Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #3

Even gathering in the nets
takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.
The sun’s rays have withdrawn,
the lotus petals have folded,
day has turned its face from the earth.
Darkness descends from the sky,
a call has risen from home,
someone draws you, without a cord.
What the world calls waking is sleep.
The evening of that very day arrives
on the dawn of that very day.
Sleep comes suddenly,
takes away all sense and awareness—
it feels as if a thief has come to the bundle.
There is still a faint blush upon the horizon;
before the black night gathers,
rise, gather up your belongings.
Even gathering in the nets
takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.

What we call life is squandered in catching useless fish. We do cast the net, yes—but what comes into the hand? After the long race of a lifetime, we are as lost as we were at birth. Death does not find us an inch further on; death finds us where we were born. Such a life passes like a dream.
Understand the definition of dream: that which seems to be in the hand yet is not, that is dream. What appears mine today and tomorrow is no longer mine, that is dream. What seems to fill the heart today and tomorrow leaves it empty, that is dream.
Even gathering in the nets
takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.

All the Buddhas have given one call, again and again: as soon as possible, understand—life is an opportunity. In this opportunity you can heap up rubbish, or you can come upon the treasure of Paramatma. Life is a net; if you must hook a fish, then let it be Samadhi—do not settle for less. Whoever settles for less is unwise. When one begins to see that all he has done and is doing is a futile scramble, a ray of sannyas descends into his life.
Even gathering in the nets
takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.
The sun’s rays have withdrawn,
the lotus petals have folded,
day has turned its face from the earth.
And if morning has come, then evening is not far. As soon as there is morning, there is evening. Birth happens—death has happened. Union occurs—separation begins to prepare. Whatever is formed here, dissolves.
The sun’s rays have withdrawn,
the lotus petals have folded,
day has turned its face from the earth.
Awaken a little! Time is passing. The lotus petals are closing. The sun has descended into the west—any moment it will sink. Then the dense dark night. Then again the dense dark night of the womb. And then this same birth will begin, and the same race. This has happened many times. If not now, then when will you awaken? Already it is very late.
Darkness descends from the sky,
a call has risen from home,
someone draws you, without a cord.
Consider a little—where is your home? Are you building houses here in travelers’ rest houses? You are lodged in inns; at sunrise you must move on. Yet for the night you assume, “This is my house.” You decorate the walls, hang festoons, you deceive yourself. All effort is to take the dream as true.
There are only two kinds of people in this world: those who spend their life trying to believe the dream is true, and those who are engaged in knowing the dream as a dream. The one who knows the dream as dream—that one begins to remember the home, the real home. The one who recognizes the inn as an inn knows this is a halt, not the destination. Morning will come, and one must move on. The home is yet to be sought.
Darkness descends from the sky,
a call has risen from home,
someone draws you, without a cord.
And when the futility of the outer is seen, the pull of the inner begins. The inner attraction awakens. Something helplessly, without any cord, draws you within. That inner drawing is what is called sannyas. To live outwardly is sansar; to be drawn within is sannyas. To live in the outer is dream; to arrive within is truth. The journey between dream and truth is sannyas.
What the world calls waking is sleep.
The evening of that very day arrives
on the dawn of that very day.
Remember, remember, remember—remember again and again!
What the world calls waking is sleep.
The evening of that very day arrives
on the dawn of that very day.
Sleep comes suddenly,
takes away all sense and awareness—
it feels as if a thief has come to the bundle.
The thief is indeed upon your bundle. Guard as much as you will—you will not be able to guard it. Your bundle will be snatched. You snatched it from someone; someone else will snatch it from you. Here there is nothing but grabbing and snatching. You brought nothing, yet you sit as the owner of the bundle. You will go, and another will sit as owner of the bundle. And for this bundle you will lose all, a bundle from which not a single coin can go with you!
The thief of time is upon the bundle. You are being robbed—moment to moment you are being robbed. The one who looks carefully at how he is being robbed—revolution begins in his life.
There is still a faint blush upon the horizon;
before the black night gathers,
rise, gather up your belongings.
Whatever days are left—few days only.
Yesterday a friend asked: “You say tomorrow is not certain, but an astrologer tells me I will live seventy years—whom should I believe?”
Even if you live seventy years, what difference does it make? Seven days or seventy years; seven moments or seventy years—what difference? What will you do? In seven days you will gather rubbish; in seventy years, a little more.
You ask: “Shall I believe astrologers or you?”
Your mind wants to believe the astrologers. The mind itself takes you to astrologers. The mind wants consolation that death is very far, very far—so we may live a little, taste a little color and juice now, dance a little, be intoxicated a little, indulge a little—life is far away yet. The astrologer assures you: you have seventy years—don’t fear. But seventy years will pass as a line drawn on water disappears. How many have lived upon this earth! Seventy years, eighty, even a hundred—yet their names and traces are gone. In this vast expanse of the Infinite, what is the value of seventy years? In this endless time, seventy years is not even a tiny particle.
When I say, “There is no certainty of tomorrow,” I am saying this—not that it is certain you will die tomorrow. I am saying: do not postpone today’s life by trusting in tomorrow. If you live tomorrow—fine. If you do not—fine. But complete such work today that if you do not live tomorrow there is no regret.
At Hiroshima a bomb fell—one hundred thousand died. Do you think all their astrological spans were the same? A plane crashes—seven hundred die—do you think all the lines on their palms are equal? Their hand-lines differ, their birth charts differ. Had these seven hundred asked your astrologers, none would have said, “Your end has come now.” The astrologer lives by consoling you, hence he says what you already wish to believe. Yes, he will say one or two things you don’t wish to accept so you may trust that he is not merely flattering you—that his astrology is real. But what does the astrologer do? He deals in delusions!
Do not listen to astrologers; listen to the Buddhas. The Buddhas say something else: the day you were born, death began. Now it is only a matter of sooner or later. Whether evening comes today or tomorrow—what difference? Evening is going to come. The redness has begun to spread across the sky.
There is still a faint blush upon the horizon;
before the black night gathers,
rise, gather up your belongings.
Now there is still a little light; the eyes still see a little; there is some strength in the hands; the feet can still move. Rise, gather your belongings. Make a little preparation for that infinite journey. Gather a little provender for the endless path.
Even gathering in the nets
takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.
It will take a little time. You will meditate, you will pray, you will worship—this takes a little time.
It takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.
But you have spread a great bazaar. For many years I lived in Jabalpur. A shop sign always attracted me. One day no one was there, so I went in. The sign read: “Bade Pasari”—“Great Spreader.” The shop’s name: “The Great Spreader.” No one at the counter, an old man sat inside. It was closing time, evening. I went in and said, “When will you close the spreading?” The old man was startled: “What do you mean?” I said, “You are the ‘Great Spreader.’ The little spreaders are drowning; yours must be in a bad way.” He said, “I don’t understand—what are you saying? What do you wish to buy?” I said, “I’ve come to buy nothing. I’ve come to tell you the spreading has gone too far—now gather it in; evening has come.” He must have thought I was mad. From that day, whenever I passed, he would look intently and show me to his people: “That man is going.”
You are all great spreaders here—there is no small spreader. All have cast great nets. And what will you catch? Fish—foul-smelling fish.
One morning a fisherman cast his net, and Jesus placed his hand upon the man’s shoulder. The fisherman turned and saw those loving eyes of Jesus, the nectar flowing from them—and he went mad with love. Jesus said, “How long will you catch fish? Throw away your net, come with me. I will give you such a net that even Paramatma will be caught.” What, fish?
Even gathering in the nets
takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.
And that boatman left his nets then and there, and followed Jesus. Only those who have such courage can reach the truth.
Today’s sutras are very lovely—juicy, drunk with love. When the remembrance of home arises in someone, when the tune of home begins to play, such nectar showers, such a rain falls.
Sai, for your sake my eyes have become dispassionate.
He to whom the futility of this world is revealed—instantly Sai begins to appear in his eyes. Either the eyes look outward, or they look inward. As long as they look outward, there is darkness within. As they turn inward, the outer world dissolves. Sai appears, the Master appears—the Master of masters!
Your own nature, your innermost, the lamp lit within you!
Sai, for your sake my eyes have become dispassionate.
And once a glimpse is had, the eyes fill with his dispassion, his love, his longing. Then the pull begins. Then an inner race starts—more, more! Let me drown more, and more—until I am drowned utterly there can be no rest. A flame burns—yet such a lovely flame, and the fire is cool!
I am only your remembrance.
Like the smoke of a quenched lamp,
your memory rises up.
May no one meet such a death,
may such grief not befall anyone.
Drop by drop the sap of love dried up,
beam by beam the raying dimmed.
Only a smoky clench of night remains,
only the ash of union.
All the fireflies of the mind are drowned;
life is spread with collyrium.
Midstream was swallowed the palanquin of joy,
smitten by ill-fate.
I am only your remembrance.
Life’s night passes,
the sun of death stands at the head.
One by one all my dreams
have become strangers.
It may happen your remembrance too fades,
but I may not be able to fade.
Moment by moment all the lines
of the days gone by are thinning.
I am only your remembrance.
I am poisoned by a great thirst;
it seems I should never think of you,
that I should drink down these rocks
spread by the fog of memory.
Let me drink the vastness of cloud and sea,
let me drink the emptiness of life—
let me drink all the tones of creation,
let me drink the dry wind.
O god of nearness within,
I am my own helplessness.
I am only your remembrance.

The moment the eyes turn inward, this begins to tingle each moment—
I am only your remembrance.
O god of nearness within,
I am my own helplessness.
I am only your remembrance.
If the eyes see the Beloved once—even a glimmer! Like lightning in the dark; like a gust of wind filling you with freshness; like the fragrance of flowers drifting in, delighting your nostrils—just one slight glimpse, and the hour of revolution has come. Then you will never again be entangled in the outer flavors. The outer becomes tasteless; the outer becomes futile, without substance.
Sai, for your sake my eyes have become dispassionate.
For your true vision I thirst; I ask for nothing else.
Then the devotee asks for nothing else. The lover asks for nothing else.
For your true vision I thirst...
Just let me have your vision—
...I ask for nothing else.
As long as you ask for something else, know that your life has not yet touched Dharma. You go to a temple and ask for something—wealth, position, prestige—you have insulted Paramatma. To stand before Paramatma and ask for wealth—what does it mean? It means wealth is greater than Paramatma; you are making Paramatma a means to wealth. You ask for position, status, sons, daughters, jobs, fame—you have gravely insulted Paramatma.
Your prayers are nothing but insults to Paramatma. Hence they are neither heard nor fulfilled. Your prayers have no wings; they flutter and fall dead upon the earth, like insects. They do not have the capacity to soar into the sky. Those prayers fly that have only a single asking—only this: for Paramatma, and nothing else. No position, no wealth, no prestige. Let all be lost—position, wealth, prestige—but let union with Paramatma happen. The day one asks only for Paramatma—nakedly for Paramatma—that very instant the prayer is fulfilled. And he who attains Paramatma—everything else comes of itself.
Jesus’ famous word: Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all else shall be added unto you. First seek the Kingdom of the Lord; then all the rest will arrive of itself. Beware of the cunning of mind: do not ask for Paramatma so that the rest may come; you will miss. If you ask for Paramatma that all else be added, then you have not asked for Paramatma. The mind has tricked you; you have fallen into self-deception.
For your true vision I thirst; I ask for nothing else.
Day and night the inner tune of your Name has awakened.
When in your every breath, in every heartbeat, in every pore a single thrill keeps pouring, when in your every rising and sitting one cry wells up: “How to meet Paramatma!”—not that the words form; there is no need to say, for where there is feeling, words are useless. You are brimming with feeling; feeling flows. Feeling permeates your every joint, gleams from every hair. In your eyes is its ripple; in your hands its wave; in your speech and your silence its echo, its hue.
Day and night the inner tune of your Name has awakened.
Moulsiri has blossomed—but across the courtyard;
fragrance will be had, but
there will be no flowers,
the garment will remain empty,
the bridal cloth unfulfilled.
Tears have swelled—but beyond the collyrium;
bare are the desires,
a Kadamba of delusion;
the mirror cracked,
images shattered.
One form arose—but beyond vision.
No circling around the fire,
no wedding verses read—
yet in relationship
bloomed the Ashoka.
The life-breath is bound—but beyond bondage.
There is a circling that happens where no circling happens, yet it has occurred. There is a bond of love that cannot be called bondage—for it is liberation.
No circling around the fire,
no wedding verses read—
yet in relationship
bloomed the Ashoka.
The life-breath is bound, but beyond bondage.
Not a single shloka need be repeated—no Gita, no Koran, no Vedas, no Upanishads, no Dhammapada. Within the lover the one-stringed lute plays ceaselessly. It plays in sleep, it plays in waking. Only one remembrance abides.
No circling around the fire,
no wedding verses read—
yet in relationship
bloomed the Ashoka.
The life-breath is bound, but beyond bondage.
This bond of love with the Lord is such that no greater freedom exists. It does not bind—it liberates. That is love which does not bind but frees, in which liberation is hidden—an infinite liberation. Love that does not become moksha—know, it is something else, not love. What we call love binds us badly, shackles us; chains spread everywhere, hands and feet are fettered.
Do not, because of such love, conclude that love is wrong—though many have concluded thus. For centuries your so-called sadhus and saints have taught that love is sin, love is attachment, love is bondage. They have not known true love; under the name of love they have known something else. They have not known love of Paramatma; otherwise they could not speak thus. Love and bondage? Love and attachment? In love there is not even the shadow of attachment. In the light of love, the darkness of bondage cannot enter. Where love is, there is supreme freedom.
But then the art of love must be learned; love must be taken to heights, released from the pettiness of the earth; wings must be given to love, and sky. Love must become prayer. When love becomes prayer, it gives freedom. If love does not become prayer, it becomes desire—and then love is very binding.
Love has two possibilities: fallen, it is lust; risen, it is prayer. Fallen, it is hell; risen, it is heaven. Fallen, it is poison; risen, it is nectar. Those sadhus and saints who abused love saw only its fallen form. Remember: do not decide by looking at the fallen form. Do not judge the lotus by looking at the mud. If you want to judge, then judge the mud by the lotus—that is my way of seeing, my darshan.
I do not condemn the lotus because it springs from mud. I praise the mud because the lotus springs from it. Understand the inferior from the superior, and your life will become easy. Do not try to understand the superior from the inferior, else the meaning of your life will be lost, the poetry of life destroyed—only arithmetic will remain; no music will arise. Do not try to explain the vina and its strings to understand the music that rises—rather, understand the vina by the music that rises from it.
I do not condemn the world, for in this world Paramatma has been known. In this very world Buddha attained Buddhahood—how can we condemn it? In this world Doolan Das knew the Beloved—how can we condemn it? In this very world there have been those who experienced moksha. In this very darkness the sun of suns rose within people—how condemn the world? The world is an opportunity; but there are two possibilities.
Ask the scientist—he will say: consciousness is nothing, only a by-product of matter. Ask the mystic—he will say: matter is nothing, only the veiled form of consciousness. A great difference! The same words, put slightly differently—and the gulf is vast.
It happened that in a Jewish ashram two young men walked in the garden. Both were smokers. Inside the ashram smoking was not possible, but morning and evening there was an hour to stroll in the garden—to stroll for meditation. That was the one time when the Master’s eyes were not watching, and no one else’s either. They thought: let’s smoke here—but better to ask the Master.
Next day when they met, one said, “I asked; the Master was very angry—so angry I thought he would beat me. He took up a stick: ‘Wretch! Are you not ashamed to ask such a thing?’” The other said, “Strange! He gave me permission to smoke.” The first asked, “How did you ask? What were your words?” He said, “Straightforward: I asked, ‘May I smoke while meditating?’ He immediately raised the stick: ‘Meditating—and smoking? Wretch! Have you any sense? Meditation and smoking!’” The second laughed: “Now it’s clear. I asked, ‘May I meditate while smoking?’ He said, ‘Certainly!’”
How can you refuse if one asks to meditate while smoking? At least he is meditating while he smokes; and if he goes on meditating, perhaps one day the smoking will fall away. But to ask, “May I smoke while meditating?”—that turns it upside down.
Your sadhus and saints have seen life upside down—perhaps because they stand too long on their heads! Stand on your head and the world looks upside down.
Krishan Chandra tells a story: when Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was Prime Minister, a donkey went to see him—not an ordinary donkey, a learned one. The guard at the gate was dozing, as guards do. Had it been a man, perhaps he would have stopped him; but it was a donkey: “Let him go. What harm can a donkey do? He won’t carry a bomb, or a knife or gun. A donkey cannot be a communist or conspirator—let him in.”
The donkey reached inside. Early morning—Jawaharlal, as was his habit, was doing headstand in the garden. The donkey stood near. Nehru saw the donkey: “Brother donkey, I have seen many donkeys, but why are you standing upside down?” The donkey laughed: “Forgive me, Panditji, I am not upside down, you are doing headstand.” Seeing the donkey speak, Nehru leapt up. The donkey said, “Don’t be angry. I have no special quality—reading the newspapers, slowly I learned to speak.” By then Nehru had composed himself: “Don’t worry. You are not the first talking donkey; many come to see me daily. In truth, other than donkeys no one comes.” But Nehru standing upside down deceived him for a moment that the donkey was upside down.
Your sadhus and sannyasis have looked at life upside down. They have not seen it with love but with hatred. Hatred is a headstand. They have not seen it with wonder and gratitude but with condemnation. Condemnation is a headstand. They have not counted the flowers of life, only the thorns—and there they missed. The result of that miss has been disastrous. If the earth has become irreligious, it is not because of atheists, but because of your wrong sadhus and saints. Their wrong way of seeing has deprived humanity of religion.
Do not condemn the mud, for the lotus is hidden in it. Praise the lotus—and because the lotus arises from mud, praise the mud too. Then gratitude will arise in your life, a wonder will arise. Then everywhere you will see the visage of Paramatma—not only in saints, but in sinners too.
Day and night the inner tune of your Name has awakened.
Then it becomes possible—day and night! Rising, sitting; opening the eyes, closing them. Open the eyes—He is outside; open the eyes—He is inside. Stretch your hand—He comes to the touch. Hear—He; contemplate—He; taste—He; drink—He. Nothing exists other than Him. “God” is another name for Existence. A dear name, given by lovers. “Existence” is a neutral name, given by philosophers. “Paramatma” is the name of the lovers—Sai, Swami, Malik.
I turn the rosary within the mind; tears have begun to fall.
Says Doolan Das: now the rosary turns within the mind. The outer rosary has long since slipped away—an outer ritual, forgotten.
I turn the rosary within the mind; tears have begun to fall.
And I know only this prayer now—that a drizzle of tears has begun. Did not Meera say, “Watering with the water of tears, I have planted the vine of love?” That vine of love responds only to tears; no other water will do. It thrives only on tears.
I turn the rosary within the mind; tears have begun to fall.
In the instant the eyelids dropped at this device, the mind renounced maya.
He says: I saw a magic—just with the turning of the eyelids, mind and maya fell away. In the wink of an eye, looking within. The difference between the world and Paramatma is only an eyelid: this eye open, the world appears; this eye closed, Paramatma appears. A blink!
In the instant the eyelids dropped at this device—
a small device of closing the eyes, the art of seeing inward—
—the mind renounced maya.
All fell away which could not be dropped by countless efforts; wanting to drop, it would not drop—now it is gone.
My gaze is set forever toward truth; love for vision has arisen.
Now the gaze is fixed upon truth; even if I would turn it away, it does not turn. “In love with Darshan”—now only a stream of love flows.
I reel in drunken nights; the fire of longing burns.
Such intoxication has spread—dancing in ecstasy. And the ecstasy is unique: on one side a stream of joy flows; on the other, in the heart the fire of separation blazes. The nearer union comes, the more the fire of longing is inflamed. But remember—this fire does not merely burn; it refines. It makes you pure gold, kundan; it is not an enemy, it is a friend.
No—
I cannot give you the assurance
that when you pass beyond
these burning embers,
these clamoring flames,
this heated wind,
this caustic smoke,
then you will find
a lake of pure, cool water
in which to bathe,
in which each pore will be soothed,
in which your thirst will be quenched.
No—
beyond this fire and ember
there will also be fire and embers,
and beyond them again fire and embers—
again fire,
and again...
So is it burning and burning to the end?
No—
you will find deliverance from this fire
when you yourself become fire.
Thirst is quenched—but only when you become nothing but thirst. Fire becomes flower—but only when you become nothing but fire.
No—
I cannot give you the assurance
that when you pass beyond
these burning embers,
these clamoring flames,
this heated wind,
this caustic smoke,
then you will find
a lake of pure, cool water
in which to bathe,
in which each pore will be soothed,
in which your thirst will be quenched.
No—
beyond this fire and ember
there will also be fire and embers,
and beyond them again fire and embers—
again fire,
and again...
So is it burning and burning to the end?
No—
you will find deliverance from this fire
when you yourself become fire!
Such an hour comes—such an auspicious hour, the bride’s hour.
I reel in drunken nights; the fire of longing burns.
Such is the fire of longing—burning, and alongside the chime of union draws nearer by the day. Here the thorns prick; there flowers begin to bloom. They happen together. Therefore whoever avoids longing will avoid union. He who longs for union must burn in the fire of separation—must burn totally, become ash. Out of that great death, supreme life arises.
Meet the Lord of Doolan Das, and make me supremely fortunate.
Doolan Das says: the fire grows; the intoxication of union grows. The auspicious hour draws near.
Meet the Lord of Doolan Das...
Now—but now! The distance no longer seems great. Home has come into sight; the door is visible.
...make me supremely fortunate.
Now meet me, and become my supreme good fortune.
Blessed is my bridal hour today.
At your door today I have come to know what blessedness is.
Blessed is my bridal hour today.
Today I am filled with wifely bliss; today I am wedded; today my circling rounds have been performed.
Today, into my courtyard the Saint has come—
And as your fire grows intense, you do not need to go to Paramatma—Paramatma comes to you. Burn, unconditionally burn, and see—he descends into your courtyard. Burn, and you become the vessel.
Blessed is my bridal hour today.
Today, into my courtyard the Saint has come—how shall I host the Guest?
Says Doolan Das: how shall I offer hospitality? What have I to present to you? What shall I place at your feet? What is my capacity, my worth, my quality? All that I have is yours—how shall I offer what is already yours?
Take this as truth: in the final hour the devotee does not go to Paramatma. The devotee sits where he is and becomes ash. Paramatma comes. Always He has come. The devotee sits, becomes ash, is effaced.
Whenever I grow absent-minded,
my body and mind are wrung by longing—
at those times, Beloved, you come,
showering tender, intoxicating love.
When loneliness deepens,
when the mind wanders far away
from the clamors of the world,
then in that silence, it seems,
you quietly arrive,
and make the silent lute of the mind
resound again.
When the sky turns dark blue-black,
in the dance of thunder and roar,
when even the sun of hope is lost—
then suddenly from the eastern peak
you smile as the sun,
and taking me into your arms,
you bring me into the light.
When in the stillness of night,
my timid lone heart
calls to you in anguish—
then, O friend of my soul,
from where do you come in that instant,
and press these thirsty life-breaths
to your own?
I may be miles away from you—
you are with me each moment,
as flame is with the wick,
as the heartbeat dwells in the heart.
You too say, “We are not far”—
these lips of mine repeat it:
“Do not speak of separation in this life,
these are bonds of lives upon lives.”
We have never been cut off from Paramatma. He is dancing in our courtyard; we sit with eyes closed. And this bond is no new bond.
“You too say, ‘We are not far’—these lips of mine repeat it:
Do not speak of separation in this life,
these are bonds of lives upon lives.”
It is Him we seek—the One we have never lost. We search for the One who abides within, upon our throne. We seek Him in temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches—though we have not lost Him for even a moment. And because we seek outside, we do not find. He is within—first within. And when He is experienced within, gradually He is experienced without too. Paramatma comes.
Today, into my courtyard the Saint has come—how shall I host the Guest?
How to welcome? The devotee is dumbfounded. Even a knower like Doolan Das speaks thus—listen!
Bending low, low, I sweep the courtyard,
drunken I am with the waves of love.
What else can I do—bending again and again I sweep my courtyard.
Bending low, low, I sweep the courtyard,
drunken I am with the waves of love.
I am intoxicated; waves of love rise. I am not in my senses. If there is any mistake—forgive me. If there is any lack in hospitality—do not mind.
Bending low, low, I sweep the courtyard,
drunken I am with the waves of love.
Rice of feeling I shall cook,
bread of love I shall bake,
dal of knowing I shall ladle.
Do you hear? A knower like Doolan Das speaks childlike words. But love’s hour is such; the hour of love is like this. All knowing forgotten, all meditation forgotten.
Bending low, low, I sweep the courtyard,
drunken I am with the waves of love.
Rice of feeling, bread of love, dal of knowing I shall serve.
Doolan Das’s Sai Jagjivan—at the Guru’s feet I lay my life.
There is one thing a devotee never forgets. Even when Paramatma stands at the door, he does not forget to thank the Guru. That is never forgotten.
Kabir says: “Guru and Govind standing here—whose feet should I touch?” In the last moment, with Guru and Govind both before him, Kabir hesitates—whose feet first? One should touch Paramatma’s feet—but without the Guru, Paramatma could not be known. Therefore, the Guru’s feet first. But in the presence of Paramatma, to touch the Guru’s feet first—will this be seemly? Kabir’s hesitation is the saints’ hesitation. “Whose feet should I touch?—Guru and Govind both stand here.” The verse ends sweetly: “Blessed is the Guru, who showed me Govind.” Seeing Kabir’s hesitation, the Guru said, “Touch! Touch the feet of Paramatma.”
That is the true Satguru who in the last moment steps aside, who removes himself from between—no veil remains, not even a wisp of the bridal veil.
Doolan Das’s Sai Jagjivan—at the Guru’s feet I lay my life.
He says: today you have come to my door, and I remember the Guru, Jagjivan. Today I lay my life at his feet. How much I doubted him! How many questions I raised! How many hesitations! How difficult it was to move! How difficultly he made me move—how he explained, how he pacified, how he enticed! I ran away—he caught me and brought me. If it had been up to me, I would have run far from you. He did not let me have my way. He bound me in such a net of love I could not escape. His love brought me to you. In this hour of supreme fortune I lay my life at his feet.
From Satnam my eyes are fastened; my mind is chained in zikr.
The Sufis use the word “zikr”—it means what Kabir, Nanak, Dadu call surati—remembrance; what Buddha calls smriti—mindfulness. Zikr means: the remembrance keeps arising, keeps arising—day and night.
Day and night the inner tune of your Name has awakened.
From Satnam my eyes are fastened—
Now my eyes are stuck on You; they go nowhere else. There is nowhere else to go. Home has come.
—my mind is chained in zikr.
The mind is fettered in the chain of your remembrance; it has bound itself to you forever. The bond with the world is broken; the bond with Satnam is joined.
Your friend am I,
your lover am I,
our way is unique.
Then in the eyes
a drunken,
intoxicating,
dream-like
lovely image!
Those juicy, fragrant,
heaven-nectar,
dwelling of bliss—
small, sharp,
slender,
half-budded delicate
lips—
then nectar of the lower lip!
In the dignity of love’s modesty,
one with courtesy,
one with beauty lived—
with the pain of separation
they had withered,
weary,
intoxicating, intoxicating—
proclaimers of that same beauty.
Those jars of youth,
as if the water-pots of a wayside well—
Ah! Your remembrance,
with pain-filled
cries—
just leaves me aching.
A single cry begins to rise, day and night—a call. Be busy in a thousand tasks—bow and sweep, bake the breads of love, ladle the dal of joy, be occupied in a thousand chores—yet within, his remembrance goes on. Within, it does not go out. Not for a moment is there forgetfulness.
It is written of Janaka’s life: a Satguru sent his disciple to Janaka for the final attainment of knowledge. Seeing Janaka, the sannyasin was shocked. The court was full; dancers danced; wine was flowing. “What final teaching will this corrupt hedonist give?”—the thought naturally arose. But Janaka read his feeling at once: “Do not hurry; do not decide quickly. You have come—rest for the night. In the morning there will be satsang.” The sannyasin was tired: “I will stay the night. What satsang! I have seen enough. If you want corruption, stay.” Janaka said, “Do not hurry; at least wait till morning.
Janaka fed him himself, fanned him with a fan—those were the days when emperors fanned sannyasins. Then laid him upon a beautiful bed—the sannyasin had never seen such a bed. In the morning Janaka came: “Did you rest well?” He said, “What rest! I could not rest. Why is this sword hanging above?” Above the bed a naked sword hung by a single thread. “I tried hard to sleep. I repeated again and again that the Atman is immortal—but it was useless. I recalled all I had heard: only the body dies; na hanyate hanyamane sharire; nainam chhindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah—none of it worked. The sword hung naked, a fragile thread, a hint of wind—and it would break. I tossed and turned, tried to sleep—not possible. My eyes remained fixed on the sword. Even when I closed them, there it was. Perhaps a little drowse came; tired, I may have slept a little—but I did not forget the sword. Even in drowse, the sword hung; even in drowse I remembered the danger.”
Janaka said, “Have you understood? That is my condition. I sit in the palace, yet the sword of death hangs—I do not forget. And just as you remembered the sword even in sleep, there is a way to remember Paramatma—even in sleep. Wine flows, the dance continues, all goes on—yet I am outside it. I am present, and yet not present. Your Master sent you for this last truth. Until you know this, your sannyas is superficial. Now go. Sannyas is complete only when, living in the world, your sannyas remains unsullied—when standing in the market your meditation goes on; when sitting at the shop, your zikr continues; when you look after home and household, your one care is Paramatma. This is the final instruction for which your Master sent you. Now go.”
From Satnam my eyes are fastened; my mind is chained in zikr.
If the mind is bound in the chain of remembrance—if the cry keeps arising, again and again—then it no longer matters what you do. Your acts have no ultimate value; only your remembrance has value. Do good deeds, but if remembrance is not within, those deeds will bind. Do no great deeds, but if the remembrance of Paramatma flows within, no bondage will accrue.
Therefore Krishna could say to Arjuna: fight! Fighting is no holy act—kill! cut! do not fear. Only keep one thing in remembrance: that He is the doer; you are not a seeker of fruits. Do not bring yourself in between. Keep His remembrance. Surrender yourself at His feet, into His hands—then whatever He wills. Become His toy, His puppet—then whatever happens is right. Let His remembrance not slip. The essence of the Gita is this: leave all at the feet of Paramatma; leave all to remembrance. If His remembrance flows continuously, then whatever you do is auspicious, is dharma. Whatever happens through you is beautiful.
Friend, the eyes, forbidding, will not remain—they go to that shore to rest.
When the inner music begins, try as you will to pull yourself outward—the mind moves inward. Try to tangle it outside—it will not.
This used to happen daily in the life of Ramakrishna. It was difficult to take him anywhere. If the disciples invited him to someone’s house, even getting him along the road was trouble. As they went, if someone said, “Jay Ram ji!”—who could prevent people? On the road many walk; someone greets someone with “Jay Ram ji”—if he said it to Ramakrishna—that was enough. The Name of Ram hit the ear—on the road, at the crossroad, he went ecstatic; danced; tears streamed from his eyes; he fell at the crossroads; lost consciousness; forgot the outer world.
Someone asked Ramakrishna: “You go on pilgrimage to Jagannath; would it not be good to stop at Bodh Gaya, where Buddha attained?” Ramakrishna said, “No, I will not go to Bodh Gaya.” A very sweet, deep statement. “If I go to Bodh Gaya, I will not return. Where Buddha attained Buddhahood, the air itself is enough—then I will drown inwardly, and you will not be able to bring me out. If you want me to stay a while yet, to serve you, to hum a song of the Lord in your life, then keep me away from Bodh Gaya. I will not go.”
So many go to Bodh Gaya—from Korea, Japan, Taiwan, China, Tibet, Lanka. But the one person who should have gone, who had the capacity, said, “No—keep me from Bodh Gaya. If it comes in the way, it will be difficult—I will be absorbed into my inner emptiness. No device will then bring me back to the outside. Do not take me where Buddha was born, or where he attained, or where he died—avoid these three; there is danger there. And later do not say, ‘Why did you not warn us?’”
Ramakrishna said an astounding thing—true. A person like Ramakrishna, merely by the remembrance of Buddha, could dive so deep that we would no longer find him.
Friend, the eyes, forbidding, will not remain...
Doolan Das says: I forbid my eyes—look a little outward, why are you only looking within? To stare fixedly at one is not etiquette—blink a little, give your eyes some rest.
Friend, the eyes, forbidding, will not remain...
But no device works. Forbid as I may, the eyes go there.
...now they come to rest only at that shore.
Now there is only the desire to rest near Him; neither the desire nor the possibility to rest anywhere else.
Lovers of the Beloved’s Name are mad—the eyes fill again and again with tears.
As soon as I hear His name, the eyes fill with tears; the eyes become a lake.
Lovers of the Beloved’s Name are mad...
The Beloved’s very Name is enough for the thrill—as if someone poured wine.
...the eyes fill again and again with tears.
Drunk with nectar, dyed in nectar—
this is the deepening of this love.
How can I tell you how I dive in nectar?
Drunk with nectar, dyed in nectar—this is the deepening of love.
Thus the knowers have defined Paramatma as rasa—Raso vai sah. Paramatma is essence of nectar. Such a definition is nowhere else. Jews have defined God as Creator—fine, a working notion. Christians define Him thus and thus—but “Raso vai sah”—there is no comparison. Paramatma is rasa—it is not a philosopher’s definition; it is the definition of the carefree, of the mad lovers—those who have tasted and drunk, those who have gone bliss-mad—such a drunkenness that a lamp of awareness also burns within. This is their definition, very near. Strictly, Paramatma cannot be defined—but if one must, raso vai sah—He is nectar.
Drunk with nectar, dyed in nectar—this is the deepening of love.
Friend, lovers of the Beloved’s love—leave the world’s wealth and crowd.
Listen, now love has arisen—ishq has arisen. We have become lovers; Paramatma has become the Beloved. We are Majnun; He is Laila. As Majnun cries: Laila, Laila, Laila.
Have you heard Majnun’s story? His constant crying—Laila-Laila—through lanes and alleys. Laila was a girl of a prestigious house; her father was angry. Majnun’s vagabonding, his cries became too heavy. The father decided to leave the village. He was wealthy; much wealth, many camels loaded; the caravan moved. Laila too was tied onto a camel. Majnun heard, and stood outside the village under a tree; his tune began, ceaseless: Laila, Laila. The caravan passed; Laila heard the tune; tears fell from her eyes; there was no remedy. The caravan went far; Majnun’s voice grew louder. The caravan went farther; he cried and cried. The story is delightful.
Know, the story of Laila-Majnun is a Sufi parable—it is not of ordinary love. Laila is the symbol of Paramatma; Majnun, the devotee. Majnun stood by that tree; days and nights passed, moons rose and set, suns rose and set, rains came, heat came, all seasons came—no one knows how long—but he cried: Laila, Laila. As long as there was breath and voice, he cried.
Twelve years passed; Laila returned. She asked in the village after Majnun. People said, “Majnun is no more—only his voice. At night, if you stand beneath such-and-such tree you will hear it: Laila, Laila. Majnun—we don’t know; the voice remains. Perhaps he is a ghost—we fear to pass there at night.” Laila went beneath that tree; the voice was there. Others heard it only in midnight silence, their heads being full of noise—but Laila heard even in the day. As she approached the tree, the voice sounded; as if the twelve years were erased. When she came close she was startled—Majnun had not died; but standing with the tree for twelve years, he had become one with it. His hands had become branches, leaves sprung upon his body, flowers too. Now he was part of the tree—and the whole tree uttered one tune: Laila-Laila. A lovely tale—the tale of a devotee.
Drunk with nectar, dyed in nectar—this is the deepening of love.
Friend, lovers of the Beloved’s love—leave the world’s wealth and crowd.
Leave the crowd—there no one will be found, no companion. Your companion is within—call to Him.
Voices, today leave me alone—
let there be a space
apart from the crowd
where my own being can be,
where a private unit,
self-mastery can be.
Noise has filled every vein—
squeeze it out.
A hawker of mirrors,
in a land of stone,
a voice surrounds me
with an ancient ache—
my relation to soundless breath—
join it again.
I am harried by my own
praise and praise—
moments return from my door
without hospitality—
proud dignities, break the jars
of my frustrations.
Cursed with excess,
in a metropolis-sense,
I wandered among machines
in search of myself—
O discriminating wisdom, break
this dark ego of mine.
Voices, today leave me alone.
There is crowd all around you, and it has entered within. Listening to outer noise, inside you too is only noise. In that racket, the innermost call is lost—the Beloved’s call—zikr, remembrance, surati, smriti.
Within you a voice arises still, but very faint—because the noise is great. You must cut yourself from this noise. Cutting away from noise is meditation. Leave the outer voices; gradually bid farewell to the inner voices too. Say goodbye. Enough of this tumult. Let silence settle within; let a little emptiness be born. Let no-thought come—and in that no-thought you will hear for the first time: Majnun is awake, Laila has been called.
Friend, Gopichand, Bharthari, Sultana became fakirs.
Friend, says Doolan, this is the strange pain of love.
They say Gopichand—and Bharthari was an emperor, not ordinary, and not ordinary cleverness—he must have lived deeply, thus wrote the astonishing Shringar Shataka. But one day he saw: outer adornment is deception; outer beauty an illusion, dreams—true beauty is within; true adornment within; the true king is within. The outer kingship is vanity; the true lordship is of the Atman.
One day he left all and went. He wrote another book as precious as the Shringar Shataka—the Vairagya Shataka. He wrote of raga, deeply; and only he who wrote so deeply of raga could write so deeply of vairagya. These two—beauty, adornment, dispassion, devotion—are united; two faces of one experience. To see the world rightly is to see it futile. Drums at a distance sound sweet; the mirage became known. Bharthari left all and became a fakir—and gained by leaving what he could not gain by grasping. In vairagya he knew that beauty which was not known in beauty; he found that raga in dispassion which he could not find in raga. The true adornment is only one—that Buddhahood is born in you; the lamp of the Atman is lit—that is the real adornment. Before it, all Kohinoors are pebbles.
Friend, Gopichand, Bharthari, Sultana became fakirs.
Understanding came, and the emperor became a fakir.
Friend, says Doolan...
This path is very strange; it is hard to say.
Friend, says Doolan, this is the strange pain of love.
But remember—Bharthari became a fakir through love, through love of Paramatma. He had tried little-little loves and found nothing—far mirages that, seen near, are heaps of sand. Then he sought the true oasis—which is the search of love. Beware: do not become love’s enemy, else you will never be joined to Paramatma. Love is the bridge—it joins you to the world, and it joins you to Paramatma. There is only one joining: love. Joined to the world, you will remain in sorrow—because the world has nothing, only appearance. Joined to Paramatma, you will be fulfilled—because He is truth. It is a strange pain of love; it cannot be said.
Some content wanders anxious in the heart—
if possible, grant it expression.
The feeling has gone
to the unconscious chambers;
ripe in a moment of surge,
it now asks for the ground of words—
that poem budding on the lips—
grant it an address.
Some nameless note floats in the breath—
if possible, grant it a calling.
Under the banyan of my ego,
no plant of feeling could root;
I made myself the center,
turned myself into the circumference—
my discrimination shivers,
held captive.
Ahalya became a stone in numbness—
if possible, grant her feeling.
What is life? Give the two ends of age,
in which the length of journey stretches.
Each step, to avoid error,
again and again repeated the error—
man has lived amidst mistakes—
if possible, grant it revision.
Pray only this to Paramatma—
What is life? Give the two ends of age,
in which the length of journey stretches.
Each step, to avoid error,
again and again repeated the error—
man has lived amidst mistakes—
if possible, grant it revision.
O Lord, correct it a little—set right these mistakes.
Ahalya has become stone from numbness—
if possible, grant her feeling.
We are stone without love—grant a little sensitivity.
Some nameless note floats in the breath—
if possible, grant it a calling.
Within each, the sound of Paramatma resounds; but we have forgotten how to relate to it, how to awaken it, call it forth, give it expression.
If possible, grant it a calling.
Some content wanders anxious in the heart—
if possible, grant it expression.
Until Paramatma can emerge from within you—until, like a bud becoming a flower, you become a flower of Paramatma—your life is futile, has been futile, will be futile. Long enough you have delayed—now awaken! Gather in the net! Long have you cast it—now gather it in.
Even gathering in the nets
takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.
The sun’s rays have withdrawn,
the lotus petals have folded,
day has turned its face from the earth.
Darkness descends from the sky,
a call has risen from home,
someone draws you, without a cord.
What the world calls waking is sleep.
The evening of that very day arrives
on the dawn of that very day.
Sleep comes suddenly,
takes away all sense and awareness—
it feels as if a thief has come to the bundle.
There is still a faint blush upon the horizon;
before the black night gathers,
rise, gather up your belongings.
Even gathering in the nets
takes time, boatman;
let go now of your attachment to the fish.
Enough for today.