have drawn the nectar.
By turning the guru’s word over in deep contemplation—Amrit is attained.
He gives pain to some; he joins the broken strings.
Dadu: He disciplines our surati—such is our guru, our pir.
He gives pain to some...
In the end the guru will give bliss—but in the beginning he gives great pain. As if he wounds the heart with the pain of separation, of longing to attain God. He kindles a fever. You will burn, writhe; you will not be able to sleep; all peace will be lost. A moment will come when you will repent meeting this man at all.
People come to me; they say, We were fine—engrossed in the marketplace, the shop, all was well. Now there is a restlessness. Now each passing moment feels like life wasted. Each day passes and we are not yet arrived. Now you have given us pain.
They are right. For until this pain comes, the search will not become intense. When you writhe like a fish flung out of water upon the bank—that is what the devotees have called viraha, the pain of separation. Dadu says: He gives pain, and with it he joins the broken string.
But only through that pain can the broken string be joined. Without the pain, you would not be willing. You would not even admit that something is broken. In the pain, in that anguish, you see your ocean is lost; you are writhing on the shore.
First he awakens you—so that you may writhe. On the day your writhing ripens, that very day—he joins the broken string. Your thirst itself becomes prayer. Your separation itself becomes yoga. Your call—into which your whole pain gathers—becomes the door of your arrival.
...joins the broken string.
Dadu: He disciplines surati...
Then the remembrance of God is established. First pain, then the joining of the string; then surati is steadied. Surati means remembrance—his constant remembrance.
As a beloved remembers her lover—when such remembrance becomes yours—everything else is forgotten, only That remains. In that surati the string is tied. You live here, yet you are not of here. You are in the marketplace, but not in it. You are ever being pulled toward the temple. Speaking to someone, the dialogue goes on with Him. You sleep here, but you are awake elsewhere. You eat, you work, you arrange the affairs of life—but within, day and night, a single tune plays for His meeting.
Surati means: whose remembrance becomes your very breathing. Surati means: whose remembrance need not be done—remembrance goes on happening.
Understand this well. Surati does not mean to remember; it means to be absorbed in remembrance.
There was a woman mystic, Rabia. Another fakir, Hasan, asked her: Rabia, how much time do you spend in the remembrance of God? She said: Hasan, you too are crazy. How much time in remembrance? I do not remember Him at all. I seek to be free of remembrance. Twenty-four hours, waking and sleeping, breath by breath—remembrance is there. I am burning. I want somehow to be free of remembrance.
And there is only one way to be free of remembrance—that you drown in Him. Until you become God, remembrance will not leave you.
One way is: remain lost in the world, so that remembrance does not arise. Then comes an in-between state where remembrance arises and you writhe, restless, your every fiber filled with pain. And then the third moment comes when you take the plunge and re-enter the ocean. The fish has reached her home—become the ocean itself.
Until you become God, surati has use. Then there is no need of remembrance. Who will remember whom? You have become That which you were remembering. The rememberer is gone; the remembered is gone. Only One remains.
He gives pain to some; he joins the broken strings.
Dadu: He disciplines our surati—such is our guru, our pir.
The Satguru met—then are found the treasures of bhakti and mukti.
Dadu: Naturally then, behold—the Lord’s own vision.
The Satguru met—then are found...
There is no other way. Only if the Satguru is found can attainment be. And whoever has tried otherwise, never attains. And if someone seems to have attained, know that although you may not know when, the Satguru met him somewhere.
Krishnamurti keeps saying there is no need for a guru. But for lifetimes, who knows how many gurus have refined him. In this life too, Annie Besant and Leadbeater raised him, disciplined his surati. Many who have arrived have sometimes said there is no need of a guru. They are right. After attaining, it feels—What need was there of anyone? This was already ours.
I have heard: A huge factory with fully automated machinery suddenly stopped one day. They searched and searched—half a day, then a full day; they could not find the fault. The engineers were exhausted. They had to call in a foreign expert. The factory remained shut for seven days—there was heavy loss. The expert came, took a small screwdriver from his pocket, went and tightened a loose screw—the factory started.
The owner asked for the bill; he presented one for ten thousand. The owner said: This is excessive. Ten thousand for tightening a small screw! We could have done that. Any child could have done it.
The expert said: Then you should have done it. After I have done it, of course it looks simple. Any child can do it. Of the ten thousand I charge, one rupee is for tightening. Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine are for knowing which screw to tighten. There are millions of screws. Divide the bill in two parts—one rupee for tightening, and the rest for knowing where to tighten. After it is tightened, everything seems simple.
Many feel after arrival that there was no need of anyone’s support. It was our own treasure, it was to be our own finding. It was never lost—only a bit forgotten. To bring back the memory—why go to anyone’s feet?
Certainly, this is true. When you know, you see there was no need to go to anyone. But do not tell this to those who have not arrived. If this fancy enters their head—that there is no need to go anywhere—they will never reach. And it is very easy for it to enter their head, for it supports the ego—No need to bow before anyone. No guru. The ego wants to be its own guru; it does not want to bow.
Therefore Krishnamurti speaks truth, but those who have listened have been harmed, not benefited. Had he remained silent, perhaps more would have benefitted. And what he says is exactly right—not a grain wrong. There is no need for anyone to tell you anything. But had you been able to find by yourself, you would have done so by now. How many lives have you wandered!
All religions say that the first discovery of religion must have been made by God Himself. The Hindus say the Vedas were composed by Him. The Muslims say the Koran was revealed by Him. The Christians say the Bible came as His word, through Jesus. The Jews that Moses received His commandments.
In all these stories there is one meaningful point—and I accept that there is a great secret in it. It must be so—because only He could be the first guru. When all were asleep, only He was awake. He must have awakened one—then the chain began. Otherwise, how would man awaken by himself? Therefore, whether God composed the Vedas or not is not my concern; but the meaning is true. The first proclamation, the first arising, the first gesture to the sleeping must have come from Him.
Paramatma means: the one who is awake, consciousness itself—He must have awakened the first man. Then the first awakened the second, the second the third—and the infinite chain.
Therefore in India all Hindu scriptures begin thus: first Brahma gave the knowledge, then he gave it to a rishi; then that rishi to another; and so on—even Krishna says the same.
It means only this: only one who is awake can awaken one who is asleep. Hence the first ray of awakening must descend from God Himself. On your own you will not wake. After awakening you will see there was no obstacle, you could have awakened; but directly, you do not.
The Satguru met—then are found the treasures of bhakti and mukti.
And Dadu says: Attain bhakti, and you attain mukti. The devotee, the lover, has no longing for liberation. He says, Let the love of the Divine be given; His cloud rain above; let me be drenched by His grace—I have attained all—treasures of bhakti and mukti. The devotee does not ask for moksha.
There is something to ponder—because in the longing for moksha the ego may hide. I should become liberated—there the I can be preserved. I should be free, utterly independent—the I can survive in that tone. The devotee says, I want no liberation. I want bhakti—Your love. Let me find Your feet—that is enough. Let Your eyes look upon me with love—that is enough.
But that is liberation. The one who finds His feet—he is liberated.
Dadu: Naturally then, behold—the Lord’s own vision.
Dadu says: There is no need for liberation. It is enough that Your glimpse is granted. Let these eyes see You—enough! Let the heart recognize You—enough! Let the feet be filled with Your dance—enough!
And I say: once this happens, nothing remains to happen. In that supreme moment of celebration, when His darshan happens—when you see Him hidden everywhere; when He cannot hide anywhere and you see Him in all places—when no place remains where He is not seen—you are free, for only He remains.
You see within yourself only Him; without, only Him. In friend, Him; in foe, Him. In life, Him; death—Him. When only He remains, who is there to be freed, and from what? All bondage falls. Then bondage too is liberation. Even in bondage there is moksha. If it is He who binds, what hurry is there to be free? If the bond is He, blessed are you.
The devotee’s journey is unique—it is the journey of love. And love itself is moksha. Whoever asks for moksha apart from love is asking only for the ego. And he who knows moksha in love—that alone knows moksha.
Enough for today.