Piv Piv Lagi Pyas #3

There are two ways to live life. One is the way of doubt; and one is the way of shraddha. They are two utterly opposite journeys. Their fruits are utterly different.
Often it happens that people live a life of doubt and long for the fruits of shraddha. Then, except failure, nothing comes to the hand. If the seeds sown are of doubt and yet the desire is for the fruits of shraddha, this has never happened, and it never can.
Doubt means: a wavering mind. Doubt means: a trembling inner state. Doubt means: whatever you are doing, you are not sure anything will happen. Doubt means: with one hand you do, with the other you erase. Doubt means: one step to the north, one to the south; broken, fragmented, divided. Doubt is a great malady. Through it no one ever reached anywhere. The one who travels with doubt walks a lot, covers much distance, but the destination never appears.
Shraddha means: a stilled mind. Shraddha means: a one-toned mind. Shraddha means: a single melody playing, no duality. The journey you have set out upon, you have gone in your wholeness; you have not left anyone behind. Not one limb has departed on the journey; you have moved in totality.
And the strange thing is this: the man of doubt walks much and never arrives; the man of shraddha does not even walk — and arrives.
If the first point has entered you — the man of doubt walks a lot yet never reaches — then a faint glimpse of the second can also be had: the man of shraddha does not walk, and arrives. Sitting, he arrives. He does nothing — and arrives. The man of doubt undertakes many enterprises; the man of shraddha simply trusts — that is enough. No greater enterprise exists. No greater method exists.
But those who have lived only in doubt find it very difficult to grasp how one can arrive through shraddha — and arrive while sitting!
In the university where I was a student, I would go for a morning walk every day. By the roadside there was a small bridge; I would often sit there — sit for hours. A professor too used to come walking. Gradually we became acquainted. He often saw me sitting there. One day he said, Sitting like this, nothing will ever happen. You will waste your life. Do something. In the evening I come, I find you sitting here. In the morning I come, I find you sitting here. I come, I go, and you go on sitting. What are you doing, sitting like this? I have begun to worry about you.
It was something worth worrying about, because the university was but a pretext for me — I had no taste for it. It was only to show others that I was doing something, not sitting idle — otherwise the family would be upset, friends and loved ones would be pained — ‘I am doing something.’ In truth, I was doing nothing there. I told him: Come sometime in the afternoon; you will still find me sitting here. Come at midnight; you will still find me sitting here. Mostly, I just sit.
He was annoyed and said: This way you will squander your life; sitting like this you will get nothing. I asked him: You have not sat — did you get something? You have run around a lot. If you have found, then tell me. And if you have not, then learn sitting from me. From that day he stopped taking that path. If he saw me, he would turn back from afar. Gradually the matter came and went. I forgot.
After about three months — one day I saw he was coming; this time he did not turn back. I was surprised. He came near and said, Baba, forgive me. Why are you after me? Many times a day I remember you. And last night it was too much — you didn’t let me sleep; even in dreams! You sit there; and you tell me, Sit — you too. I made a mistake, in what I said; I have come to beg forgiveness. I have not found anything by moving. And if I cannot sit, it is only because I have the habit of moving. But who knows — perhaps you will find. I take my words back.
Shraddha is a way of sitting. Doubt is a process of moving. Doubt is a race; shraddha is rest. Doubt is the hope to gain; shraddha is the feeling ‘already gained’.
Understand this well. If this seed is not planted at the very root, the tree we are imagining will never manifest. Shraddha is the mood: it is found; I have arrived; the temple has come — there is nowhere else to go.
Doubt always says: farther, farther. Doubt is a milestone with an arrow upon it — farther, farther. Shraddha is a feeling-state — here; now, and here.
To the person of doubt, the person of shraddha appears blind. To the person of shraddha, there arises compassion for the person of doubt: needlessly he runs and runs. He will reach nowhere; he will fall — and fall badly. The man of shraddha too descends into the grave, but there is a certain grandeur in his descent. Even in entering the grave he goes in a regal way. His samadhi is not an ordinary tomb; his samadhi is a doorway into union with Paramatma.
The doubter also falls — falls badly — falls into the grave itself; his mouth is filled with dust. He screams, shouts, wants to escape. All his life he has been running, and the grave blocks his way — the grave seems an enemy. Death frightens him.
The man of shraddha has been sitting his whole life. Whether he sits outside, or sits in the grave — it makes no difference. Death appears a friend. And the one who has known death as friend has known all. He has found all the treasures of life. The one who feared and fled death loses everything; of all that is worth attaining, he remains deprived.
The person of shraddha feels compassion; it seems the doubter runs in vain — drenched in sweat, exhausted, forever tired — only to fall thus, with no destination in hand. The destination was where you already were. The more you run, the farther you go away.
For the destination is you. There is nothing else to attain. That which is already yours is only to be known. There is nowhere to reach; you have always been there. Just open your eyes a little. Just a little remembering. Let a little surati arise, a little awareness, and suddenly you will laugh: Where was I going? Whom was I searching? The seeker himself is that which we were seeking. The emperor of emperors is within!
Shraddha turns everything into rest. For when there is no inner conflict, no dissonance left, when all becomes still, movement falls to zero. That movementless state is called Samadhi.
These are sutras of shraddha. Understand every single word well.
Mera sansa ko nahin, jeevan maran ka Ram.
Supnain hi jani visrain, mukh hirdai Hari naam.
Dadu says: My doubt has gone. I have no doubt now. I have found shraddha.
Shraddha is an attainment. Shraddha is not a means; it is the very achievement. You may have heard people say that through shraddha one finds God. They speak wrongly. Shraddha is Paramatma. Shraddha is not an instrument by which Paramatma is attained; it is no method, no technique. Therefore a moment never comes when shraddha is to be dropped; if it were a technique it would be dropped. Once attained, the technique becomes useless. The method is left behind when the goal is reached. Shraddha is never left. Shraddha is not the means to attain Paramatma; shraddha is Paramatma. It is not the method; it is the very goal.
Mera sansa ko nahin…
Dadu says: No doubt remains now; no suspicion in the mind. Shraddha has become available.
Doubt means: you live always afraid. You love — but there is doubt; love does not happen. You befriend — but there is doubt; friendship does not happen. You raise your foot — but there is doubt, so you cannot move with your whole strength.
On all sides, doubt — so you live in halves. Your life remains half-baked; this tepidness never lets you boil, so life’s glory does not reveal. Shraddha will boil you to a hundred degrees, where water turns to vapor. Doubt will keep you lukewarm — always stuck in the middle. Whatever you do, your act will never be suffused by your total life-energy.
And that — that is the way of fulfillment: that your doing be suffused by your whole life-breath. Whatever you do, do not remain behind in your doing; drown totally; become one. When you dance, let only the dance remain — not the dancer. When you see, become the eyes — all else disappears. When you hear, become the ears — let nothing else remain.
The day your act becomes whole, total, that very day the rain of bliss begins. The harmony falls into place. Right now, the harmony is broken; the rain of joy is falling, yet your vessel is kept upside down. The rain goes on; you go on crying and shouting.
Doubt is an upside-down vessel. You keep trembling. Consider: if someone shoots an arrow with trembling hands — no matter how near the target, what difference does it make? Trembling hands cannot release the arrow rightly; trembling hands will make the arrow tremble. He will look somewhere, think somewhere, and the arrow will land somewhere else.
You want to gain happiness; you get misery. All your life you aim to hit the arrow on happiness — it never lands; it keeps missing. The hands are trembling. The heart is trembling. You are a vibration — your arrow will miss. As long as doubt is in the mind, you will keep missing. Doubt is a diseased state.
In my village, across from my house, a goldsmith lived. He is a symbol of doubt. He is alone, well-to-do; but doubt is taking his very life. He locks his door, then shakes the lock. He walks ten steps and returns; in ten steps doubt catches hold again: Who knows if I locked it, shook it or not!
All the village children would keep him in trouble. He would have gone a furlong, going to the market to buy vegetables; then someone would meet him and say, ‘Soni-ji, your lock is open.’ Then there was no way he would not return. And it is not that — though a thousand times this prank had happened, and a thousand times he found he was wrong, the lock was indeed on — still, Who knows, perhaps nine hundred and ninety-nine times they lied, and now this boy speaks true. Back he would go; back to shake the lock. He would be bathing in the river; someone would simply say — Soni-ji, the lock! He would not even say whether it was open or closed; just, the lock! His whole bath was ruined; picking up his bundle he would run toward home.
A mind bound by doubt is tied to a peg. There is a little rope, and tied with that rope an animal goes on circling around the peg; so too the person filled with doubt circles only around illness — tied to the disease.
Shraddha is freedom.
And doubts will persist in your mind so long as you go on thinking yourself very clever. The more ‘clever’ a man thinks himself, the more he will be filled with doubt. That goldsmith is very intelligent, thoughtful. The more one thinks oneself intelligent, the more one doubts; the more one thinks about everything, reasons. Slowly, reasoning becomes a fixed bondage of life — a prison. He keeps reasoning.
I have heard that a girl invited Immanuel Kant to marriage. Immanuel Kant — a great German thinker, philosopher. He said: I will think about it.
Generally women do not invite someone to marriage. The girl waited for three years, hoping he would take some initiative — but a doubter never initiates. As long as one can avoid entanglements, all is well. Kant took no initiative. When the girl, out of compulsion, finally did, he said: I will think; for a clever man does nothing without thinking. He does not even love without thinking.
He thought and thought. He ransacked the university library where he was a professor. He wrote down all possible points for and against — If you marry, what are the benefits? If you don’t, what are the benefits? If you marry, what is the harm? If you don’t, what is the harm? He wrote all — and fell into great difficulty.
The more he searched, the more the net grew. They say he wrote some three hundred and fifty arguments for, and three hundred and fifty against. Naturally much time passed. When the arguments on both sides became equal — three hundred and fifty here, three hundred and fifty there. This is the way of argument: if you keep searching, you will always find they become equal. For every argument is a double-edged sword; it cuts both ways.
Those who draw conclusions by logic are not truly logical; they do not know the full art of logic — otherwise logic never lets you conclude. The truly logical man cannot conclude; because every argument cuts both ways, equally so. Thus no moment can come where arguments on one side will outweigh the other; they remain equal. The truly logical person cannot conclude at all.
Immanuel Kant was among the greatest of logicians. He saw that all the search was in vain; arguments on both sides have become equal — now how to decide! The matter stands as it did. The time spent in finding three hundred and fifty arguments has gone to waste. The decision still has to be taken — and logic has given no support. So he went and knocked at the girl’s door; but he learned she had already been married — she even had three children. It was the story of years ago; he had forgotten it in this tangle of arguments. Immanuel Kant remained unmarried; he died unmarried. Logic did not let him decide.
A suspicious person cannot decide. And if ever a suspicious person does decide, it only means he did not go to the very end of doubt. Somewhere, in the journey of doubt, he did a little shraddha. Where shraddha happened, the conclusion came. Shraddha itself is conclusion; there is no other.
If you have ever come to any conclusion, observe: it was not because of doubt; it was because you got tired of doubt — tired of the net of arguments, weary of the indecision. You reached a point where you said, Fine, now let it be done. Something has to be done; so let us do something.
This could have happened the very first moment; there was no need to waste so much time — life so precious!
Shraddha is the conclusion. The man of shraddha lives each moment conclusive. There is a finality in his life. He is never incomplete. He is always complete. Therefore whatever he does, he does with a complete heart. And only that which is done with a complete heart begins to yield bliss.
If you have eaten even a meal with a complete heart, you will taste Brahman. If you have gone for a morning walk with a complete heart, you will see Brahman rippling in the winds and descending in the sky. If you have seen a rose with your whole heart, you will have darshan of Paramatma in it. The real secret is to be whole. That much is the meaning of shraddha.
Mera sansa ko nahin…
Now I have no doubt.
Dadu says:
…jeevan maran ka Ram.
And when no doubt remains, then whether life — it is Ram’s; whether death — it is Ram’s.
As long as doubt remains, you will say life is Ram’s, but you cannot say death is Ram’s. Until then you will pray: keep me alive for a hundred years, a thousand years — do not kill. When a son is born in your home you will beat drums, thank God, offer flowers and gifts. And when the son dies you will not be able to thank God.
Then your mind is not whole. If it were whole, then the One who gave birth also gives death. If his hand was in birth, his hand is in death. And when his hand is there, all is well. Where then the complaint?
Complaint arises because you have a choice. Essentially complaint arises because you place yourself above God. When he does according to your mind, it is right; when he does contrary to your mind, it is wrong.
This is not the sign of a devotee; this is not shraddha. Shraddha means only this: Whatever you do is right. I have no desire left that you must do this or that. Your will is my will. You gave birth — we rejoiced. You took back — we rejoice again. All is yours — both birth and death.
…jeevan maran ka Ram.
Dadu says: Now life is his, death is his. We have stepped aside.
Understand this well. The man of doubt never steps aside. He says, I will decide. The man of shraddha steps aside. He says, What need is there of me? You are doing it all. You always do it rightly. And by my thinking and brooding, nothing changes anyway. Not a grain’s worth changes by your thinking. What happens, happens; what is to happen, is happening. The man of shraddha says, Then all is well. What need is there for me to stand in the middle? He steps aside.
This stepping aside is humility; it is egolessness. The man of doubt can never be free of ego. Doubt nourishes ego; shraddha kills it. That is why all religions insist on shraddha — without shraddha no one can be egoless. Doubt means only this: I will think, I will reason, I will decide. Shraddha means only this: You are the one thinking, you are the one deciding. Why should I come in between needlessly?
I have heard: a king was passing in his chariot, returning from hunting in the forest. On the way he saw a beggar, carrying his bundle on his head. Compassion arose. He was an old beggar. Had they met on the royal road, perhaps the king would not even have noticed him. In the solitude of the forest — his tired old legs, his worn-out body, and the weight of the bundle — compassion arose.
He stopped the chariot, took the beggar up into it, and said, Where do you need to go? I will drop you on the way. The beggar sat. The king was astonished: the bundle was still on his head. He said, My brother, are you mad? Why keep the bundle on your head now? You can put it down. While walking on the road the bundle on your head was understandable. But now, sitting in the chariot, why keep it on your head?
The poor man said: Lord, is your kindness not enough that you seated me in the chariot? How can I also place my bundle here and add its weight to your chariot? But whether you keep it on your head or not, the weight is still on the chariot.
Such is exactly the case of doubt and shraddha. You think — he alone is thinking. You do — he alone is doing. You unnecessarily create yourself in between. This bundle you carry on your head — the bundle of ego — you are being crushed by it, restless, disturbed! And his chariot is moving all the same. Be kind. Place the bundle too upon the very chariot on which you sit. Sit at ease. That much is the meaning of shraddha.
Shraddha is the supreme awakening in this world. Doubt is ignorance. That old man was a fool. With a little understanding he would have put the bundle down. Everything is moving anyway. When you were not, the moon and stars were moving; there was no hitch. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, people were born — all went on. When tomorrow you are not, everything will still go on. You are here but for a moment. Why needlessly keep yourself upon your own head? Put the bundle down.
Life and death — both are his. Joy is his, sorrow is his. Illness is his, health is his. If you step completely aside, the greatest revolution happens — the only revolution that can happen in the world. The very day you say, All is yours — that day sorrow disappears, that day death disappears. For sorrow is in rejection; death is in rejection. You do not want to die, and yet you must — hence death. If you consent, what death remains? Who can kill you then? Willingly you go — who can kill you? Death is defeated by you.
If sorrow comes and you remain delighted, offering thanks — sorrow is defeated. It cannot make you sorrowful. Sorrow makes you sorrowful because a secret desire lurks within that there be no sorrow, but joy. And a strange thing: in such a state of mind, when you want sorrow not to be and joy to be, then when sorrow comes you are sorrowful — because that which you did not want is happening. And when joy comes, you are still not happy — because a fear remains that soon sorrow will come; the joy will be snatched away. You fear joy will be taken away. And even when you are happy, you are not happy — because the mind says more joy could have been. Is this joy at all? Imagination deepens. Whatever is given always seems small; desire is immense. Whatever is received always appears paltry — so you are unhappy.
And when sorrow comes, then too you are unhappy. Your whole life becomes sorrow. This inner condition we have called hell. Hell is not a place on the map. Do not look for it there. It is hidden in you. It is the name of your way of seeing life.
And then there are some who live always in heaven. They have found the key of shraddha. When joy comes, they give thanks — We had no worthiness; you have given so much joy. When sorrow comes, they still give thanks — Surely there is some secret of yours in it. You wish to refine; you wish to test; you wish to cut away the false. If you have given sorrow, surely behind it some grace is hidden. We cannot recognize it — our mistake. Such a person finds joy even in sorrow — and in joy, joy of course. His inner condition becomes that of heaven.
Mera sansa ko nahin, jeevan maran ka Ram.
Supnain hi jani visrain, mukh hirdai Hari naam.
Dadu says: Now even in dreams his name is not forgotten.
When doubt is no more, then dream disappears.
Have you ever observed — when your mind is full of doubts, many dreams come at night. And when there is deep peace, the feeling-state of shraddha, dreams become fewer. When shraddha becomes perfect, dreams disappear altogether — because the dream is a process of your desires.
What is a dream? Why does it arise? It arises from your unfulfilled longing. What you wanted did not happen; you try to get it in the dream. You wanted to become an emperor; it did not happen. Even emperors do not become emperors — they remain beggars. You wanted to be an emperor and could not. In the night, in dreams, you become so. You build palaces of gold. You sit on the throne.
The mind tries to appease you, to console you. It says, Do not be afraid; if not in the day, at least at night it can be so. If you remained hungry in the day, fasting, then at night you receive an invitation to the royal palace in a dream. What you missed in the day, the dream completes at night. The dream is a compensator. Otherwise you would go mad. The dream gives you a little relief, a little solace. The dream says, Why be troubled? What difference does it make?
Half the day you are awake, half the night you sleep. Suppose a man lives sixty years — he will sleep twenty years. If for twenty years the man sleeps and dreams that he is an emperor, and another man stays awake twenty years and daydreams that he is an emperor — what is the difference? The dream says, Why be disturbed? What you could not do by desire, we will do by imagination. Imagination is the companion of desire.
As soon as a person becomes free of doubt, whatever is given becomes a blessing. What is given is so much that the demand for more does not arise. The dream disappears. No need of dreaming remains. The man of desire dreams more; the one free of desire does not dream.
Your dreams give news about your mind. Psychology in fact detects your personality through your dreams. A man may be a brahmachari, but in his dreams he sees women. That gives the real news. His brahmacharya has no value. The real thing is the night. The dream reveals what truly is happening inside. Brahmacharya is on the surface; within, desire is running. And a man may be poor, living by renunciation, having left everything — but in dreams at night he sees palaces — nothing has been left.
Dreams give truer news about you. What a misfortune that your life has become so false that one must seek the truth from dreams. The psychologist first asks your dreams: Tell me your dreams. Because what you say when awake cannot be trusted. Your deception has reached its last limit. You will say one thing, be another; and even you do not know how much of what you say is true and how much false.
In such a state of doubt, you not only doubt others — you doubt yourself as well. Doubt slowly becomes self-doubt. You no longer trust yourself.
Dadu says: Now, even in dreams he is not forgotten. If you grasp the exact meaning, it is this: now dreams do not come at all — only his remembrance remains. For when his remembrance remains, how can the dream arise? Remembrance means the sleep is no longer total; some part remains awake which remembers. A lamp is lit within, a flame aglow — there is no darkness, otherwise who would remember? The lamp of consciousness shines within. In darkness, dreams come — just as in darkness thieves and robbers, snakes and scorpions come. When a lamp is burning in the house, thieves and robbers pass by from afar — the master is awake. When the lamp of remembrance burns within, how can the dream be possible?
Supnain hi jani visrain, mukh hirdai Hari naam.
On the lips too Hari’s name goes on; in the heart too Hari’s name goes on.
Understand this rightly. It does not mean Dadu keeps chanting Hari-Hari, Hari-Hari. Understand it rightly — otherwise there is a danger of misunderstanding and you may begin to chant Hari-Hari, Hari-Hari… That will make you mad; through that no one arrives. Remembrance does not mean the remembrance of a word; remembrance means a feeling-state.
As when a mother cooks and her small child is moving about in the room — she cooks, but her remembrance stays turned toward the child: he should not slip out the door. She does not keep repeating his name ‘Hari-Hari-Hari…’; if she did, she would not know whether the child had gone out or not.
No — she does not repeat a name; a current of remembrance flows. A subtle inner connection remains. Again and again she looks back, then returns to the work. But even while working, inside there remains a continual surati: the child should not go out; he must not pull something upon himself; he should not break his limbs. She does not think these in words — only the feel remains. That feel is called remembrance.
So on the lips and in the heart remains one single feeling — Paramatma is; I am not. But many have misunderstood. The Hare Krishna, Hare Rama people walk the streets shouting — Hare Krishna, Hare Rama. That shouting has no essence. The essence is when you sit, rise, walk, sleep, wake — and the sense of him does not get lost. A continuous current of remembrance flows within you; a stream of feeling remains. You do not forget him.
As when you fall in love — you do all your work, yet within, at the heart’s beat, the remembrance of the beloved remains. You cannot forget. The memory continues. A sweet pain gathers around the heart. A thorn keeps pricking — in that prick there is pain and there is sweetness. That prick is also a blessing — for it descends only in the lives of the fortunate who have found shraddha, otherwise not.
In this world there are a few of your own experiences from which you can gain a little understanding — as when you have fallen in love; or when you are caught in some deep anxiety.
When examination time comes, the student remains filled day and night with a single remembrance. He sleeps at night, even then he dreams of giving the test. A memory remains. But these are only metaphors, just to give you hints, because the remembrance of Paramatma is vastly different from these. When shraddha happens, that realization happens.
Supnain hi jani visrain, mukh hirdai Hari naam.
One melody goes on, unbroken. With every breath, that alone sways.
I have heard of a great Sufi — Jalaluddin Rumi. He would remember Allah, Allah. One day he was passing through a market where there were goldsmiths’ shops; people were hammering sheets of gold and silver.
Something happened. Rumi stood still. In the blows of the hammers upon the metal he began to hear the sound of ‘Allah’. He started dancing. For hours he danced. The whole town gathered. Such a glory had never been seen there. Jalaluddin looked like a cluster of light. He went on dancing and dancing. The goldsmiths’ and ironsmiths’ hammers ceased — the crowd had grown huge. They too gathered to watch. The very strikes that had evoked Allah’s remembrance stopped — yet the remembrance continued, and he went on dancing.
That evening the dervish-dance was born.
Later when disciples asked how he had discovered it, he would say, It is hard to say — God discovered me. I was going to the market for some other work. Suddenly his voice struck me.
But no one else heard that sound. Within him there was a thread, a bridge. He was continuously remembering Allah. From that one blow — his mind was ready. In a mind thus readied… otherwise, where has anyone ever awakened to God by the hammers of smiths?
They say Nanak — he was a storekeeper to a governor; he would distribute grain to soldiers. One day he was weighing grain — one, two, three — weighing and giving. Eleven, twelve, then thirteen — in Punjabi thirteen is called ‘tera’ — yours.
The instant he said ‘tera’, the remembrance of the Divine struck. He went on weighing and went on saying ‘tera’. Fourteen never came. The news spread throughout the town. The boss too came running, tried to stop him — What madness! But this man could not be stopped. Some great power had descended. The boss too said, Let him distribute; this is not Nanak — something else has manifested. From that day Nanak was lost — only ‘tera’ remained.
If someone asked Nanak how he attained, he would say, While weighing grain. I was caught on ‘tera’. Repeating ‘tera, tera’, a transformation happened; from the word ‘tera’ a leap happened.
If the current flows within, any excuse is enough. If the inner current is flowing, birdsong can awaken you. If the inner current is not flowing, even Krishna’s flute will not be heard.
Supnain hi jani visrain, mukh hirdai Hari naam.
Hari bhaji saafal jeevna, par upgaar samai.
Dadu maran tahan bhala, jahan pasu-pankhi khai.
Hari bhaji saafal jeevna…
Dadu says: By remembering Hari the life became fulfilled.
The word ‘safal’ is very meaningful. In English there is ‘success’ — it is not so meaningful. The word ‘safal’ has no real equivalent. Safal means: the fruit has appeared. It does not mean only success — for one may succeed and yet no fruit may ripen. There is another word, ‘sufal’ — good fruit. It is possible a fruit ripens, yet it is not a good fruit. Safal means: you have come to your fruit. Fruit is the final event in the tree. The journey begins with the seed. The sprout breaks, the tree grows, flowers come, then fruits. In the fruit, seeds again arise. Fruit is the last stage of development. Safal means you have come to that place where both flowers and fruits have come.
What is the fruit of human life? Until Hari arrives in life, no fruit appears. If you remain only in the world, you remain like a seed and die. Far from becoming fulfilled, you do not even become a tree. If you begin to aspire a little above the world, the sprout breaks — the life hidden within the seed comes out; the journey toward the sky begins.
If you only aspire and long, you may become a tree, but no flowers will come. Your longing must become life. That which you desire must become your conduct.
When the journey toward Paramatma starts becoming your conduct, flowers begin to bloom. Then understand it thus: the worldly — seed; the seeker — tree; the sannyasin — flower; and the siddha — he has become the Divine himself — fulfilled. Until you become Paramatma himself, we do not call it fulfillment.
This land’s aspiration is profound. The East’s longing is lofty. We settle for nothing less. Until the inner Paramatma has shone forth, all the rubbish burned away, only your gold remaining — until then we are not content; until then we do not say fulfilled. The success of wealth we have not called success. The success of position we have not called success. Only one — the attainment of the Lord — that we call success.
Hari bhaji saafal jeevna…
He who has remembered Hari, in whose life the scent of Hari has descended — he is fulfilled.
…par upgaar samai.
Such a person’s life becomes compassion, becomes love, becomes service.
Understand this a little. These words are unique — ‘par upgaar samai’ — you become soaked in the benevolence toward others.
There are two ways to benefit the other. One: you do benevolence — by effort, by thought, by plan. Then this benevolence will only puff your ego. You will become a benefactor. You will feel — how much I have done for others. Your ego will grow.
Another way: first become available to Hari. Do not talk of service before that. Before that you cannot serve — your service will be poisonous. It will eat you — and harm the other too.
First find the Divine; then a service will happen in your life — you will not have to plan it, you will not have to do it — it will happen.
Hence Dadu says: ‘par upgaar samai.’
You will be absorbed in it; you will not stand apart; you will not stand behind and watch — ‘I am doing a favor.’ You will melt into the very act. You will become one with it, dissolved. You will not even remember that someone should thank you. If someone thanks you, you will be startled — I did nothing. And even ‘benevolence’ does not say it fully — it will be your joy, your celebration.
So there are two kinds of benevolence. One: the missionary does it; or the Sarvodaya worker does it. One kind of service says: Do service — for service brings reward; the eye is on the reward; service is the means.
The other kind arises from the reward: the reward has come, therefore service overflows. For now what else to do? Nothing else remains to be done. Now the whole life is his; wherever he takes, one goes; whatever he makes one do, one does. Now one is no longer the doer — only an instrument, a vehicle.
The first kind of service is moral; the second kind is religious. Hence my emphasis too is first on meditation.
Vinoba says, Service is religion. I do not say so. I say, Religion is service. The difference is vast. Vinoba puts service above religion: Serve and you will become religious. It is not so easy. By serving you will not become religious. I say, Become religious and you will become a servant. Service comes — like a shadow, it comes. This is the ancient tradition.
Here, Gandhi and Vinoba have badly broken this tradition. The tradition is: first attain the Lord. Until you have found him, what will you distribute? What do you have to give? You are an unlit lamp — do not go to light another lamp, else you will put out even the lit ones. Remain at home; your service is dangerous yet. First become a lit lamp; then you can light others. First be — then you can give, you can share. What you do not have, you set out to give? Then in your service ego will flourish; the Divine will not enter it. You will be filled yet more with ‘I-ness’; your stiffness will increase.
Look at the ‘servant’ — how stiffly he walks, for he says, I am a servant. He begins with the feet — with pressing feet — then presses the neck. Stop him at the feet, otherwise he will reach the neck. If you allow him to massage your feet — thinking, Let it be, he is a servant — slowly he will come to the neck. He never wanted to press the feet at all — it was only a way to seize the neck. He comes to serve because people say, Service yields reward. He does not get reward in service — service is only a means; his eye is on the end.
No — when one becomes full of Hari-bhajan, then service happens. That service is as natural as the breath moving, as the heart beating; as the sun rising in the morning; as the moon coming at night; as rivers flowing toward the ocean; as flowers opening and their fragrance spreading to the winds — just so simple and natural.
It is no ‘favor’; it is no burden upon anyone. In fact, the one who serves without knowing the Lord will demand your thanks. And the one who has known the Lord and serves will thank you: It is your kindness that you gave me the chance. You could have refused. It is your grace you became a partner in distributing the little wealth I had — I was becoming burdened.
A man full of the Lord is like a cloud full of rain. When some thirsty land persuades the cloud to rain, the cloud gives thanks — otherwise he was laden with load.
Hari bhaji saafal jeevna, par upgaar samai.
Dadu maran tahan bhala, jahan pasu-pankhi khai.
And Dadu says: Life has been transformed — it became service. Hari came and changed all. But even when I die, this longing remains — that I may die in such a place where animals and birds can eat; that I can become their food. Life came to use — may death too come to use. Life has been utilized, it became fulfilled; death too should not go in vain.
Your life too is going to waste. As for death going waste — where is the question? Dadu says: Life is fulfilled; now let your grace be such that when I die, I die in a place where even death comes to use. Let it not be a futile load. Let me become the food of creatures and birds.
This needs a little understanding.
In this world all things are the food of one another. Fruit ripens, falls, becomes your food. You will die. But man’s ego is astonishing. When man dies we either bury or burn him — except the Parsis. Dadu seems a true follower of Zarathustra. Now even the Parsis are anxious; they too are wondering how to stop this arrangement, and prefer burning or burying, or some other way. To leave the body exposed for animals and birds is not right — this is man’s ego. In this world everything is food for everything else. All your life you ate — what is your body? It is only what you have eaten. Return it. Why destroy it by burning? Why spoil it by burying? It can be of use to someone; let it be of use. Why return even this much borrowed wealth unpaid? Settle this debt too. Give back what you had taken.
In my view the Parsi arrangement is the most scientific — because it does not break life’s circle. The circle remains intact. You took — you gave back. You ate — you became food. The give and take is balanced. Man goes on destroying. Then we weep and are troubled.
In the West a powerful movement is rising — they call it ecology. It says this: Man uses things from nature, but does not return. Because he does not return, nature is becoming barren. The earth dries. The circle is breaking at many points; fragments everywhere; the music of life is gone.
We all keep taking. We take petrol from the earth, we burn it — have we returned it? Not at all. Whatever we take from nature, we do not return. And what we do return — like plastic — the earth cannot dissolve it for millions of years. The earth cannot digest it — it is unnatural. Whatever is natural, the earth can digest; whatever is unnatural, it cannot. So these things remain like a burden on the breast of the earth.
This is to break nature’s circle. Then the rains do not come on time; then either the sun burns too hot, or does not shine; rains come too much, floods arrive — and you are troubled.
Not long ago, seasons came on time. All was orderly. Man has made it all chaotic. This too is a part of life’s circle. There are four billion people on earth — how much food is stored within their bodies! All will be burned. Then the capacity of the earth to produce food will be diminished.
If man is buried, at least something returns; the earth salvages a little. But we now burn wholly. Even that little possibility is gone. Now we burn by electricity; nothing remains. One body reduced to ash — so much of life’s capacity is reduced. Thus the earth has become barren — all is disordered.
Dadu says: Whatever you take, return it. You ate food — become food. Take with one hand, return with the other. If you understand rightly, this is the profound meaning of karma: do not carry anything away; carry no burden, no debt. Become debtless. Be of use in life; be of use in death too.
Ram-naam nij aushadhi, katai koti vikar.
Visham vyadhi je ubarai, kaya-kanchan saar.
Ram-naam nij aushadhi…
The medicine is within you. Where are you roaming to find it? ‘Nij aushadhi’ — it is one’s own; it is with you. Yet you keep asking physicians.
Ram-naam nij aushadhi, katai koti vikar.
By a single medicine, all ails are cut. That medicine is simple: the remembrance of the Lord fills you.
Visham vyadhi je ubarai…
And as remembrance fills your life, your disharmony and imbalance begin to drop. You begin to become even; samata becomes available; balance settles; a poise and music comes into life.
Visham vyadhi je ubarai, kaya-kanchan saar.
And in that very state, when no illness of the mind remains, you become supremely healthy. In that very moment the gold hidden within you reveals itself. Then this body of clay, flesh and bone is no longer your body. ‘Kaya-kanchan saar’ — you behold a golden body. An imperishable body arises. You see within that which has no beginning and no end.
Visham vyadhi je ubarai, kaya-kanchan saar.
Kaun patantar dijiye…
Dadu says: What comparison shall I give? It is very difficult. Comparison is possible only where there is something else like it.
Kaun patantar dijiye, dooja nahi koi.
For that moment — with what shall we compare it? With what shall we liken it? When a person attains supreme health and the golden body appears; the essence remains, the nonessential falls away; pure consciousness manifests; a glory-filled immortal life is born — how shall we explain that? Whatever we say falls short. Why must Dadu say this? Because of the metaphors used before. What metaphor had he given?
Ram-naam nij aushadhi…
To call Ram-naam a medicine — that is saying too small a thing. But what to do? There is a compulsion.
…katai koti vikar.
Visham vyadhi je ubarai, kaya-kanchan saar.
He has called it a golden body — but what to say? What has it to do with gold? For you gold is valuable; therefore Dadu has to say the body is of gold — that it is most precious. But in truth it has no price; even gold there is dust.
Kaun patantar dijiye, dooja nahi koi.
How give its metaphor? There is no second like it.
Ram sarikha Ram hai, sumariya hi sukh hoi.
Ram is like Ram — none other. Do not ask, What is Ram like? Do not ask, What is God like? Do not ask, What is the Atman like? No answer can be given.
Ram sarikha Ram hai…
There is only one way: Ask not for the definition — taste.
…sumariya hi sukh hoi.
Taste it; remember. Do not ask what God is — ask how God can be realized. Do not ask what truth is — ask how my eyes can open to truth. For with closed eyes you have no experience by which truth could be compared — and whatever comparison we give will prove false. There can be no definition.
Definition means, to explain one thing by means of another. If in your village there are no roses, still there are other flowers. If a traveler brings news of roses and you ask, What are they like? he can say something by comparing with your village flowers — that they are different from these, but somehow a bridge can be made. At least flowers do bloom in your village; that blooming happens there too. Red flowers exist in your village too. A flower equal in size to a rose may be there. A fragrance might be found to give you a slight hint of the rose’s fragrance.
But the flower of God does not bloom in the village where you live. No event like it happens there.
To compare with wealth seems paltry — wealth is your god. To compare with position seems paltry — position is your god. Yet metaphors have been given. Saints have called it the supreme position, the supreme wealth. What to do? Compulsion — wealth is your god; through that you will understand a little. Position is your god.
The nearest that can approach it — even that falls short — is love. Hence Jesus called God Love. But even that does not reach, for your love is so mud-smeared that there is the danger you will understand wrongly.
Jesus called God Love. He did not say, God is a lover. He did not tell whom he loves; who is the beloved. He called God love itself — not separate from love. He is the feeling-state of love. But the mistake is possible.
You have known love smeared with lust’s mud. Your picture of God too will catch mud. In Sweden they are making a film — ‘The Sex Life of Jesus.’ They think: since Jesus gave so much importance to love, surely he had a sex-life. Mud! You cannot even conceive what the life of Jesus is. Naturally, you can only think from yourself. Your arithmetic starts from you.
Therefore Dadu rightly says:
Kaun patantar dijiye, dooja nahi koi.
Ram sarikha Ram hai, sumariya hi sukh hoi.
So ask not what Ram is — ask only how to remember him.
Buddha has said again and again: Do not ask what truth is. Ask only how truth is attained. Ask for the method, not for truth. Do not ask what light is; ask how the eyes can open. Only when your eyes open will you know.
Naav liya tab janiye, je tan-man rahe samai.
You will know only when you take the Name — when, filled with his remembrance, you begin to quiver, to dance — when you go mad in that divine intoxication. Drink his wine — only then will you know.
Naav liya tab janiye…
There is no other way to know. Read scriptures, hear discourses — they will bring no benefit; not even a hint. There is the danger of wandering, not of arriving.
Naav liya tab janiye, je tan-man rahe samai.
And such a Name that pervades body and mind — that saturates every pore — that is not separate from you — that becomes your breath, your heart’s beat. Be so drenched and dyed in it that no distance remains.
Adi, ant, madh ek ras, kabhu bhuli na jai.
These words are very significant — ‘Adi, ant, madh — one taste.’
There are three possibilities of experience in the world. One experience we call sorrow. Saints say that what you call happiness — in its beginning it seems happiness, in its end it is sorrow. Every worldly happiness takes you into sorrow. Therefore your happiness saints call sorrow.
Then there is a second experience which saints call happiness — it gives sorrow in the beginning, joy later. You call it sorrow; saints call it joy — its name is tapascharya, austerity. First suffering, then joy. So these are two. And the third, which saints call bliss.
Adi, ant, madh ek ras…
That which is joy in the beginning, joy in the middle, joy in the end. If you can find such a joy, that alone is ananda — bliss. That is the remembrance of God, that is the nectar of Samadhi — which remains the same, at all times — in the beginning, in the middle, in the end — always a single taste.
You have known two kinds of experiences. You fell in love with a woman — great joy; soon sorrow. Marry and set up house — trouble begins: obstacles, entanglements, conflict! Before marriage is complete, divorce preparations start. All your joys are like this — joy in the beginning, then sorrow.
Joy seems to be like this: the fisherman baits the hook with dough. The fish comes to eat the dough, not to catch the hook; yet it is caught on the hook.
Consider — your mouths were open for the dough; you got caught on the hook. Now a hook is pierced in everyone’s mouth. You went in the hope of happiness and found sorrow.
Because of this, the intelligent turned it upside down — did a headstand: Let us practice suffering. Since seeking happiness brings sorrow, by seeking sorrow we will gain joy. The arithmetic was clear.
Thus many forms of austerity were born: practice suffering — stand in the sun, sleep upon a bed of thorns. There is truth: those who master this gain joy later. Joy comes because it becomes difficult to give them sorrow. They have already achieved sorrow by themselves. Now you cannot give them sorrow. The man who stood hungry and thirsty in the sun — having mastered it — you cannot now give him the sorrow of hunger or of heat. The man who slept on a bed of thorns — now no bed in this world can give him sorrow; all beds will appear heavenly compared to thorns. Later he will feel only joy. But both are the same — you have only flipped the coin.
Ananda is an entirely third phenomenon.
Adi, ant, madh ek ras, kabhu bhuli na jai.
And when such a phenomenon happens, how can it be forgotten?
Naav liya tab janiye, je tan-man rahe samai.
Adi, ant, madh ek ras, kabhu bhuli na jai.
The remembrance of the Lord is the happening of bliss — not of worldly happiness. He who begins it finds joy from the very beginning. Joy goes on increasing — turns into great joy. Such a sound of joy begins to resound within that every hair is soaked in it. You live in it; you are in it. It becomes your very being, your very existence.
How to explain it?
Kaun patantar dijiye, dooja nahi koi.
Ram sarikha Ram hai, sumariya hi sukh hoi.
Only by remembering will you know: like Ram, there is only Ram.
Enough for today.