Piv Piv Lagi Pyas #9

Separation awakens the ache; the ache awakens the soul.
The soul awakens surati; the five call to the Beloved.

Darkness is dense—on all four sides, without and within; but you do not see it. To see darkness too, an eye is needed. As an eye is needed to see light, so also to see darkness an eye is needed.
The blind do not see darkness. Do not imagine that the blind live ever in the dark. The blind do not even know darkness. An eye is needed. If there is an eye, darkness is seen. And if there is an eye, the search for light begins. One who has seen the dark—how will he live without seeking the light? If you are sitting without seeking, it can only mean one thing: the darkness is not visible to you.
The quest for truth begins with the sensing of darkness. The search for the Lord begins with the feeling of darkness. The journey to light begins with the deep anguish of darkness. You have taken darkness itself to be life; you have identified with it. Perhaps you think this is all life is. This is not even the beginning of life.
With birth, only the possibility of life begins. But people believe they were born complete. It was only a possibility; you can lose the possibility, you can make it real. With each passing moment, the possibility grows thinner.
One to whom this understanding of life happens cannot remain sitting. He will cry, he will shout, he will scream. A yearning for the unknown will be born within him. His life-current will become a pilgrimage. He will not lie around like a stagnant puddle and rot. He will flow like a river; he will seek the ocean.
And if you set out to seek without thirst, if you begin to speak of light without experiencing darkness, and only curiosity moves you—nothing will come into your hands. For the one whom darkness does not sting like a thorn, his talk about light will be only talk—pastime, entertainment, a pretext to kill time; but a journey will not happen. His feet will not rise.
He who has not known thirst—even if a lake appears before him, how will he recognize it? Only thirst recognizes. Only an eye grown awake to darkness recognizes light. Only when you experience the pain of life will you be filled with the hope, the longing, the ardent urge for that supreme bliss of Paramatma.
Yet we have done just the opposite. We have arranged our lives so that we experience as little of life’s pain as possible. All culture, civilization, society is organized so you are hurt as little as can be—just so much that you can bear it, not so much that it becomes unbearable, not so much that you set out in search of the Infinite. Let you remain tied to the peg, here.
Even if you demand a little freedom, the rope around the peg gives you a little freedom. You are tied to the rope; you can stroll a bit around. From strolling you feel, There is freedom. You do not notice that what you call freedom is only the length of the rope. All the while you remain tied to the peg.
The entire endeavor of culture, the arrangement of all conditioning is just this—what George Gurdjieff called creating buffers. As between two railway coaches buffers are fitted: if there is a jolt, an accident, if the engine stops suddenly and there are no buffers in between, all the coaches will climb upon one another, wounding one another so terribly that many passengers will die; everything will be thrown into chaos. So buffers are fitted between the coaches; the buffers swallow the shock. A little nudge is felt, but it remains bearable.
A car has springs; they do not let you feel the potholes of the road. Potholes do occur, you do feel them, but only so much that the passenger within does not stop the journey—he carries on, and gets habituated to it.
On life’s road too there are big potholes, the darkness is terrible, the pain immense—hellish; but society creates buffers. Then you do not see it. The buffers absorb all the distress. The distress does not reach you fully, and if you are not filled with pain, how will the quest for bliss begin?
Whoever would go on that pilgrimage has to break the buffers. He must meet the road’s potholes face to face. He must feel life’s pain exactly as it is, in its naked truth.
The very moment you feel it, you will find a revolution has begun. You can no longer be content with this life—a great Life is needed. For is this any life at all? It is a counterfeit of life. You rise in the morning, you sleep in the evening; again next morning the same is repeated, again in the evening the same is repeated—like an ox at the oil-press. You go round and round on a circle. It seems as if you are arriving somewhere. A sense keeps whispering within, Now—now the goal is near; but does the ox at the press have any goal? He keeps circling. He is forever where he is.
Have you ever noted that you are forever where you are—not a hair’s breadth further, not higher? Where you were in childhood, you will find yourself there at death. Perhaps you will have lost something; you will have gained nothing. Childhood’s innocence will be lost, virginity lost, freshness lost—but what will you gain for all this loss? The bargain is very costly. All is lost, nothing gained. Surely, the buffers are powerful which do not let you know.
Someone dies—in the village where I was staying. I went. I saw people speaking of Self-knowledge. They were consoling the mourners: The Atman is immortal, why weep? I thought those who spoke must be great knowers, for they know the Atman is immortal and have come to give solace.
Later, by coincidence, the one who had so eloquently consoled—four or six months later, his wife died. I went there too. I thought: now he will not weep, he will not be disturbed. He knows. I was astonished. The very people whose home he had consoled were now consoling him: The Atman is immortal, why weep? The body is like clothing; it has been cast off. The Atman has gone elsewhere, has entered another house. No one really dies.
This is buffer. When you need it, the neighbor comes and holds your buffers. When the neighbor needs it, you go and hold his. Otherwise death would shatter all your arrangements.
Even death does not manage to shatter them; you have fitted springs on every side to save yourself from death—the Atman is immortal. But you remember this only when someone dies. Go to the cremation ground where people bring their dead; there the grandest discussions of Brahman take place. Such talk of knowledge! And you would not imagine that these people ever seemed wise in the village—yet there they are, quoting the Upanishads and the Vedas. They are holding the buffers. Someone’s buffers have come loose by death; the screws have come off here and there, they are tightening them back; so that he becomes fit to live again. This ox of the oil-press got frightened seeing death and sat down, unwilling to move. They are trying to get him up again, taking the help of the Vedas and Upanishads: Be yoked again to the press.
If only death became truly visible to you, if you had a direct encounter with death, would you not remember that you too are dying? Will another’s death remain only another’s death? Will it not become your very own death?
Whenever anyone dies, you die too. Whenever anyone dies, a part of you dies. Whenever anyone dies, news of your death arrives at your door. Every death is the news of your own death. But then you speak of Self-knowledge so that the news does not reach you; so that the arrow of death does not pierce your chest. Otherwise, how will you live? How will you hum a tune tomorrow morning? How will you go to the office, to the market? How will you yoke yourself to your press?
If death is seen, you will sit down. You will say: If death is bound to be, then this life is not life. A life whose final result is death, whose ultimate accounting is only to be annihilated—who will call that life?
A great Life is needed. A life whose foundation is nectar; where there is no fading, no loss. As long as there is fading and loss, there is not yet true Being. When all fading and all losing come to an end, only then does the first advent of pure Being happen.
But the buffers do not let you awaken. Thousands of times there come occasions in your life when you could have awakened. Those very moments could have made you a Dadu, a Kabir; but you do not awaken. You hasten to make arrangements to go back to sleep. When you keep putting yourself to sleep like this, how will you understand what Kabir says, what Dadu says, what Nanak says? They speak a language which only one can understand who has begun to tear a little at his arrangements—who has made a little window, who has cut a little gap in the woven mesh around him so he can see Life.
Here, life stands upon death. Here, everything is perishing. Here, all trembles. Here, each person is moving toward death. Go from the East, or from the West, from the South, from anywhere—at the end, death is found. And when death is bound to be after ten years, twenty years, fifty years, seventy years—one who has a little awareness will understand: death has already happened.
In such a moment of awareness the whole stupidity of culture flashed for Buddha. He saw a corpse and asked his charioteer, What has happened to him? In that instant, no conditioning veiled Buddha’s eyes. In fact, Buddha had been protected—no conditioning allowed to fall upon his eyes. When he was born, his father asked the astrologers: What is the future of this boy? They said: Either he will become a chakravarti emperor, or he will become a sannyasin. There are only two kinds of emperors in the world: the worldly emperor, and the sannyasin emperor. The father did not understand. He was deeply hurt that his son might become a sannyasin.
Strange, is it not? If someone else’s son becomes a sannyasin, people go touch his feet and say, Blessed are you! But if their own son begins to turn sannyasin, their very life is threatened. Why? Because every sannyasin breaks conditioning; he goes beyond culture, beyond society. Every sannyasin is saying that your way of living is wrong. And when a son turns sannyasin, he is saying: Father, your way of living is wrong—and this the father cannot tolerate. To hear it from one’s own son! The son says nothing, but by becoming a sannyasin this is the fruit borne: your way of being is wrong. The father’s ego is wounded, and fear arises that his entire life is being thrown into disarray. A crack begins to appear to him as well; an inkling of his own error begins to surface; but who is ready to be defeated by his own son!
The father was troubled and said: Something must be done. Before he becomes a sannyasin, he must be stopped. The astrologers said: Then keep him entirely away from society. Do not let him go into society. If he does not go, he will not see sannyasins, will not hear of them. If the air does not carry their scent, the color will not touch him. Do not let him go that way.
And be careful not to let death come near him. If even a leaf dries in his garden, remove it without his knowing. If he sees a leaf dry, he may ask in his mind: If a leaf can dry, might I not dry too? Do not let him see a withered flower. Do not let old people come near him; otherwise he will ask: This man is old—is it possible that I too will become old?
Let him live in a dream. Surround him with beautiful maidens, with wine, dance, music. Do not let the memory of death arise at all; because when the memory of death arrives, sannyas is inevitable. To whom the memory of death arrives, life becomes futile. The search for a new Life begins. Do not let death come close. Lure him in a pleasing dream.
Thus Buddha was raised—in a pleasing dream. But there the mistake lay. Someday one comes out of the dream!
Buddha became a young man. He was to inaugurate a festival of youth. The burden of the kingdom was to come upon him; he would have to enter life, go to the court, be linked to society. Till then he had been kept entirely away from conditioning, as if asleep, lost in a sweet dream. Poetry surrounded him. There were no thorns—only flowers. No pain was known; no old person seen; no adversity recognized; only a showering of fortune.
The man was very fragile; he had no buffers. Buffers are made in the struggles of life, in collisions; daily seeing death one prepares one’s buffers to survive death; daily seeing the old one prepares a buffer so as not to remember I too will grow old. People die daily; slowly you do not even notice that someone has died. You look as if nothing has happened; as if it were merely an ordinary incident—you accept it. You have grown blind.
Buddha had neither conditioning nor culture nor society. He grew up alone—and grew up asleep, lost in the dream. A great difficulty arose: at the very first impact his sleep broke. There was no protective wall of convenience. On the way he saw a dead man.
The tale is sweet. I have told it many times; each time new facets appear. First he saw an old man. He asked the charioteer: What has happened to this man? Why does he hobble, bent and limp? Why this wrinkling on his face? Why do his eyes seem dim? Why does he need a support? If you see old age for the first time, such a question arises. To you it does not arise—you have seen it so often and secured yourself. You have seen it since childhood when no question could arise. What question can arise now?
Buddha did ask; it was a new event. The charioteer said: He has grown old. Buddha asked: What is this growing old? The charioteer said: How can I explain? And besides, I am forbidden. But since you asked, I cannot lie.
The story says the charioteer wanted to lie, but the gods would not let him. A god entered him. The meaning is simple: the inauspicious forces want the world to go on; the auspicious want sannyas to blossom. The satanic wishes you remain blind, an ox at the press; the auspicious urges you to awaken, to ascend to light. The campaign before you is immense—the sun is to be reached, you are his very ray.
The gods seized the charioteer’s tongue; they held his life-breath. He tried to speak a lie but could not. He said: This man has grown old; every man grows old. There is no escape. You have been living in a dream.
Buddha asked: Will I too grow old?
On this question Buddha’s whole life turned. When someone dies, do you ask, Will I die too? If you ask, you will not remain an ox at the press. But you never ask. You always think: this one dies, then that one dies. You remain always present to ask, Who died, brother? You are always present to console: Very bad—he still had so many years! You always remain alive; always someone else dies.
But one who has no buffers will naturally ask: Will I too grow old? That is the real question—not who died. The real question is: Will I die? The whole arrangement of life depends upon that. If I am to die, the question will arise: How shall I live so that I can go beyond dying? And if there is no way beyond death, then there is no essence in living. Why live, then? Why even wait till tomorrow? No fruit is to ripen; life is going to pass as it is.
Even the ox at the press would sit down if he knew he would go on circling like this all life long—no consummation, no result, no fruit, nowhere arriving; yoked, he will die at the press itself.
Buddha asked: Will I too grow old? The charioteer wanted to say: How can you grow old? But the gods held his tongue. He said, against his wish: You too will grow old; there is no exception.
Buddha became sad. Whoever truly sees life becomes instantly sad. This whole life is utterly false; thinner than dream. Scratch it a little and death appears. It is a very thin crust; within it is only death.
Buddha wished to turn back; but then he saw a bier passing. Who is this? Why is he bound upon bamboo? What wrong has he done? The charioteer said: He has done nothing; he has died. He is no longer alive. Buddha asked: Will I too die? The charioteer said: After old age, this is the next step—inevitable; everyone has to die.
Buddha said: Turn the chariot back. What meaning is there in going to a festival of youth? I have already grown old. And death has already come. Whether it comes tomorrow or day after—what difference does it make? It has come.
But as they were turning, he saw a sannyasin. This is the right sequence: the memory of old age, the recognition of death, the fragrance of sannyas. He saw one wearing the ochre robe. Buddha had never seen such a person. He asked: What has happened to this man? Why has he donned ochre? He seems different. His gait has another grace; in his eyes another hue. His way of living seems other. I have never seen such a man. There is a dignity in his walk, a keen light. From where has this radiance come to his face? What has happened to him?
The charioteer said: As you saw the old man and the corpse, he too saw—and recognized. He renounced the world. He has vowed to create a new life.
Sannyas means: the life as we live it is foolishness—like squeezing oil from sand. Its outcome is nothing. Like bubbles rising upon water—here today, tomorrow burst. When they burst, not even a trace remains. That which has gone in it has gone in vain. The time that has passed has simply passed.
Sannyas means: the conception of a new life, the commencement of a new life; a wholly new way of living—living awake; without buffers, without any security—unsafe; without any ideology, without society, without culture and conditioning—a process of innocent living.
The charioteer said: This person has become a sannyasin. That very day the feeling of sannyas was born in Buddha. That very night he left the palace.
The day you too see that life is darkness, that day you will set out in search of light. As yet you have taken darkness itself to be light; you live with great ease.
This is why you are afraid to go near those who could awaken you and startle you—because they will break your sleep. And because of them, a new journey will begin in your life—hard indeed. Hard not because truth is hard. Hard because your feet have become so fixed in darkness that they will not lift toward the light; your eyes have so accustomed themselves to the dark that if you look toward the light they will close. Not hard because truth is hard—
Truth is utterly simple—‘Sukh surati sahajai sahajai aav.’ It comes joyously. Straightforwardly, silently it arrives. There is not even the sound of footsteps; nothing is to be done—and it comes. Truth is simple. You are difficult; hence the journey will be difficult.
So the fearful, the weak, the cowardly do not set out at all—afraid of losing, afraid of breaking. For fear of defeat they do not even go to the battlefield. They stand with their backs turned.
And if one does not want to go to the battle, the best device is to say: There is no battle. For if there is a battle and you are not going, the mind will gnaw at you; you will feel guilty. If one does not want to move toward God, the deepest arrangement is that of the atheist. He says: There is no God. He is saying: There is no light—why get into such talk? There is only darkness. The atheist is frightened. If light is, then one must go; one must seek. If truth is, how can you sit in untruth? Hence he says: There is no truth.
I know a man who is afraid to go to the doctor. He has cancer, but fears to go. Sometimes he comes to me. He wants me to tell him: Say that I do not have cancer. He says, You know me. Do you see me sick? I am perfectly fine.
But when he says, I am perfectly fine, his hands are visibly trembling; his eyes are full of fear. I too find it hard to tell him the truth. He asks his wife and sons, I am fine, am I not? Nothing is wrong? If anyone suggests, Go see a doctor and have a check-up, he says, Why? When I am well! So for a long time he did not go. The doctors were suspicious. His wife came to me: We are tired trying to send him. He does not go. If we speak of going, he says, Why? I am perfectly well. And he is not well—his condition is bad; daily he grows weaker; his weight drops. But he says, What weight? Everything is fine. He will not let the matter of illness even arise. He is frightened of the very talk. Some terror has seized him inside. How shall I take him to the doctor?
I said: Bring him to me. They brought him. I asked: Are you ill? He said No. I said: Then why fear going to the doctor? Your poor wife is troubled, seized with fear; her mind is breaking. You are perfectly well; I too see you are perfectly well. To satisfy your wife, go. He said: If you say so, I will go. But his hands and feet were shaking. Now he was in difficulty—what to say? If he is not ill, why fear?
The atheist consoles himself saying: God is not. If He is not, there is no need to search. Sleep; rest. Where you are, all is well.
Those who are not atheists have found other devices—cheaper still. They go to temple or mosque or gurudwara; to church on Sunday to say a prayer. A social formality is fulfilled, just in case God does exist! It will remain for the record that we went to temple every Saturday; to church every Sunday; to mosque every Friday. It will be remembered; it will be written in Your ledger. Just in case—let us do something, so it cannot be said we did nothing.
They too are saving themselves. For who has ever reached Paramatma by going to a temple? Yes—one who reaches Paramatma does arrive at the true Temple.
Understand it rightly. If going to a temple brought you to God, everyone goes—by now all would have arrived. No one seems to arrive. Certainly temple-going is a device to avoid. It is a deception, a substitute to avoid going to the real Temple—so you have made a false temple. You go to that false temple; it costs nothing. You place two coins and a couple of flowers—plucked from someone else’s garden. You bow your head—without bowing. The ego stands stiff; only your head touches stone. There is no difficulty in placing your head before stone. It is difficult to place it at the feet of a living man.
To touch Mahavira would have stirred fear. To place one’s head at the feet of Mahavira’s statue stirs no fear. There is no one there—what is there to fear in bowing? Before Buddha there was pain in bowing. Before Buddha’s image, crores bow. Those who crucified Jesus have built churches and now bow before his cross. They bow before the cross—not before Jesus. What a delicious trick!
In Jesus there is danger. If you bow, this man will awaken you. The moment you bow he will seize your neck. He will shake you; he will break your sleep. You fear going near such a one. Clay Ganesh are perfectly fine; they can do nothing. They depend upon you—you make them, they are made; you immerse them in the river, they drown. They have nothing of their own; they are in your power.
So you have erected false gods who are in your power; false temples. It is a device to avoid the real Temple, to avoid Paramatma. You have made house-games and play with them. If you did not do these, one day you would be forced to be ready for the direct encounter with Paramatma.
The atheist avoids by denial; the theist avoids by acceptance. Sometimes there is one who neither denies nor accepts—he sets out in search. I call that one religious—neither theist nor atheist, but a seeker, a pilgrim—who says: We will stake life, but we will search. In his life the perception of darkness has happened. Now he longs for light. He has known thirst; he has known life’s desert. He seeks the oasis. He is looking for a lake. And that seeking is not intellectual—his every hair is thirsty.
Dadu speaks of such a one. He says:
Like the pied chataka, the mind-chitta repeats—only the Beloved, only the Beloved—thirst has seized it.
Through such intellectual talk of the Gita, through dabbling in philosophy—nothing will happen.
Like the pied chataka the mind-chitta repeats…
As the chataka cries through the night—
…only the Beloved, only the Beloved—thirst has seized it.
It keeps calling ‘Drink—drink’ alone. It is not satisfied with ordinary water; it waits for the Swati drop. It spends the year in waiting. Days come and go; the chataka’s refrain only grows.
Chataka is a poetic symbol. The poet’s imagination says that in the constellation of Swati the bird named chataka drinks only the rain of Swati; the rest of the year it cries. Common water does not satisfy it—it wants the supreme water of Swati.
For the sant this is no imagination—this is his experience. The sant is not appeased by ordinary water—only the water of Paramatma satisfies him. Common food does not quell his hunger; till he is dissolved in Paramatma he remains hungry. Ordinary love does not content him. Until the rain of the Divine pours upon him, until supreme love arrives, he remains thirsty. Then the love of this world becomes like ghee to fire—only increases the flame. This love only reminds him of prayer. It fills him with greater urgency for Paramatma.
Like the pied chataka the mind-chitta repeats—only the Beloved, only the Beloved—thirst has seized it.
Dadu, for the sake of darshan, fulfill my hope.
Nothing is wanted—only darshan. If you go toward Paramatma to ask for something, then you have not gone to Him. All your asking will be of the world. You will ask: My son is ill—let him be healed. There is a case in court—let me win. A son is not born—let a son be born. Whatever you ask, you are not asking for Paramatma; your every asking is worldly.
One who asks for God asks for nothing. He says: Darshan is enough. Let me see You—this alone is sufficient. Once You are seen—what else remains? Let me look upon You to my fill—this is enough. There is no farther longing.
Dadu, for the sake of darshan, fulfill my hope.
Dadu, the separated one asks, To whom shall I tell my sorrow? To whom shall I send a message?
Watching the Beloved’s path, the separated one re-arranges her hair.
To whom shall I tell my sorrow? For my sorrow others will not understand. They will think you have gone mad. If you tell someone…
You sit weeping. If someone asks, Why? and you say, The coffer is lost, he will understand: True. He too would weep if the coffer were lost. If you say, My wife has died, he will say: Of course—you should weep. We would too. But if you say, I am weeping because the darshan of God is not happening, he will look at you as if you have gone insane. The coffer—this is understandable. Bankrupt—understandable. Wife burned—understandable. Defeated in life—understandable. But to weep for God’s darshan—no one will understand. Only those who know that thirst will understand that language.
Dadu, the separated one asks, To whom shall I tell my sorrow? To whom shall I send a message? How shall I inform the Divine to bring an end to my pain? No way is visible. There is no facility to send word. There is no way to speak my grief to anyone.
Watching the Beloved’s path…
So what does the lover do? She looks at the path of the Beloved—Paramatma.
Watching the Beloved’s path, the separated one re-arranges her hair.
And keeps readying herself—who knows at what moment You may arrive. Let it not be that You find me unprepared. So she keeps arranging her hair—and keeps watching the path. Such a sweet image: the whole of sannyas is arranging one’s hair for God. All sadhana is preparing oneself for that moment—if He should arrive, let Him not find me unready.
Rabindranath has a profound poem. There is a vast temple with a hundred priests. The head priest dreams: God has said, Tomorrow I come. The temple is thousands of years old; for thousands of years worship has been performed. Never has it happened that God has come. The stone idol alone has been worshiped. The priest too is startled. He cannot trust the dream. Even so, he fears in the morning: If it happens to be true, I will be the one in trouble.
He gathers all the priests. He says: I had such a dream. I do not trust it—I am not mad to trust a dream. Still, I tell you. Now we will do as you all decide. They said: If He does come, what shall we do? Let us prepare. There is no harm. If He does not come, the offerings we prepare we shall ourselves enjoy as prasad. And besides, the temple has not been cleaned for long; at least it will be cleaned.
So all day they cleaned the temple; prepared offerings; arranged flowers; burned incense. But no one really believed. Hard to find people with less trust than priests. The priest knows well this is all show, a trade. He knows well the idol is stone; there is no essence there. If he waves the lamp it is not to please the idol, but to please the devotees standing behind who pay his salary. His arati is for society, not for truth. He worships you because he gets a job from you. He knows well that all this is dream.
Still, they prepared; arranged everything. Evening fell; God did not come by dusk. Doubt returned. They said: We knew it was a dream. We worked in vain. But what is done is done. Tired, they ate the prasad and fell into a deep sleep.
At midnight one priest suddenly cried out in sleep: I hear the rumble of a chariot. The others shouted in annoyance: Stop this nonsense! We were troubled all day by one man’s dream—and now you hear a chariot in a dream? Sleep in peace. Do not spoil our sleep. Enough waiting! No one is coming. But then another said: No—but I too hear a rumble. It seems a chariot is approaching. The third said: This is not a chariot’s rumble—this is thunder in the sky.
Again they slept. Then it seemed the chariot stopped at the gate; then it seemed someone climbed the steps; then someone knocked on the door. One awoke, startled: I think I heard a knock. Now the others were very angry: Will you not let us sleep? Are you all mad? It is a gust of wind rattling the door. No one is there; no one is coming. Now if anyone hears anything, keep it to yourself. Do not disturb our sleep.
They all slept deep. In the morning they saw a chariot had indeed come—the tracks of the wheels were at the door. Someone had climbed the steps—footprints were in the dust. Someone had knocked—the mark of the hand was on the door. But now it was too late. The opportunity was missed.
So too it can happen in your life. Tagore’s poem is not only a poem—it is a vision of deep truth. Many times God has knocked at your door. Many times His shadow has circled your dreams. Time and again, in uncountable lives, you have come very near to Him; but you did not recognize. Sometimes you said: It is thunder in the clouds. Sometimes you said: It is the wind.
For the knower, even the thunder in the clouds is His roar. For the unknowing, even His voice is heard as thunder. For the knower, in the pat of the breeze His touch is heard, His knock is heard. For the unknowing, even when He knocks upon the door, it is said: It is a gust of wind.
Your interpretation. The one who knows finds Paramatma everywhere—everywhere is His chariot; everywhere the tracks of His wheels; from all sides He comes; from all sides He taps you; but you sleep. And if some corner of your mind whispers: Wake up—then you say, Sleep on. Do not spoil my sleep. It is only the wind. It will come and go. Where is any God to come!
Dadu says:
Watching the Beloved’s path, the separated one re-arranges her hair.
She arranges her hair, and again and again looks down the road. If You come, at least let my hair be in order. Let it not be that You come and find me welcoming You with the sadness of separation.
So understand the state of the sant well. From the outside he appears utterly joyous and blissful—hair groomed. But within him is a deep pain, a deep sobbing. He is calling for the Lord. The bhakta appears outwardly very joyous—dancing. But within him a thorn is embedded. He dances for Someone—to come, and not find him forlorn, but dancing. Yet within he keeps calling—
Like the pied chataka the mind-chitta repeats—only the Beloved, only the Beloved—thirst has seized it.
Dadu, for the sake of darshan, fulfill my hope.
Dadu, the separated one asks, To whom shall I tell my sorrow? To whom shall I send a message?
Watching the Beloved’s path, the separated one re-arranges her hair.

If He is not found, I am not happy—why then live?
He who has wounded me—only He is my remedy.
If He is not found, I am not happy…
In life there is only one joy: to be united with God. All else, however joyous it seems, is sorrow. If not today, then tomorrow…
Turn any joy over—you will find sorrow hidden beneath. Lift the veil of joy—you will find sorrow concealed. Joy is but the veil of sorrow. As long as the veil is drawn, all is well. Lift it, and a meeting with sorrow happens. Sorrow is the reality; joy only a veil. And you experience this daily—but you do not learn from your own experience.
This is man’s greatest misfortune: he does not learn even from experience. Experiences occur, but he extracts no teaching. They lie about like beads unstrung. Teaching means: you have strung the beads into a mala—you found the thread that binds them.
You too have experiences. There is no difference between your experience and Dadu’s. The only difference is this: you have piles of beads, but each bead stands alone. You have not been able to connect a living stream through them. You have experience, but no learning. One experience comes and goes; another comes and goes; but you do not press the essence between them. Crores of experiences you have had, but you have not drawn learning from them. Learning is the essence of all experiences—the attar distilled from a thousand flowers. You have gathered heaps of flowers; you have not distilled the attar. And the attar is the essential thing.
If He is not found, I am not happy—why then live?
And if union with Him is not, then I have no desire for life. Better that life is not.
Dadu says: If there is no Paramatma, and no meeting with Him, then death is better than life. At least there will be rest—freedom from futile hustle and bustle, from pointless running. Then life has no meaning. Life can have only one meaning: union with God. Meaning arises only when the part and the Whole are in harmony. Until then, separate, your life is futile.
Think of it like this: I tear a line from a poem and give it to you; that line will have little meaning. But within the whole poem it was deeply meaningful. Suppose I tear even the line and give you only a word; there will be even less meaning. A little still remained in a line. Suppose I break the word and hand you bare letters—then what meaning remains? A b c d—what meaning is there? Yet from these very letters all the works of Kalidasa are made; all the poetry of Shakespeare; the words of Buddha, Krishna’s Gita, Mohammed’s Koran. Then they are deeply meaningful.
Strange! Letters in themselves have no meaning; the alphabet is without meaning. Two letters meet—become a word. A word has some meaning. Words meet—become a line; a line has more meaning. Lines meet—become a song; there the meaning deepens.
You are like scattered letters—A B C D—standing alone, without meaning. Become a word; be joined into a line; then become part of the great poem. Meaning will enter your life. Meaning is always of the Whole. Paramatma means the Whole. The individual has no meaning; meaning is of the totality.
If He is not found, I am not happy…
And without meaning has anyone ever been happy? Can one be happy living in futility? Happiness is the fragrance of a meaningful life. Where there is meaning, the fragrance of happiness arises. It is the sweet scent.
If He is not found, I am not happy—why then live?
Without Him, the fact of being has no meaning.
He who has wounded me—only He is my remedy.
Says Dadu: He who has wounded me—only He can heal me. He will not settle for a remedy less than God. Scriptures do not satisfy him; theories do not quench his thirst. However many webs of belief and doctrine you weave, no relief comes. He says: ‘He who has wounded me—only He is my remedy.’ Let Him be my medicine.
Whoever is ready to settle for less than God will never reach God.
On the way there are many temptations. First stands the world—the great lures of lust, of position, of wealth. Somehow, suppose you pass through them and begin the journey to truth—then inner powers begin to manifest; miraculous capacities come to hand. You can do things that astonish people. The danger is that you might end up as a juggler.
If your longing is not solely for God, you will halt somewhere; you will take some wayside inn for the destination. It was fine for resting at night, but not for staying forever. The way lies ahead—to reach that where ‘further’ comes to an end. Before that, do not stop.
He who has wounded me—only He is my remedy.
Dadu: Without hand, without bow, without arrow He draws the string and shoots.
The blow lands on this body—from nail to crown the head burns.
He has no hands, no bow in His hands, no arrow on the bow—yet He draws the string and shoots—and the blow is such that from toe to crown there is only pain. The whole heart, body, mind burn in a single flame.
Like the pied chataka the mind-chitta repeats—only the Beloved, only the Beloved—thirst has seized it.
Dadu, for the sake of darshan, fulfill my hope.
Separation awakens the ache; the ache awakens the soul.
The soul awakens surati; the five call to the Beloved.
When His arrow strikes, viraha—separation—arises. When viraha arises, pain is born. When pain is born, awakening begins in life. When awakening comes, surati is trained. And when surati is trained, then not only the soul calls Him; the five elements—the very body—are filled with His call. Then the whole body-breath calls only Him.
Separation awakens the ache…
So the first thing is viraha. From there is the starting point; from there the journey begins. Those who have no viraha—you can explain to them a thousand times: Wake up—they will not awaken. You can urge them a thousand times: Be filled with the thirst for God—they will listen, but nothing will make sense: What thirst? Whose thirst? It will all seem airy talk.
It is a matter of pain; pain arises from viraha.
There is an ancient saying in Egypt: before you desire God, God desires you. Otherwise how will viraha arise? No one can create it on his own. Only He can create it. Before you go toward Him, He calls you.
And this is fitting: His is everything—even you are His. How could you find Him on your own if He were not willing to be found? His willingness to meet is the first event. When He is willing, then viraha arises in your life.
And when viraha arises—viraha means a deep magnetism; all else grows tasteless. This world begins to feel like a dream, a maya. You act, you rise and sit, you fulfill tasks and duties—but it becomes a play. The savor drains away. A detachment forms. An indifference on the outside comes: Fine—if it happens, fine; if it does not, fine. You go on because you must go on; but there is no frenzy left in the feet. At any moment you are ready to step off this road; as soon as the chance comes, you will step aside. The world becomes a stage; life an acting. With the arising of viraha, you are here but not here. You stand in the bazaar but you are not there—the memory of Him torments you; He alone keeps calling. Wherever you are—sleeping or waking—His call remains.
It happened that Swami Ram returned from America. His friend Sardar Purnasingh stayed with him—an old childhood companion. In a little house on a distant hill in Tehri Garhwal. There was no one around—silence for miles. At night they both slept. Purnasingh could not sleep—he heard a sound. He listened closely—someone was chanting Ram-Ram-Ram. Who could be chanting here? He rose and went outside, circled the veranda—silence stretched in all directions. No one anywhere.
Strangely, the farther he went from the room the fainter the sound grew. When he came back, the sound grew stronger. Ram was fast asleep. He went close to Ram—the sound grew still louder. He put his ear to the feet, to the hands, to the head—throughout the body of Ram one sound surged: Ram-Ram-Ram. He was frightened. What is happening? This seems impossible. He woke Ram and asked: What is this?
Ram said: It happens—of late it happens. First, I used to remember Ram; it resounded in the head; came only to the throat. Then it descended deeper—reached the heart. Slowly I no longer needed to repeat—on its own it resounded; I became the listener. Then it happened by day, not by night. Slowly, the night too was taken. Now it goes on for twenty-four hours without my doing—a-har-nish.
This the sants have called Ajapa Japa—when you do not do and it happens. After such a state, meeting with That becomes possible. This is your preparation; your music is being tuned; you are becoming rhythmic.
But remember—He awakens first. He raises you first. Blessed are those in whose life a drop of viraha has descended: it means the ocean has sent an invitation. Blessed are those in whose mind the pain of the unknown has begun to rise—because Paramatma has chosen them. You choose only later—He chooses you first.
Separation awakens the ache; the ache awakens the soul.
When the river of life is filled with pain, you will awaken. In pleasure a man sleeps—how can he sleep in pain? Pleasure puts one to sleep. Hence the bhaktas have said: Do not give pleasure—give pain.
Junnaid, a Sufi fakir, used to pray every day: Keep giving sorrow—do not give pleasure. One day a disciple heard and was shocked: Either you are mad, or I misheard. Did you say: Do not give pleasure—give sorrow? What kind of prayer is this!
Junnaid said: Slowly we understood—since then this is our prayer; because sorrow awakens, pleasure puts to sleep. Pleasure is a kind of stupor. That is why people forget God in pleasure. Only in sorrow do they remember.
Separation awakens the ache; the ache awakens the soul.
Then awakening begins to be established.
The soul awakens surati…
And when awakening grows very deep, from its very depth there arises remembrance of Paramatma—surati awakens.
…and the five call to the Beloved.
Then not only the soul calls—every hair of the body calls; this body of five elements calls Him. This too is His. He hides in this as well. This body too will one day reach Him. All are on His journey—some a little ahead, some a little behind. You a little ahead; your body a little behind. But it is the same journey; the arrival is the same. The entire existence must ultimately be dissolved back into That from which it arose. That is the final destiny.
But pain is needed—viraha is needed. Many times viraha arises in your life—you manage to suppress it. You say: I am not going to go mad! You hold your heart. You miss the moment. He calls—you grow deaf. He beckons—you hold yourself together. You say: I am not going to go mad!
When again He calls—‘Dadu: Without hand, without bow, without arrow He draws the string and shoots.’ When He once more pulls the bow without hand, string, or arrow, and shoots—let the wound strike. If madness must be, let it be. For your present life is madness. What you have taken to be light is darkness; what you have taken to be life is only a sheath of death.
This happened. Amir Khusro was a wondrous poet—not a mere poet, but a rishi. He had known, and sang what he had known—deeply known. His master was Nizamuddin Auliya, a Sufi fakir. When Nizamuddin died, thousands of devotees came. Amir Khusro too came to see his master. The body lay adorned with flowers. Khusro saw the body and said:
‘The fair one sleeps upon the couch, her hair across her face;
Come, Khusro, let us go home—the night has fallen on this land.’
He said: The fair one sleeps upon the couch—her hair is spread across her face. Come, Khusro, let us go home. The light has left this world; now there is only darkness. The night has fallen on this land—let us go home.
It is said the moment he uttered this, Khusro fell and left the body. That was the last verse from his lips. What you take to be light is not light. Khusro had seen light in Nizamuddin Auliya. With that light extinguished, the land grew dark—‘the night has fallen on this land.’ ‘Come, Khusro, let us go home’—time now to go home; there is nothing to remain for.
What you now take as light is not light. What you take to be water is not water. And what you use to quench your thirst will not quench it—it will increase it.
Keep one thing in your heart: wait for His arrow to pierce your heart; from nail to crown be set ablaze in the pain of separation. Let there be in you one prayer: your viraha, your invitation, your call. Let there be one single prayer and one single feeling—that without meeting Him, no joy is possible.
Then it will not be long. Without hands, without bow and arrow—His arrow is always ready, always aimed. Open your heart here, and the arrow flies from there. Consent here—and His call arrives there. It is hard to say whether His call comes first or your consent.
It is like the riddle of the hen and the egg. Which came first—the hen or the egg? So difficult—is it the devotee first or God first? Hard to say. But do at least this much: open your heart. Be willing. When He calls you, be ready to set out—ready to go mad. In that willingness, your life will be transformed—there will be a great revolution.
My entire emphasis on meditation is only for this: that your heart not remain blocked—that it open. Let the wall be removed, so that when He calls, you hear; when His hand reaches out, you extend yours and clasp it; when He leads you upon the journey to the Infinite, you are ready to go.
Like the pied chataka the mind-chitta repeats—only the Beloved, only the Beloved—thirst has seized it.
Dadu, for the sake of darshan, fulfill my hope.
May such a chataka-like call fill your heart too. Burn in the fire of that viraha. Count this as your good fortune. Your present life of comforts is false—only a sweet dream that can break any moment.
The sooner you awaken, the better. So much time has gone already. And now—when you hear the rumble of the chariot—do not say: It is thunder in the clouds. Now, when thunder sounds in the sky, hear that His chariot is approaching. And when there is a knock upon your door, do not say: The wind pushed it. Now, when the wind pushes your door, try to recognize His hands. In the wind are His hands; in the sky, His rumble; in flowers, His fragrance. On all sides there is only His mention. You have needlessly made yourself deaf.
Awaken thirst. Thirst alone becomes prayer. And the fulfillment of thirst becomes Paramatma.
Only the Beloved, only the Beloved—thirst has seized it!
Enough for today.