Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #1

My songs were only noise before the longing for you took hold
As every idol is but mere stone before the worship begins
There were notes, but no pain
When were my meters ever fragrant
Before they were sprinkled with tears?
When did they ever shine forth from life
Before the pains were churned?
There was no possibility within me before the milking of sorrows—
As ambrosia is not attainable before the ocean is churned
The creation was already this, brimming with its own beauty—
Yet the eyes that could behold that beauty
Were not yet born in my gaze
My look was not clear before your shaped darshan—
As glass is only glass before it becomes a mirror
When the threads of love bound me to you
The whole world sat joined to me
The day I became yours
I became the world's
I was a stranger to myself before the instant of meeting you—
As an oyster births no pearl before the Swati star's raindrop
The more the cuckoo is wounded
The sweeter it coos
The more sandalwood is rubbed raw
The more fragrance it releases
I was only body, sheer body, before the mind awoke in me—
As a bamboo is only a hollow stick before the flute is played

Man is just a piece of bamboo—only bamboo, a hollow reed. If it touches the lips of the Lord, intention is born, meaning is born, glory is revealed. Music lies hidden in the bamboo, but without his magical touch it will not appear. Even a stone image comes alive before a heart brimming with worship. Eyes filled with love experience Paramatma in nature itself.

All is a matter of being linked with Paramatma. Without that link everything is and yet nothing is. The veena may lie there and no meter will arise. The heart will remain, the breath will go on, yet the stream of love will not flow. There will be trees, but no blossoms; no fruit will come to life. Without being joined to Paramatma there is no fulfillment. Without being joined to Paramatma there is a long, long journey—an endless journey; but desert upon desert, nowhere a trace of oases.

Today we set out on pilgrimage with an incomparable saint, Doolandas. Doolandas is no longer merely a piece of bamboo; he has become a flute. Krishna's tones are rippling through his very life-breath. He is no longer only an ocean; the churning has taken place and amrit has appeared. What comparison between the briny sea and the nectar released by churning! Reason and logic do not work there. Now his veena is no longer dead; it has become ensouled.

The more the cuckoo is wounded
The sweeter it coos
The more sandalwood is rubbed raw
The more fragrance it releases
I was only body, sheer body, before the mind awoke in me—
As a bamboo is only a hollow stick before the flute is played

Doolandas's playing has begun. The flute has come alive. Paramatma is dancing in Doolandas's heart. If even two or four of his drops should fall upon your heart, you will be turned into something else—you will no longer be what you were. Your seeing will change, and when the seeing changes, the creation changes. Pearls can arise within you too. Let the drops raining in Doolandas's Swati constellation reach your heart. Open the oyster of your heart. Do not merely listen—drink. For these are not matters that are completed by hearing; these are sutras to transform life. These are sutras of revolution. It is the touch of the philosopher’s stone; iron can become gold.

I was a stranger to myself before the instant of meeting you—
As an oyster births no pearl before the Swati star's raindrop

Do not miss this occasion. The Swati star seldom comes. The drops of nectar seldom rain. Beware that your oyster does not remain closed; the drop may fall and yet not reach your heart. It may rain—and you remain thirsty.

My songs were only noise before the longing for you took hold
As every idol is but mere stone before the worship begins

This short journey with Doolandas for a few days could become unforgettable in your life. If you walk in his light, you may remember your own light.

This indeed is the satsang of the Sadguru. You may not have your own lamp, but someone else's lamp is lit. The night is dark, it is new moon. Walk a few steps with the one whose lamp is burning, and your path too is illumined. And not only that your path is illumined; you also begin to see that this is my possibility too, that I too am such a lamp. You also begin to see that as I am darkness today, the Sadguru too was darkness yesterday. The Sadguru is luminous today; I too can be luminous tomorrow. What is my present was the Sadguru's past, and what is his present today can be my future tomorrow.

Seeing a bird in flight, even the bird that has never flown feels its wings flutter. Seeing a tree in blossom, in the one that has never bloomed a stirring begins. Seeing the stream rushing to the ocean, even the lake that has always remained shut within itself feels an unease rise, a pang of separation rise, a call rise: to go, to move, that I too may seek. Seek that which, upon finding, I become whole. Seek that which, upon finding, I become vast.

These few steps to be taken with Doolandas—take them with great care. These are moments of worship. And if even while sitting by those who have known, knowing does not happen; even while sitting by those who have attained, no fierce call to attain arises, no thirst wakes—then you are much ill-fated. For apart from this there is no other way. Besides satsang there is no door that leads towards Truth.

The poison of my life into nectar—
If not you, who will make it so?
I am iron, cast off, despised—
O, Philosopher’s Stone, will you not touch me?
Even if curiosity goes blind,
Will you still not grant me darshan?
The inner stain of my mind—
If not you, who will remove it?
Thorns prick my feet,
Yet the sigh arises from you.
My sorrow—but your heart;
My body—but your shade.
If you will not cup my tears upon your lashes,
Who else will?
Upon my burning brow thus
Your tears fall,
As parched desert thirst
Is bathed by Ganga-water upon the lips.
If compassion-clouds will not shower upon my desert,
Who else will rain?
Before I shatter and fall in struggle,
I need an arm to hold me.
Now, in life's noonday,
I need the shade of the beloved's veil.
If you will not shoulder my burden,
Who else will?
Sorrow has washed me enough,
Yet the mind is still somewhat soiled.
Within me the hood is ever raised
Of the venomous serpent of ego.
My frustration—if not with discrimination
You accept it, who will?

The touch of the Sadguru is of the Unknown. The Sadguru is the very presence of the Unknown; the visible for the invisible, the familiar for the unfamiliar, a far-off sound echoing right by your ears, right by your heart. But no liberation is possible against your own self; your cooperation is needed.

Doolandas can take your hand into his, but only if you offer it—only if you offer it willingly. Truths are not imposed or enforced; they are invited. Truth must be welcomed by festooning the doorway, by lighting lamps, by arranging the aarti. Arrange the aarti and listen to these words. They are steeped in the juice of love. Tie the festoon, open the doors of the heart, set the platter of worship and, like a guest, take these nectar-words into your inner home. These will become seeds; from them great trees will grow; from them a bridge will be built between your earth and sky.

Doolan says:
In this world, the days of life are as many as there are days

Life here is not of long duration—only a few days; very few days. So small that they can be counted on the fingers. And yet even this little life is squandered in futile doings!

If a man lives sixty years, twenty go only in sleep. Of the twenty remaining, they go to earning bread—shop to home, home to shop. Twenty remain! Man is astonishing indeed! Therefore Doolandas says: the world is a wonder. One is playing cards, one is watching a film, one is sitting in a hotel gossiping. Ask what they are doing, people say: passing time. Life so short, time so precious, that the moment once gone is gone, never returns—and that too you are killing!

When you say: we are killing time, do you know what you say? You say: we are killing life. When you say: we are killing time—did you remember? You lodged a complaint against Paramatma. You said: what kind of life have you given me! What useless time is this—it does not pass! When you say: I am killing time, you are not offering thanks to Paramatma; you are complaining. Such an extraordinary life has been given, and far from gratitude our hearts are full of complaints. Where each single moment can rain nectar, where each single moment can pass in the sound of the Unstruck—there you are killing time!

In this world, the days of life are as many as there are days
Take your mind to the Guru's feet; do not be lazy, O mortal

There is only one use for this life: that it connect you with the Great Life.

Let me repeat: there is only one right use of this life—that it connect you to the Great Life. The only right use of time is to relate with that which is beyond time, beyond death. If the moment joins us to the Eternal, then we have used it; then we have squeezed the opportunity to the last drop; then before Paramatma we will not be guilty; then we will be able to stand before Paramatma with heads held high: the great opportunity you gave—we did not let it go to waste. We grew flowers out of the soil; we drew eternal lines upon flowing water; we transformed trash into diamonds; and in the mortal body we tasted the immortal. Until this happens, know that before Paramatma your head will hang in shame, burdened with guilt. You will not be able to raise your eyes; you will not be able to meet his gaze.

How can it be that in a mortal body one tastes the immortal? Whoever has tasted—make companionship with him, befriend him. That very friendship is called discipleship.

Take your mind to the Guru's feet; do not be lazy, O mortal

Bow down before the one who has become luminous, in whom the flame has arisen. For without bowing, your begging bowl will not be filled. The river is flowing, you are standing thirsty; if you do not bend and make your hands a cup, water will not fill your palms and your throat will remain thirsty. Bow! If you wish to take water from the river, you must bend. Make a cup with your hands and bring the water to your throat. The river cannot come to your throat. The Sadguru may be present before you, but you will have to bend, you will have to make the cup, you will have to drink.

Jesus said to his disciples: Drink me, digest me, let me become your blood, flesh, marrow. Well said. The Guru must be drunk. The Guru is no mere person; he is a stream of nectar. The Guru is no mere person; he is the descent of light. The Guru is no mere body; the body is only a covering—within the body someone is hidden. Relate with that. Only by bowing does the relation join. Why does it join by bowing? Bowing is an art. Bowing means: I drop my I-sense. So long as you keep saying I, I, there is stiffness.

A gentleman wrote yesterday: I have come from far away. I too have attained knowledge. I myself am a guru. I have disciples. I want to have your darshan. I had it asked: If you have had your own darshan, why did you trouble yourself so far needlessly? Decide one of two things: either you have known yourself—then any conversation has no utility. If you have known—then the matter is finished. Welcome! Fortunate you are! Or decide that you have known yourself, then there was no purpose in coming so far. Or if you wish to meet, then decide that knowing has not yet happened.

People want to know and yet they do not want to bow. They want to know truth while saving their ego. This has never happened, nor can it ever be. The ego itself is the obstacle. It is not by bowing at the feet that truth is obtained. Bowing at the feet is only a pretext, a device to drop the ego. If you can drop the ego without bowing at feet, the work will be done. The real question is the fall of ego. Therefore do not take the illusion that truth is attained by touching feet. What truth will be attained by touching feet! But by the fall of ego truth is attained. Touching feet is only one use, one experiment, one method, one medium, one occasion for dropping the ego.

As soon as you drop the ego, what happens? Ego means: I am separate from Existence. And dropping the ego means: I am one with Existence. In separateness is delusion; in oneness is truth. In separateness is duality; in oneness is Advaita. As soon as the feeling that I am separate is gone, the whole universe is yours, the whole Existence is yours. Tat Tvam Asi! Then you are that which Paramatma is. Then not even a hair's breadth of difference remains. There never was any difference either. You yourself created the delusion, hence difference arose. You drew a Lakshmana-line around yourself and believed that you cannot go beyond it. It was only a matter of believing—mind you: Lakshmana-lines cannot stop anyone. They only stop if you believe. And if you believe, they stop you.

Gurdjieff has written that in Kazakhstan he was greatly astonished. He came near a tribe where, from very childhood, the children are taught this matter of the Lakshmana-line. Then it works for a lifetime. Kazakhstan is a poor region; women have to go out to work. Little children—on whom to leave them? So they have devised a method for centuries. They draw a line in chalk around the small child and say to the child: Do not go outside this. You cannot go outside. There is no way to go. The small child sees other children too sitting inside their own chalk circles. No one steps out. Slowly, slowly, this auto-hypnosis becomes so deep that, Gurdjieff writes, draw a chalk line around a seventy-year-old and tell him he cannot go beyond it—he cannot go out.

How can a chalk line prevent him from going out? It cannot stop you, but it stops him. A delusion has settled in his mind. The delusion has become dense. By repetition again and again he has become hypnotized. Gurdjieff tried hard to pull him out, but could not pull him out. As soon as he came near the chalk, it was as if some invisible wall stopped him. Even if he wished to exit, he could not.

Such are the mesmerisms of the human mind. And your ego is a chalk line. The chalk line at least is something; your ego is not even that much. Ego is only an accepted notion, a delusion taught us since childhood: that you are; that you are separate; that you are different; that you have to do something in the world; that you must leave a name; that you must leave your marks on history—do not die just like that; that you were born in a noble house, you must brighten your forefathers' name. By a thousand devices we have taught every child: you are different, and you must leave the signature of your difference upon this earth forever. This Lakshmana-line has become deep. Measures must be found to erase this Lakshmana-line.

Placing the head at the Guru's feet is one among many measures—and a very effective one. For in front of a stone image in a temple too you may place your head, but it will not be effective, because the temple is a stone image; bowing before it does not hurt your ego. When you bow before a man made of the same flesh and marrow as you, then it hurts. Bowing before a stone—no obstacle. Bowing before a Paramatma seated in the sky—no obstacle. Bowing before Krishna, Rama, Buddha, the sages of the past—no obstacle. But before the one present before you—like you—who feels hunger, thirst, the heat and cold, who falls ill and grows old, just like you—before him there is great difficulty. The ego says: Why bow before this one? He is just like me. What difference between me and him? The ego defends itself. Therefore the one who bows before the living Sadguru—his ego falls at once. But do not think that by merely bowing it falls. Bowing can become a formality—as it has in this country.

In this land bowing has become formal. People bow; the idea of bowing does not even arise. They have been bowing. Whoever came, they bowed. Bowing has become an etiquette. As in the West people shake hands, here people touch feet. As they say Namaskar, so they touch feet. Namaskar too has become formal; though it was not meant to—it was crafted with great thought.

You see, in our country the way we greet is quite different. In the West they say: Good morning, Good evening. We do not say that. We say: Jai Ram. We do not talk about morning and evening; we speak of Ram. We say: Victory to Ram. When you join your hands and say to a person: Jai Ram, what are you saying? Those who discovered it had discovered a subtle point. They said: On seeing the other, remember Ram, because the other is Ram himself. And if Ram is seen in the other, he will be seen in yourself. And when you see the other, remember only Ram, say victory only to Ram; for victory is his alone, no one else's. Victory is of the Whole, of the Total—not of the part, but of the Whole; not of the fragment, but of the unfragmented. So say: Jai Ram. In the victory of Ram is your victory too, the other's victory too. In the victory of Ram is the victory of the whole Existence.

This too was a device for bowing, but it has become formal. Now we mouth Jai Ram, neither is Ram remembered, nor does Ram appear in the other, nor does Ram appear in oneself. It has become ritual. Now even if you go and touch someone's feet, perhaps nothing will happen. The head may bend, but the inner ego stands stiff. When the inner ego bends, a spark falls into your life—the spark that will burn you, turn you to ash, and give you a new form; and from your ash a new man will be born, a new consciousness.

Take your mind to the Guru's feet; do not be lazy, O mortal

And the human mind postpones in thousands of ways. Greatly lazy, greatly slothful. It seeks excuses: Today it is not possible; I will bow tomorrow. Today there are other works; but tomorrow I will surely find time, tomorrow I will pray. Let me finish a few more works today; tomorrow the moment of worship will come. Thus you push it to tomorrow—and tomorrow never comes. Tomorrow can never come. You do not even want it to come. Tomorrow was only an excuse to avoid. Saved from today—is that not enough!

You are avoiding Paramatma. For how many births have you been avoiding! How long more will you avoid? How long will you remain a hollow reed—a piece of bamboo? How long will this pitcher remain empty which was made to be filled with nectar, in which there is not even a drop of water, nectar is far away! And it can be filled here and now, in this very moment; yet you say: tomorrow! You go on postponing.

What reliance on this body...

You put off without understanding that there is no reliance on this body. Will it last even one moment or not? Will morning come tomorrow or not? Those who understand give thanks to Paramatma every night before sleeping: This day you gave—thank you! Now whether I rise tomorrow morning or not—therefore the final salutation. And when morning comes, those who are wise again give thanks to Paramatma: Miracle! I thought the last salutation had been given, yet today I have risen again; you have shown the sun again; again the birds' songs are heard—thank you! Again for this last day, thank you! Morning too is the last day; evening too is the last day—that is how a wise man lives; that is his devotion. For the foolish there is neither last night nor last day. He goes on making plans to his dying breath; to the last moment he keeps calculating. Death reaches the door and still he does not see it. Such is our blindness.

What reliance on this body—like the sea's ebb and flow. It rises and is gone, comes and is gone; the wave comes and passes. Life is like the tides. What reliance are you making upon this body? What is its capacity, do you think? At ninety-eight degrees of warmth all is well—you are alive. Let it drop just four to six degrees—just four to six degrees lower—and you are cold. Or let it rise ten degrees—you are vaporized. What then is the span of your life? Some ten or fifteen degrees—that is all. Such a small boundary is yours. A single drop of poison and all is finished. So much is our capacity; so much our worthiness.

On Hiroshima the first atom bomb fell; within five minutes a hundred thousand persons were ash. People just like us. They must have been engaged in all kinds of plans. Someone had bought cinema tickets and was to see a film that night. Someone wanted to go to the circus. In someone's house the band was playing, the shehnai was sounding—a wedding was happening. In someone's home a son had been born and celebration was going on. Someone's beloved had returned home and he had celebrated Diwali. And everything must have been happening as happens in all cities. Bridegrooms were decking themselves, brides were adorning themselves, children were preparing for school tomorrow. All was moving as it moves in the whole world. And within five minutes all became cold, all became ash! All dreams vanished as if they had never been. Search and not one person could be found, not one face recognized. All were corpses.

On such a momentary life, how can you rely? We are all sitting here now—and in a single moment all could end. You will not even know when it ended. If the sun were to grow cold—one day or another it will; the day it does, the earth will grow cold the same day. Flowers will wither where they stand. The breath that went in will not come out; the one that went out will not go in. On such a momentary life how much we have relied!

And even if the sun grows cold or not, the sun of each individual grows cold. Every day someone dies in the village, every day a bier is lifted—and still you do not remember: one more wave has vanished. Such a wave you are too.

It is born and it is gone; it takes no time. Yet what pride, what conceit!

All told, this is what happened in life—
Dust upon dust, or else only smoke
We kept making entries of deposit after deposit
But never by mistake did we post to the debit side
Today we sat and did the arithmetic of a lifetime—
Added and subtracted by the lakh; the result: zero
Empty were the hands, and the seat was pulled away
We had to leave the gambling table of life
We had to set out upon a blind journey
From the moment the breath-sequence began
The feet have been walking incessantly upon the road—
Yet the distance in between does not lessen
Returning is impossible—where to go?
This side ravines, that side a well
Whenever love touched our heart
The wound there only grew green again
Till today not a single pearl could be shaped
Whenever from the eye a hot tear fell
Blessings only did happiness give as curses
Even pain could not gift us a prayer

Do at least a little accounting of life! What has come into your hands? Do the arithmetic properly.

All told, this is what happened in life—
Dust upon dust, or else only smoke

Open your hands and look carefully—they were empty, they are empty.

We kept making entries of deposit after deposit
But never by mistake did we post to the debit side
Today we sat and did the arithmetic of a lifetime—
Added and subtracted by the lakh; the result: zero

What comes to the hand? Zero comes to the hand. And how much we leapt and danced, how much noise we made, how much we fought and struggled!

One evening Buddha passed by a river; he stood still. Children were building castles of sand on the riverbank, palaces, little houses. And Buddha said to his disciples: Look carefully. This is what you too have been doing all your lives. Sand houses, sand palaces—made here, destroyed here. And Buddha said: Listen, many times in the day these children even fought amongst themselves because someone’s foot knocked someone else's palace; someone's foot came down upon someone's palace and the palace fell. They hit and beat each other, they abused each other. And now evening has come, the sun has set, and from their homes the call is coming: Children, now come back; it's time to eat. Now the children are returning. For the very same houses for which they fought all day, they themselves are now jumping upon them, knocking them down, destroying them, dancing and singing back home.

Buddha said: Such is life. Death comes, the sun sets, the call comes to return. All lies here. Those very houses for which we fought, those very palaces for which we were ready to kill and die—what do we carry in our hand? We carry nothing. It is great fun, a great joke.

Doolan says rightly: the world is a wonder. Children come empty-handed; the old go empty-handed. Only one difference: when the children come, the fist is closed; when the old go, the fist is open. Both are empty-handed, but the child has some illusions, so he keeps his fist clenched—thinking perhaps there are jewels. He is a child, where would understanding be yet! He clutches his fist as if a great treasure were hidden there. The difference is only this at death: the hand opens too, the delusions of a lifetime break as well. Children arrive with hope; the old depart utterly hopeless. Children arrive with grand dreams; in the hands of the old not even the dust of dreams remains.

Empty were the hands, and the seat was pulled away
We had to leave the gambling table of life
We had to set out upon a blind journey
From the moment the breath-sequence began
The feet have been walking incessantly upon the road—
Yet the distance in between does not lessen

You do walk a lot—but do you ever arrive anywhere or not—when will you think of this? The horizon remains just as far. Birth after birth you have been walking and the horizon remains just as far. It seems here it is, here it is—now we reach, now we reach—yet we never reach. The distance remains the same.

Returning is impossible—where to go?
This side ravines, that side a well

Great death, great difficulty. Nowhere to return, where to return? The time gone is gone, cannot be returned to. And ahead you keep walking, keep walking, arriving does not happen. Such is this futile life—and yet how much pride, how much conceit, how much stiffness! Man must certainly be mad; otherwise there would be no pride, no stiffness, no ego. Man must certainly be blind.

Whenever love touched our heart
The wound there only grew green again
Till today not a single pearl could be shaped
Whenever from the eye a hot tear fell

Look at your eyes—only hot tears have been dripping. Has any pearl ever fallen? Do not get entangled in the poems of poets; they are only dreams, hopes, longings. There is no glimpse of truth in them; they are not descriptions of fact; they decorate man's desires. Look closely and you will see: no pearls fall from the eye; only hot tears drop—of sorrow, of gloom, of failure, of pain, of defeat.

Blessings only did happiness give as curses
Even pain could not gift us a prayer

How much happiness did we chase, and behind each happiness we found sorrow lying hidden. How many flowers we sought, and each flower came as a thorn. How many lights shimmered from afar, and when we came near, nothing but darkness came into our hand. From afar what was a full moon, coming close became the new moon night. From afar all was very beautiful; coming close all became ugly. From afar there was great fragrance; as we came near, fragrance vanished and deepening stench arose. A reconsideration of this life is necessary. Raise a question mark against this life.

It arises and it passes; it takes no time—yet what pride, what conceit!
This is all the doing of the Doer; take his Name and recognize

And the fun is that in the race of ego, all of us have become doers—I will do this, I will do that. What happens by our doing! What capacity is in our hands to do! Not our birth, not our death, not even our life. We are not—what of ours?

If you were to ask leaves and if they could answer, they would say: I am growing. See how green I have become! How much I have spread! Ever seen a leaf like this before? The leaf would strut and say: Look carefully—I am unique, unmatched. A leaf like me has never been. Leaves there have been—but what comparison with me! And a leaf like me will never again be. If you were to ask the river-current and it could answer, it would not say: I am on a slope, therefore I am flowing. It would say: I am on a journey. I am traveling towards the ocean.

Except for man, since nature gives no answers, you do not know; otherwise every pebble would say: I am special; and every leaf would say: I am a doer. Only man, since he can answer, since Paramatma has gifted him with awareness, with consciousness—instead of profiting from that consciousness he falls into immense loss. Instead of using that consciousness to see: I am a witness—he becomes the doer.

Two outcomes are possible to consciousness: either consciousness goes astray, fills with forgetfulness—then it becomes doer. If you become the doer, you have fallen into hell—not that you will fall someday; you have fallen now. Sorrow will be the story of your life, anguish your tale. Or consciousness becomes the witness—then you are a Buddha; then here itself is moksha, here itself Nirvana. Hai yeh pad nirbana—this is the nirbanic state!

These two possibilities belong to consciousness. Most have become doers. In such matters too you assume the sense of doership where even imagining a doer is not possible. People say: I am breathing. You are breathing? The breath is coming and going—there too you become doer. You say: I am taking it—as if, should you decide not to, the breath would stop. Try stopping it. For a moment or two the delusion will stay; then you will be drenched in sweat. Then you will know that the breath wants to come. It is beyond your power; it will come. And if you take the breath, how will you die? If death arrives and you keep taking the breath, death will have to go back. Even breath—where do we take it! Even an inevitability like breath is not our act. And it is good that it is not our act—otherwise by night you would sleep and by morning you would not wake, for in sleep you would forget; for a moment or two you would not take it!

I know a gentleman who fears sleeping at night. A professor in a university. His wife brought him to me. A very thoughtful man—slightly too thoughtful. He is greatly troubled by the thought that suppose, say, I sleep at night and the breath does not go on—then what? So he is frightened of sleep: what if I do not get up again—then what will happen? He stays nervous. He sleeps in the day; he does not sleep at night—so that the wife and children can watch that the breath is going on!

The psychologists say such a man is unhinged. But this state would befall all if breath were your act. Sometimes you would forget—in a quarrel with someone you would get angry and forget to take a breath—and you would collapse there and then. Breath goes on by itself. Even if you lie unconscious it goes on. The one who is drunk and fallen in the gutter—his goes on too, very happily.

I was taken to a woman. She has been unconscious nine months, in a coma; but her breath goes on. For nine months she has had no awareness. For nine months she does not know whether she is alive or dead; yet the breath goes on. Even such a deed as the breath, which is not yours—not at all yours—you make it your own. Drop the doer-sense; awaken the witness-sense—and the key will come into your hand. Then the temple door will not delay in opening.

This is all the Doer’s doing
Take his Name and recognize

This whole play is his. If there is a Doer, it is Paramatma. If we are at all, we are witnesses, seers.

Take his Name and recognize

Drop your own name. If you must take anyone’s name, take his whose is the whole creation.

Listen, Vast One, say it a hundred thousand times if you will—
But I know for certain:
The song will not leave you
Tell the truth—when do you write?
It is written through you
Into the tears of your eyelashes
I am plunged
The writer is the inner pain
His companionship with you, O mad one
Will break only with the funeral pyre
Clamp silence upon the note
Avoid words as much as you will
Knowingly or unknowingly
A composition will arise through you
You may abstain, yet within you
The spring of juice that flows—
It has to break forth; it will break forth
How will you deny it?
It is not a matter in your control
You are a medium of another
Perhaps you do not know it
The Giver has placed upon you—
On sandal, a spark
Fire will remain, smoke will rise
Listen, Vast One, say it a hundred thousand times if you will—
But I know for certain:
The song will not leave you

Those who are true poets, who are rishis, have said just this: We did not sing; singing was done through us. Those who are true dancers said just this: We did not dance; Paramatma danced through us. We did not speak; he spoke.

Among the Buddhists it is said that Buddha did not utter a single word. Now could there be a more false statement than this? For forty-two years Buddha spoke morning and evening, spoke without break; and the Buddhist scriptures say that Buddha did not speak a single word. Yet this is not false; it is true. That Buddha spoke forty-two years is true; and that Buddha did not utter a single word is also true. Paramatma spoke.

The Vedas were not composed by rishis, therefore we call the Vedas apaurusheya—not of human authorship. Men did not make them; Paramatma sang them. The rishis of the Veda became mediums. As you write a love letter with a pen—you write; the pen does not. The pen is only a medium.

Tell the truth—when do you write?
It is written through you
Knowingly or unknowingly
A composition will arise through you
Within you the spring of juice

Within us the Infinite is flowing. He is the one breathing; he is coursing in our blood; he is in the throb of our heart; he is in our every particle.

You are a medium of another
Perhaps you do not know it
The Giver has placed upon you—
On sandal, a spark
Fire will remain, smoke will rise

Man takes himself to be the owner; there the mistake happens. Man takes himself to be separate; there the mistake happens. This Existence is one. Here there is no difference of I and you. Here all is connected, conjoined. The realization of this togetherness is called Brahman-experience—Aham Brahmasmi. All is one—this very experience is called Samadhi. And he who has not known thus will live in sorrow.

This is all the Doer’s doing; take his Name and recognize
Today is a good opportunity to remember; no one knows the time

And such a rare opportunity it is today—to bhaj, to remember. Remember the true Name. Recognize the Doer. Catch hold of the one hidden within all mediums—whose picture is in all pictures, whose song is in all songs, whose color is in all colors.

Today is a good opportunity to remember; no one knows of time

Tomorrow—who knows? Do not postpone to tomorrow. It is not proper to miss this golden moment.

None carries anything with his hands as companion
The world is a wonder

We bring nothing, we take nothing.

The world is a wonder

But what a wonder! Bring nothing, take nothing, and how much uproar we make! How much snatching, this mine-and-thine, this scramble! How we clutch and hold: This is mine; keep away, do not touch it—it is mine. It was here before we were, it will be here when we are not. Our being or not being makes no difference.

The one who remembers that my hands are empty, and that whatever I may do here the hands will not be filled—within his life a new search begins: Then whom shall I seek through whom I may be filled, through whom my emptiness becomes fullness, through whom my pitcher becomes the ocean?

Today is a good opportunity to remember; no one knows the time

Bhaj, awaken, recognize

Fragrant, solitude has become camphor-scented
Distances of leagues have dwindled, all distance has folded
Who is this, binding the touch of the bodiless
Who has brought laughter?
Silence has begun to chirp
Notes have sprouted
From the layers of the life-breath, musk has emerged
Bitter moments have turned sweet
Desire has turned rosy
Love-flowers are yellow
Wishes have turned green
Sensitivities blue
Dreams are saffron, memories wine-hued
Attraction orange, aspirations vermilion
The mind even wipes tears of joy
As if no one should see—
Like stolen goods
Let the tears tell to the end their happy tale
Do not leave the rangoli of dreams half-done
Vultures of doubt
Circle over happiness
Timid smiles
Come to the lips
Do moments of thrill come every day?—not necessary
Let consciousness, like a peacock, dance up this very moment
What faith in tomorrow! Moments of thrill do not come every day. This hour may never return.
Let the peacock of awareness dance now, here, at once!
Fragrant, solitude has become camphor-scented
Distances of leagues have dwindled, all distance has folded

In this very moment distance can dissolve. In this very moment that emptiness can be filled which never filled. Your beggar's bowl can be laden with flowers right now—but one decisive resolve is required: I will not postpone any more, no more. I will not delay. I will drink this moment; I will squeeze this moment, for only this moment is truth. The past has gone, it is no more. The future has not come, it is not yet. Apart from the moment of the present there is no other door to Paramatma.

Today is a good opportunity to remember; no one knows the time
Nothing stays in anyone’s hands as companion, the world is a wonder
Doolan says: Trust and sing bhajans; this is the mark of the Name

Plunge into this very moment—plunge of trust, of faith, of love, of reliance. Bhajan is the color of trust. Questions are born from doubt; philosophy is born from doubt. From trust arise bhajan, arise dance, arises religion. Trust means: the Vast from which we have come—we belong to it, and into it we have to return. Trust means: the one who has birthed us is our friend, not our enemy. So what unbelief, what doubt! As a small child does not doubt his mother—he cannot. It is impossible. From whose womb he has come, with whom he has been one for nine months—how can he doubt her?

This whole Existence is our womb. We have come out of it; into it we shall return. As the wave arises from the ocean, dances in the ocean, dissolves in the ocean. The wave of the ocean and doubt upon the ocean! Then we will only rot in distrust, decay, suffer.

Those whose minds are seized deep by doubt—heaven departs from their life forever. There is no meeting of doubt and heaven.

The expressed form of trust is bhajan. It is not necessary what kind of bhajan you do—Hindu, or Muslim, or Christian; it is not necessary whether in temple, mosque, or gurdwara. Only this much is necessary: that it comes from the trust of your heart. Then gurdwara will do, mosque will do, temple will do. If there is no temple, no gurdwara, it will do. Wherever the song born of your heart rises and awakens—there is temple, there is gurdwara.

Yogi, dwell in the city of awareness

Doolandas says: Two uses are possible for consciousness: either become a doer and miss; or become consciousness as witness and you are on the path.

Yogi, dwell in the city of awareness

Be a witness. Live in the city of witnessing. The one who becomes a witness attains bliss. Happiness follows behind the witness as your shadow follows you.

This house is of sorrow, tears dwell here—
Where does happiness reside? Ask nearby
We have heard happiness has come to live close by
But we have not met him, never seen his face
You are searching—if you find him, tell us
If you meet him, introduce him to us
Meanwhile, lest you stumble in the dark
Light a lamp—ask for light
You are not the first to come—and those who came
Have not returned from the search till now
In seeking happiness, they have lost themselves
For a few laughs, how much they have wept!
If you agree, I will tell you a small secret
Not by laughing will you obtain him—ask in sadness
The seeker is lost; this search is strange
Asking, he asks his own address—happiness is wondrous
The courtyard is of tears, the threshold of smiles
Pain is the elder sister of joy and laughter indeed
You yourself are the musk-deer—your joy and sorrow are within you
Would that you ask your own address from yourself!

We keep asking: where is happiness, where heaven, where bliss—and we do not find it. Kasturi kundal basai. And we are the musk-deer. In our very navel the musk abides. From within us the fragrance rises and the fragrance is driving us mad. And we run like mad. Seeking here and seeking there. And that which we seek is our very nature. But nature can be known only by those who become conscious, who fill with awareness, in whom the lamp of meditation is lit. The one caught in the doer—the lamp of meditation goes out. The one entangled in the doer—within him only darkness spreads. Ego is darkness.

And the one who has become aware, who has said: I am not the doer; the Doer is Paramatma; I am only the seer, I watch his play, I watch his game, I watch his rasa; I am merely a witness. The moment such knowing happens, the ocean of bliss surges within— it was surging; we were only unfamiliar with it.

Yogi, dwell in the city of awareness
Wrap yourself in the shawl of love's color and juice; hold the misbaha of the mind

And if even a little thread of consciousness begins to link—if even a little stream of consciousness starts flowing—you will be amazed: along with consciousness love's color also awakens. Consciousness, dhyana, and love are two sides of the same coin. On one side love; on the other, meditation. If meditation happens, love arises of itself; if love happens, meditation arises of itself. These are the only two paths. If you walk by meditation, meditation will be attained, love will be the reward. If you walk by love, by bhakti, bhakti will be attained, love will be attained, meditation will be the reward. Both happen together. Begin with one, both are received. For the coin cannot be divided.

Wrap yourself in the shawl of love's color and juice; hold the misbaha of the mind

Now turn the rosary of the mind. You have turned outer rosaries enough. And what is the rosary of the mind? This world is a festival; it is the play of the love of the Lord. This is rasa. If Paramatma is Krishna, this whole Existence is dancing around him as gopis. This unbroken rasa is going on. Here the rain of love is falling. Here the dust of love is being thrown. Here the wine of love's juice is being poured and drunk. This is the tavern.

Wrap yourself in the shawl of love's color and juice; hold the misbaha of the mind

But if you remain entangled in outer rosaries, in rituals, you will not even come to know who you were, what wealth you brought! You died a beggar and were an emperor. You have been given the same as Buddha. I have been given the same as you. All have the same—but how we use it! One can use a sword to cut another's head off, and another can use a sword to save the head being cut. In the hands of the wise even poison becomes nectar; in the hands of the foolish even nectar becomes poison.

First gift I give you—
Only a single bakul flower
If you respect it, it is champa
If you do not, it is only a babul thorn
Do not measure the poverty of gifts
By the feeling of the mind
Consult your own discrimination
Do not tremble at the moment of decision
I introduce you to
The first tender-shoot thorn of pain—
If you accept it, it is a golden wand
If not, it is a trident
A mere span of feeling lies between
Love and hate
It is only the wall of a cup
Between quenching and thirst
I entrust to you a pinch
Of the fragrant dust of dreams
Accept it, it is sandal—
If not, all is futile

All depends on you. A touch of alchemy, a little art—and dust becomes sandal; else sandal becomes dust. Then thorns become flowers; else flowers become thorns. And the distance is not great.

Consciousness has two capacities—either become doer or become witness. The method to become doer is: whatever is around you, tie your I with everything. If the breath moves, say: I breathe. If love happens, say: I love. If success comes, say: my success. And you will go on missing. Identification with the doer—and you begin to descend the steps.

Break identification. If the breath moves, say: I see that breath moves. I am witness that breath moves. I am not the mover. If it moves, I watch; if it does not, I will watch. I am witness that love has happened; the doer is not I. I am witness that I am young; witness that I have grown old. Witness that I am ill; witness that I am healthy. Witness that success came; witness that failure came. Go on breaking identification. Do not identify with anything. In every moment intensify a single remembrance: that I am the seer, only the seer. I see all. If hunger comes, do not say: I am hungry. Say only: the body is hungry; I am witness of hunger. If thirst comes, say: I am witness of thirst. And then you will be amazed—this little key, and all locks open.

Yogi, dwell in the city of awareness
Wrap yourself in the shawl of love's color and juice; hold the misbaha of the mind
Bring within you the note of the Name; wash away all karma and all confusion

Wash away the doer-sense. And along with the doer go karma, and with karma the delusion too washes away.

Collect your seeing and hold to the true path; do not reveal the secret

Doolandas's Sai, Jagjivan—carry us across the ocean of becoming

This little boat can carry you across the ocean.

Collect your seeing and hold to the true path

Hold your attention firm. Surati means attention, remembrance—precisely remembering: who am I? I am the witness.

Collect your seeing and hold to the true path

And then wherever you walk, that is the true path.

Bring within you the note of the Name

And as soon as you have dropped the doer-sense, then only the tune of Paramatma plays. Within, he alone is—he alone is the doer. All is his doing: the good his, the bad his; life his, death his. Then even in failure given by his hand there is joy, for the hand is his. If he gives flowers—good fortune; if he gives thorns—good fortune. And to whom it begins to appear that even in thorns there is good fortune—will thorns remain thorns for him? For him thorns have become flowers. For the one in whom no complaint remains, all is gratitude. Only one feeling remains in his life: gratefulness, ahobhava. He rises, he sits, he walks, yet his worship goes on. Within him the sound continues, his tune continues.

Why have you all forgotten, brothers

And the matter is so simple—yet how have you all forgotten!

Why have you all forgotten, brothers? At least you—dive into the Sadguru's word

Then let the rest forget if they must, but at least you drown in the word of the Sadguru. Do not sit thinking: When all have forgotten, how can I awaken? When so many have forgotten, what is my worth, what is my strength? When all have forgotten, how can I awaken? Do not seek such excuses.

Why have you all forgotten, brothers? At least you—dive into the Sadguru's word

Doolandas says: Do not worry that all have forgotten; what can I do? If you wish to awaken, you can. Let all keep their eyes shut; if you wish to open, you can. Your decision is decisive.

Neither by yoga nor by chantings will the Lord be found; nor by worshiping stone
Not by washing feet; not by roasting the body

Not by burning the body will the Lord be found; nor by whipping it; nor by lying on thorns; nor by lying in the sun; nor by withering the body; nor by tormenting it. Paramatma is not some deranged being who will be pleased because you give pain to your body—that you squirm like a fish upon scorching sand, and Paramatma is pleased. If Paramatma were like that, he would be insane.

But your ascetics think thus: The more we torture ourselves, the more Paramatma will be pleased. This is great stupidity. It is as foolish as a child thinking: the more I will torture myself, the more my mother will be pleased—that if I pierce my body with thorns and thrust a spear through my mouth, make the body blood-soaked, fill it with wounds—my mother will be pleased. But this is the logic of your so-called renouncers and ascetics. By this logic Paramatma is not pleased; only their ego is gratified.

Neither by yoga nor by chantings will the Lord be found; nor by worshiping stone
Not by washing feet; not by roasting the body

Keep compassion and dharma in the heart; at home remain udasi

Doolandas speaks very simply and straight. Do only this much: let there be love in the heart, compassion, kindness, good will.

Dharma means: live in accord with your nature, naturally. When thirsty, drink water—that is nature. To drink too much is unnatural; to remain thirsty is unnatural. When hungry, accept appropriate food—that is natural. To eat in excess is unnatural; to fast is unnatural. He who settles in nature becomes dear to Paramatma. Nature is balance. Become natural. All the saints who have known have said only this: settle into nature. Do not go to extremes; excess is forbidden.

Keep compassion and dharma in the heart; at home remain udasi

And a wonderful thing he says: there is no need to go anywhere outside—forest, mountain, hill. No need to run away from home.

At home remain udasi

Remain at home, as you are. If husband, be husband; if wife, wife; if shopkeeper, shopkeeper—remain as you are. Only this much master: do not keep expectations from the world.

Udasi means: have no hope from the world. The world gives nothing. Empty you came; empty you will go. Ud-aas—leave hope. The one whose hope from the world drops, his hope with Paramatma joins. Whose hope is tied to the world—his breaks from Paramatma.

And remember also: the word udasi has got a wrong meaning. We call udasi those whose faces are drooping, sitting like corpses; we call them udasi. That is not the meaning. Udasi simply means: one who has no hope in the world. One who has understood there is nothing to be had here. Squeeze oil from sand as you will—it will not yield—this he has understood. Now why make a long face, smear soot, or weep tears for that! What is there to weep for? The point is understood: oil will not come from sand. What is there to weep, to be udasi in our sense! To make a long face! But over centuries you have made this the meaning. You call udasi the dead. Those who sit with very grave faces, whose lives are a lament, like a cremation ground— as if sitting by a corpse—on whose faces mourning is ever spread—that man you call udasi. This is a wrong meaning.

Udasi means: it is understood that the world is futile. Paramatma is meaningful. The one who has understood that the world is futile will become joyous, not sad; for half of truth's work is complete. And to whom it is understood that only in Paramatma is the real hope—only with that will flowers bloom; only with that will the juice flow. His life will be all auspiciousness; his life will be songs; his life will be festival—not udasi. He will dance. Pad ghunghru bandh Meera nachi re. In his life there will be great exuberance—state opposite to udasi. If one is udasi in the true sense, then in his life Wrap yourself in the shawl of love's color and juice—such a happening will happen. He will indeed dance draped in the shawl of love, of rasa, of color. In his hand will be the ektara. And he will not only speak of joy; he will shower it.

Clouds have gathered—then let them rain too
What will mere thunder do?
Standing, with eyelids open, waits—
Thirst calls for water
Will you only give assurances—
Will you not give quenching, O giver?
If you are not surrendered, then what use
Is decking and preening of sadhus?
Walls or guards may stand—
When has youth heeded bonds?
It gives a unique joy—
Eating forbidden fruit in stealth
Form and youth will meet—
What use a thousand prohibitions?
Henna on palm, vermilion on parting—
The bride is adorned
The groom has come, the toran has been struck—
Is the rite complete?
If only the seven rounds are taken—
What use the shahnai playing!
If the true espousal cannot be made,
Let not imagination remain a virgin
Words will not give meaning to poetry
If experience is not poured in
If the shape of truth is not grasped,
What use is spinning dreams?

He will dance, beating the mridang. The one who is udasi in the true sense—I call him the sannyasin. The one Doolandas has called: At home remain udasi—him I call sannyasin. Not going anywhere, not running away—just awakening at home.

Yogi, dwell in the city of awareness
Wrap yourself in the shawl of love's color and juice; hold the misbaha of the mind

And it is not only a matter of totalities.

Henna on palm, vermilion on parting—
The bride is adorned
The groom has come, the toran has been struck—
Is the rite complete?
If only the seven rounds are taken—
What use the shahnai playing!

The seven rounds will be taken, the shahnai will also play. This circumambulation will be taken. This is the circumambulation with joy. Therefore the one who is udasi, truly udasi—he is not sad in your sense at all. In the life of the true udasi the shahnai of joy plays; in his life the beat of celebration resounds.

Keep compassion and dharma in the heart; at home remain udasi
Know the life of another as your own—then the Deathless will be met

And when you begin to understand that what I am, the other is. What is in me is in the other. What is in the Hindu is in the Muslim. What is in the Christian is in the Sikh. What is in the Buddhist is in the Jain. What is in the Hindu is in the Parsi. The day this is seen—that what is in man is in the animal too; the day this is experienced, that what is in consciousness is in matter too—that day know you will not have to go anywhere; the Deathless himself will come seeking you.

Know the life of another as your own—then the Deathless will be met

Reading and reading the pundits are all tired; the mullah reads the Qur'an

People are entangled in books; the festival of life is going on—they do not join it. Paramatma is keeping the beat and your feet do not know to dance. Paramatma is playing the flute—you do not even hear; you are tangled in your books.

Reading and reading the pundits are all tired; the mullah reads the Qur'an

One reads the Qur'an, one reads the Purana. Eyes are fixed on words and Paramatma is present all around. The beloved whom you want to understand has surrounded you from all sides; you are in his embrace. Just awaken!

Yogi, dwell in the city of awareness
Wrap yourself in the shawl of love's color and juice; hold the misbaha of the mind
Bring within you the note of the Name; wash away all karma and all confusion
Collect your seeing and hold to the true path; do not reveal the secret
Doolandas's Sai Jagjivan—carry us across the ocean of becoming

Catch hold of a Guru, as Doolan caught hold of Jagjivan. Jagjivan was his Guru. He boarded his boat. He secured his remembrance. He mastered his attention. He filled his life-breath with his tune. He freed consciousness from the doer-sense and made it witness. He wrapped himself in the shawl of love. Sitting right at home he became a sannyasin. He dropped nothing, he renounced nothing—and yet all fell away, all was renounced. But some people remain only reading books; their whole life passes like parrots, memorizing words.

Smearing ash the yogis forgot; they too did not know the secret

There are those who smear ash. What have you understood life to be? Look a little at the kinds of foolishness going on! One wraps himself in ash and thinks Paramatma will be found. If only Paramatma were found by smearing ash—donkeys and horses roll and roll in ash. All would have arrived, all would have become siddhas. What will happen by smearing ash? Rituals of all kinds have been invented without any thought.

Leaving yoga and wakefulness aside, they left even bathing at pilgrimage places

Doolandas sings of devotion; this very state is nirbana

Doolandas says: The day I saw Paramatma was the day I dropped all this useless nonsense—this japa-tapa, this worship of stone, this washing of feet, this roasting of the body—I left it all. These scriptures, agamas and nigamas—I left them all.

Leaving yoga and wakefulness aside
Leaving even bathing at the tirthas

From the day I left these yogas and vigils—left even pilgrimage bathing—

From that day devotion happened in life. From that day I became a banda—a servant. From that day prayer welled. From that day the true feelings of the heart sprouted.

Doolandas sings of devotion; this very state is nirbana

And since then this song has been flowing, and goes on flowing. It does not stop. You cannot stop it by stopping. Since then Doolandas's life has become a song day and night.

Wash your eyes with tears; I begin the song

The song gives the rites to the poet
Turns the I into Om
Melting the stone of the chest
It is the song that makes it wax
Be with pain; I begin the song
It is the lamp of the aarti
The fragrance of meter is camphor
In the manuscript of tears
The tale of pain is complete
Open the inner door; I begin the song
Song is the timeless beauty
It is the soul of truth
That very Shiva-element of creation
The creative Paramatma it is
Dissolve intellect into feeling; I begin the song
The simplest sutra of philosophy
Like a verse of love
The aura of the deity—
A blazing radiance like that
Weigh the word with meaning; I begin the song
Here is Tulsi's bhakti
Here the eyes of Sura
This is Kabir's loom
This the khadtal of Meera
Speak only the speech of life-breath; I begin the song

Drop rituals! Drop formalities! Hum within the heart!

Here is Tulsi's bhakti
Here the eyes of Sura
This is Kabir's loom
This the khadtal of Meera
Speak only the speech of life-breath; I begin the song

Paramatma is not to be sought outside. He is not in any temple, not in any mosque; neither Kaaba nor Kailash; neither Qur'an nor Purana. In no methods and procedures is he. If he is anywhere, it is in the worship of your inner being, in your feeling, in the love of your life-breath, in your trust. If possible, let the song begin right now.

Doolandas sings of devotion; this very state is nirbana
Wash your eyes with tears; I begin the song

By tears he will be found; for by tears the eye becomes pure. Not only the outward eye—even the inner eye becomes pure. By tears he will be found; for the heart is cleansed. Bathing in the Ganga does not cleanse the heart. The dust of the body may be washed—yet it will settle again. The dust of the heart is washed by tears. Tears are the true Ganga of the sky. The tale is: one Ganga descended upon the earth and one remains in heaven. Tears are the Ganga of heaven.

Wash your eyes with tears; I begin the song
Be with pain; I begin the song
Awaken the pang of thirst for him, the pang of separation. Not your hollow arrangements, not your superficial rituals, yajnas, havans. The inner pain, the inner thirst, the inner call!

Wash your eyes with tears; I begin the song
Be with pain; I begin the song
Open the inner door; I begin the song
Dissolve intellect into feeling; I begin the song
Weigh the word with meaning; I begin the song
Here is Tulsi's bhakti
Here the eyes of Sura
This is Kabir's loom
This the khadtal of Meera
Speak only the speech of life-breath; I begin the song

Enough for today.