Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #5

No prophecy can be made about when that Supreme Beloved will be met. No assurance can be given. For union with Paramatma does not belong to the world of cause and effect. Heat water to a hundred degrees and steam must be born; but when devotion becomes God, there is no arithmetic for it. Put your hand in fire and it will surely burn; but when does the moth burn in the Divine Flame, on what hour, what auspicious hour—no definitive statement can be given.

Whenever Paramatma happens, it happens uncaused. Not even a moment earlier is it known. One moment before, a dark night; a moment after, a radiant dawn! It is hardly believable that from such a darkness such a luminous morning could be born; that from such gloom such light could arise! A moment before what was a thorn, a moment later becomes a flower. The eyes are left wonderstruck! For a moment, trust itself does not settle. It feels as if one has seen a dream.

The first time the experience of Paramatma occurs, it feels exactly like a dream. The eyes want to rub themselves and see again. Faith will not sit—could it be true that the call we sent has reached the One we called; that the Guest who was to come has arrived; that the gates of the temple we were seeking have opened?

And even if trust comes, how will it come? For lifetimes upon lifetimes nothing has been known but suffering. Not a single drop of bliss has fallen into experience. Only thorns—only thorns have filled the bag. There has never been any direct meeting with a flower—and today suddenly the bag is full of flowers! Who knows from what Unknown a ray descended and cut the darkness forever. So completely cut it that it will never gather again. Until now only death was known; today clouds of nectar have gathered, there is a torrential rain of Amrit. How then can trust arise?

It lies outside the arithmetic of the human mind. It is not within the boundary where thought, reflection, discussion can reach. Hence, as the devotee draws near that supreme moment, his heart begins to tremble more and more. … Will it be or not? If it is, what will it be like? And if it is, when will it be? It must have happened to Meera, to Chaitanya, to Doolan Das—but will it happen to me? To me, the unfortunate? To me, unworthy in every way? Forebodings surround the mind. Great fears arise. Until it actually happens, foreboding keeps arising.

Do not misunderstand foreboding as doubt. Its meaning is fear. Do not think foreboding means, “I doubt whether God exists or not.” No—no! Foreboding means: I doubt myself—am I worthy or not? Faith will not come upon my own worthiness.

And in this world there are only two kinds of people. One: those who are so confident of their own worthiness that they cannot trust that God is. And second: those whose trust in God is so total that they cannot trust their own worthiness. The world is divided into these two categories.

Understand well: if your confidence in yourself becomes so great that you gather the courage to doubt God, you will miss forever. In your life, dawn will never come. Your night will have no morning—for you have placed your trust in the night. That which you trust becomes strengthened. That which you trust becomes truth for you. Where you deposit trust, there you breathe life into it.

People have trusted themselves so much—that is why they are atheists. Who then is a theist? One who trusts Paramatma so much that trust in himself does not arise—that I could be? That there could be any meaning to my being? That there could be any intention to my life? That because of me some work of this world is accomplished? That I too am needed here? That I also could be essential? And could I be so essential that one day Paramatma gives me a glimpse, darshan and touch? Blessed is he who trusts Paramatma so much that apart from his own unworthiness he sees nothing else. Such a blessed one finds Him.

Yet naturally the devotee is continually beset with foreboding. The devotee keeps trembling in fear. He may do a thousand things—worship, recitation, prayer—but one thing keeps pressing within: what is my worship! It is my worship—what am I, then what is the value of my worship! These are my hands; even if I arrange the aarti upon them, what meaning does that aarti hold? The aarti made by my hands cannot be more precious than me. These are my words; even if I make a prayer of them, my imprint will remain on those words. These are my feet; I may dance; and this is my voice; I may sing—yet all this is mine. And I am unworthy. My being is like non-being. Will Paramatma show compassion even upon me? Such foreboding arises.

When will the Beloved be met?—anxieties keep gnawing.

And the foreboding grows that if I look at myself, the Beloved’s union will never happen. But if I look toward the Beloved, it must happen; it will happen. If I look at His compassion, it will be; if I look at my unworthiness, how will it be? Between these two lies the devotee’s anguish. Yet that anguish is very sweet.

The theist’s sorrow is more precious than the atheist’s happiness. For the atheist’s happiness is shallow. The theist’s sorrow is deep. The depth of the devotee’s anguish is such that digging within that very anguish, one day Paramatma is found.

But the foreboding is intense. Moment to moment, doubt arises—about oneself; remember this—do not forget. The question-mark keeps falling upon oneself again and again. One’s own worth is not known. But the day the moment happens, it is seen that all forebodings were vain. I did not know my true worth. My worth is exactly His—for I am That. Tattvamasi! I seemed like a drop, yet the ocean was held within me, hidden. I appeared bound in the body, yet I was free of the body. I seemed limited, but the Infinite was my courtyard.

I am the lute as well as your melody!
My sleep lay still, unmoving in each particle;
The first awakening stirred with the world’s first tremor;
In dissolution my trace is in life’s footprints,
I am the curse that turned to blessing in bondage,
I am the shore, and the shoreless current as well!

I am the thirsting chatak in whose eyes a cloud resided,
I am the cruel lamp in whose flame the moth breathed;
I am the restless bulbul with a flower hid in its heart,
I am that shadow walking, one with the body yet far;
Far from you—and your eternal bride as well!

I am the fire from which drip drops of ice-water,
I am the void upon which moments spread their quilts;
I am the thrill that grew in hard stone,
I am that reflection held in the Heart of the Ground,
I am the blue cloud and the golden lightning as well!

I am annihilation and the progression of endless growth,
I am the day of renunciation and the night of utter attachment;
I am the string, the stroke, and the movement of resonance,
The chalice, the honey, the bee, and the sweet oblivion;
I am the lower lip—and the moonlight of the smile as well!

Only by knowing does it become known, only by experiencing does it become felt—
I am the lute as well as your melody!
I am the shore and the shoreless current as well!
Far from you—and your eternal bride as well!
I am the blue cloud and the golden lightning as well!
I am annihilation and the progression of endless growth;
I am the day of renunciation and the night of utter attachment;
I am the string, the stroke, and the movement of resonance,
The chalice, the honey, the bee, and the sweet oblivion;
I am the lower lip—and the moonlight of the smile as well!

But this is known only by knowing. Then the drop is seen as the ocean; then the darkness is seen as light; then death too is known as eternal life. All distinctions fall. But until distinctions fall, the foreboding is great. Doolan Das speaks rightly—

When will the Beloved be met?—anxieties keep gnawing.

I am very afraid, surrounded by forebodings, I feel so forlorn. Looking at myself one thing seems certain—I shall not reach; the goal is far. Yet even in this despondency a ray descends from beyond despair. Looking at His compassion it feels—now it is happening, now it is! It has happened! Perhaps only a moment’s waiting more—or maybe not even a moment’s waiting is needed. It is happening! The devotee is stretched between these two infinite distances. This is the state of viraha—of love-longing.

If you are the pulse of life, I am a worn-out body.
I am a dried-up rivulet, you are the cooling stream.
Without you my life is
Like a desolate desert—empty;
Like a dance without rhythm,
I am the fading heartbeat; you are its hope!
Enter my heart, become its thirst!

From head to foot you are magic, I am enchanted—unaware.
You are form’s enchantress, I, friend, am simple love—innocent.
You are the lamp, I the moth;
I am absorption, you are the song;
You are the madness, I the madman;
Without you life is insipid—a spring without flowers.
Enter my heart, become its thirst.

The world’s eye is ruthless, I am the tear; you are life to the earth!
Rejected for a single morsel, I came and sat—unknown.
Spread your generous heart!
Now merge me into yourself!
Erase the ‘me’—and make me ‘You’!
Fulfill this longing—or bring it to naught!
Enter my heart, become its thirst!

He calls, he weeps. Looking at himself he weeps. Looking toward the compassion of Paramatma he dances. Therefore, if ever you see a devotee laughing and weeping together, do not be surprised, do not think him mad. He is mad indeed—but God’s madman—not an ordinary madman. His madness is more precious than your cleverness. His madness is worth choosing, worth desiring, worth praying for. His madness is this: looking at himself he weeps; looking at Him, he laughs. Looking at himself he sits down in despair; looking at Him he lifts his ektara again and begins to dance. One moment tears, one moment laughter—this is the lover’s state of separation.

If you are the pulse of life, I am a worn-out body.
I am a dried-up rivulet, you are the cooling stream.
Without you my life is
Like a desolate desert—empty;
Like a dance without rhythm,
I am the fading heartbeat; you are its hope!
Enter my heart, become its thirst!

He calls—Come! He calls—Come! Day and night he calls—Come. Whether he speaks or not, whether he says it or not, within the call keeps rising incessantly.

From head to foot you are magic, I am enchanted—unaware.
You are form’s enchantress, I, friend, am simple love—innocent.
You are the lamp, I the moth;
I am absorption, you are the song;
You are the madness, I the madman;
Without you life is insipid—a spring without flowers.
Enter my heart, become its thirst!

What else does the devotee long for but that Paramatma become the guest of his heart; that the devotee get a chance to be the host. Let the Lord be the guest; let the devotee be the host.

The world’s eye is ruthless, I am the tear; you are life to the earth!
Rejected for a single morsel, I came and sat—unknown.
Spread your generous heart!
Now merge me into yourself!
Erase the ‘me’—and make me ‘You’!
Fulfill this longing—or bring it to naught!
Enter my heart, become its thirst!

“Erase ‘me’—and make me ‘You’”—both these happen together. This is the scripture of bhakti. This is its paradox. Both happen together—erase me, make me! On one side, if the devotee dissolves, he can become God; but upon becoming God, he becomes a devotee. When the seed breaks, the tree happens. And when the river falls into the ocean, the river is lost—yet becomes the ocean. Bhakti needs the courage to die.

You have heard it again and again; your so-called sadhus and saints repeat it daily that in Kaliyuga bhakti is the only way because it is simple. False is this statement. Bhakti is not simple; nothing is more arduous. To erase oneself—what could be harder? So-called jnana is easy, because the ego need not be effaced; rather it becomes decorated, enthroned with the fineries of scripture. Gita, Quran, Bible, Veda, Upanishad—upon them the ego makes its throne and becomes the “knower.”

Tapas is not difficult, for tapas suits the ego. The more you practice austerity, the sharper the ego’s edge. The more it flares. More and more you feel: I am special, I am unique. More and more you feel: I am worthy. More and more it feels: Paramatma must meet me; if not, then injustice is being done. The more you practice austerity, the more a rocklike conviction grows within that now I must receive. What remains to be done? So many fasts, vows, asanas, pranayamas—so much done! The body dried into a thorn, the belly stuck to the back, flesh and marrow burned away, I am left like a thorn—what more is needed?

In the ascetic’s mind it arises naturally: What more do you want, what further demand, what further expectation? In him the ego is born, the feeling of worthiness—that I have done only virtue, no sin. I place my feet carefully so not even an ant dies. I do not drink water at night lest there be violence. I eat once, pure food. I have fulfilled all you asked. More than you asked. Why then such delay? In the so-called ascetic a complaint persists—too much delay, injustice is being done. Are you there at all? Perhaps I am laboring in vain and you do not exist!

I tell you: tapas is easy—always easy. And so-called knowledge is easy, and your so-called karma-yoga too is easy. If anything is most difficult in this world, it is love. And bhakti is the consummation of love. Why do I call love difficult? Because in love one must die.

You are the lamp, I the moth;
I am absorption, you are the song;
You are the madness, I the madman;
Without you life is insipid—a spring without flowers.
Enter my heart, become its thirst!
Spread your generous heart!
Now merge me into yourself!
Erase the ‘me’—and make me ‘You’!

Therefore bhakti is difficult. But people have taken bhakti to mean: sit in the morning and turn a few beads; or once in a while perform Satyanarayan katha; or go to a temple and offer worship; or feed four Brahmins; feed some maidens; keep a Krishna idol at home, put him on a swing in the month of Shravan. Whom are you deceiving? Whom are you swinging?

Bhakti is not so easy. You will have to swing in death. You will have to gather the courage to erase yourself. Only when you are gone will you be. Here you vanish—there Paramatma appears. Here you become empty—there His fullness descends in you.

When will the Beloved be met?—anxieties keep gnawing.

I am afraid, I tremble—says Doolan Das—fear grips me. A thousand forebodings arise. When will the Beloved’s union be? I have no worthiness—yet still I hope.

The renunciate makes claims; the devotee hopes. The renunciate trades; the devotee offers. The renunciate says: I have fulfilled your conditions; if you do not meet me now it is injustice. The devotee says: Your conditions I can never fulfill. They cannot be fulfilled by me. I have no such worth. If you meet me, meet me out of compassion. Meet me by your grace. You are Rahim, you are Rahman. Meet me by your compassion—only then is meeting possible. I have no trust in myself. By my doing nothing will be done. It is by my doing that all has been undone.

And the day such a feeling arises in the devotee—that by my doing nothing will happen—on that day something begins. The first flower of spring opens that day. The first breath of the Infinite comes that day. The Malaya breeze blows. For the first time the devotee feels: I am accepted. For acceptance by Him there is only one condition—that in you no “I-ness” remain. Asmita gone—revolution happens.

By what touch of love was stirred
A veena lying lifeless?
Long weary, tired, long silent,
Long solitary, long faint?

Be surrendered. Bow your head. Trust His compassion. He who gave life will give Supreme Life too. Neither did you earn life, nor can you earn the Supreme. The very idea of earning is delusion. In that very notion the ego finds shelter, a way to hide.

By what touch of love was stirred
A veena lying lifeless?
Long weary, tired, long silent,
Long solitary, long faint?
Whose slackened strings of silence
Had forgotten how to sing—
How to electrify in an instant
Mind, head, every vein.
Whose mind was limp, upon whose speech
Locks of hush had fallen,
Upon whose body countless webs
Of sorrow’s spider had been spun—

By what touch of love was stirred?
All strings pulled taut, resonance arose.
As in night’s dense darkness
A wall of moonlight stands.

By what touch of love was stirred?
Seas of song burst forth.
From music-filled skies the stars—
Uncounted strains came showering down.
Birds of sound flew, spread their wings,
All ten directions woke.
The sleeping memories of the sky
Hearing this new raga rose.

Bow! Bow in totality—and you too will know—
By what touch of love was stirred?
All strings pulled taut, resonance arose.
As in night’s dense darkness
A wall of moonlight stands.

By what touch of love was stirred?
Seas of song burst forth.
From music-filled skies the stars
In numberless strains came falling.

Grace can rain upon you, but you are so full of yourself that even if God wills, there is no room within you. Empty yourself of yourself. This alone is the meaning of bhakti—that the devotee empties himself of himself, becomes vacant, becomes shunya, becomes a nothing. He can say: I am not. The moment you can say with your whole mind and life: “I am not”—in that very moment, Paramatma is.

People ask me: Where is God? They want to see God first. As if a man with closed eyes said: first I will see the sun, then I will open my eyes. Why open eyes? First there should be assurance that the sun is—then I will open them. Why take the trouble of opening eyes?

He talks logically: if the sun is, I will open my eyes. If there is a destination I will take four steps. But first let the sun come into my experience, then I will open my eyes. Then the difficulty is immense. The logic is proper—but life moves through opposites. Without opening eyes the sun will not be experienced; and that man keeps saying: until the sun is experienced, I will not open my eyes. Then the experience will never be—for the eyes will never be opened.

People ask: where is Ishwar? Wrong question. Ask: what is obstructing me from seeing Ishwar? What veil is upon my eyes? What rock lies upon my chest? Why is my prayer not flowing? People ask: where is Paramatma? They should ask: how can prayer happen? They should ask: how can my heart be filled with His thirst? How can bhakti arise within? People say: If there is God, we will be devoted.

And I say to you—as all devotees have always said: Become devoted—and God is here now. The condition of bhakti must be fulfilled first. But the condition is not easy; it is not turning beads, nor applying sandal-paste, nor ringing a bell before a stone statue, nor dressing Krishna in silk and offering two flowers. In bhakti only one thing is offered: asmita, ahamkara, the sense “I am.” And he who has offered this “I” receives darshan immediately—touch instantly.

When will the Beloved be met?—anxieties keep gnawing.

As long as oil is in the lamp and a wick, everyone can see.

Doolan Das says: walk carefully, walk alertly—what you call life will be exhausted very soon; like a lamp lit at dusk that is spent by morning—oil finishes, the wick goes out.

As long as oil is in the lamp and a wick, everyone can see.

You are relying on this mud lamp, and the little stream of life flowing in this clay—it will soon grow thin. This oil too will be spent, this wick too. Then nothing will be seen. When death knocks at the door nothing will be seen. If in life you saw nothing, what will you see in death? If in living nothing was understood, how will anything be understood in the moment of dying?

And the dishonest have taught you: at the time of death take Rama’s name—everything will be done. Serve Ravana your whole life—at death take Rama’s name. Gather darkness your whole life—at death call for light. How will this be? One who has remained attached to darkness—how will he even want to call light? And if he wants, how will he be able? The very word “light” will not form on his lips. Even if he wants to repeat the name Rama, the tongue will fail; it will not be of use; it will loll—Rama will not arise. What has flowed within you your whole life—that alone can manifest in death. Your life’s wealth will be your wealth in dying.

As long as oil is in the lamp and a wick, everyone can see.

Doolan says: you see because the life-wick is still burning within, the life-oil is burning—but soon it will go out. This is not an eternal light. Use this light to seek the Eternal Light. A lamp has been placed in your hand—it may burn seventy years. In these seventy years, using this small lamp in your hand, search in the darkness for that door by which one enters the Eternal Light. “Lead me from darkness to light.” Call out to Paramatma: take me from darkness into light. Use this little capacity of life. Make a staircase of it. This is not the destination—do not sit upon the steps, else much will be the weeping, much the regret.

As long as oil is in the lamp and a wick, everyone can see.

When the oil has burned away, when the wick is finished, they will say, “Take him, take him away!” The bier will be bound. The cremation ground will be the way. And all pomp will be left behind. All arrangements of a lifetime—wealth, position, prestige—will be left behind. For which you sacrificed everything—none of it goes with you. Do you watch people die? Do you awaken yourself by seeing that? Does death strike you—or not?

When the oil has burned away, when the wick is finished, they will say, “Take him, take him away!”

Without the Guru who will show the path—what device can we make?

If there is a little awareness, a little understanding, if this little light of life given with birth that death will snatch away is to be used—use it for the search of the Eternal, for the search of Truth. Seek such a temple as will not fall. But how will it happen?

Without the Guru who will show the path, …

Only one who has seen the path can show it. One who has walked can tell it. One who has arrived can tell it. But you ask pundits, not Sadgurus. The pundit stands where you stand. There is hardly any difference between you and the pundit. What is the difference in vision? At most—a difference of information. You know a little less, he knows a little more. But that is quantitative, not qualitative. It could even be that you know more than Buddha knew—in information—and yet you would not be more than Buddha.

In Buddha’s time there were great pundits who knew far more than he. But knowing much is one thing; knowing is another. Buddha has had the direct encounter with the Light—eternal, deathless. The pundits have only gathered what has been said, written, about that Light.

Sariputta came to behold the Buddha. Sariputta was a great scholar. It is likely he had a mountain of information greater than Buddha’s. Buddha was a Kshatriya; he had not wasted time in scriptures. Childhood passed in learning the art of war. He knew archery. Then his father arranged for his immersion in pleasure, for astrologers had warned: if not drowned in pleasures, he will become a sannyasin. So some time in martial training, some in luxury. At twenty-nine he left home. There was not even an opportunity to study scriptures; nor was it the Kshatriya’s duty.

Sariputta was a Brahmin, son of a great scholar, immensely gifted. He had five hundred disciples. A great gurukul. He wandered far, debating, defeating pundits. Having defeated so many, inevitably came the news: until you defeat Buddha, your victories are hollow. Go and defeat Buddha. He came to defeat Buddha, five hundred disciples in tow, standing with great pride. But seeing Buddha, he melted like a dewdrop vanishing in the morning sun; like wax melting in fierce heat. He stood gazing. His disciples were unsettled. Never had they seen their master thus. Wherever he went he went with swagger, drums beating. He always returned victorious, flags flying. Here before Buddha he stood bewildered—and then when they saw Sariputta bow at the Buddha’s feet and tears streaming, they could not believe it. They asked: What has happened to you?

Sariputta said: I know only information; Truth I have not experienced. It may be that I have more information than this man. I know the four Vedas—but all has turned insipid. This man knows the Source from which the four Vedas were born. He stands at the original spring. Today there will be no debate. Debate is gone! Today I surrender.

Sariputta must have been egoless. A pundit egoless—rare. But his life was transformed. What did he learn sitting by Buddha? All that Buddha could tell, he already knew. But one difference: a blind man can know everything about light; yet there is a difference—the man with eyes knows light, the blind knows “about” light.

A deaf man can be a great scholar of music. Music too is written, is it not? It has its notation. The deaf can read the script—but do you grasp the difference? When Ravi Shankar’s sitar is played—your heart dances in unison, you are spellbound. And a deaf man reads the notation of the same music written on paper—do you think it is the same? Will the deaf ever know the joy of sound by reading written music? So was Sariputta—and so are all pundits.

But Sariputta was fortunate; he went and bowed at the feet of a Buddha. Ninety-nine out of a hundred pundits are not so lucky. They remain worshipers of their own ego. Entangled in argument, in wars of words.

Without the Guru who will show the path—what device can we make?

Doolan Das says: if it is understood that life is slipping out of hand, that the oil is burning, the wick is getting used up, soon the hour will come, darkness will fall—then before anything can be done no more, before they bind you to the bier—find the satsang of such a one, bow at the feet of one who knows; bond your heart to one; be absorbed in one who has known—whose fragrance catches hold of you, whose perfume makes you mad; drink from the flask of one who has drunk and is overfull.

Until you drink the wine of satsang, no path can be found. Scriptures do not give the path—Sadgurus do. Only by drinking the wine of satsang does one become available to bhakti. There you will learn how to become the temple’s lamp! You have lit lamps in temples; nothing happens from that. How to become a lamp of the temple?

This temple’s lamp—let it burn in silence!
Silver-conch, gongs, golden flute, veena-tones—
They filled the aarti hour with a hundred rhythms;
When the throats were many and harsh,
Stones smiled, darkness played.
Now in the temple the Chosen is alone—
Let this flame melt the courtyard’s emptiness.
This temple’s lamp—let it burn in silence!

The gold-lit floor marked by His feet,
The sandalwood threshold bearing bowed heads’ imprints,
Flowers scattered, uncounted rice-markings,
Incense, arghya, naivedya—without measure,
In the dark all will be hidden—
Let all worshiped tales be nursed in this one flame.
This temple’s lamp—let it burn in silence!

The priest has slipped the bead of the moment—
The history of echoes is lost among stones;
Life like a samadhi of breaths,
The path like a jewel-ocean,
The voiced tremor in each particle has stilled—
Let life recast itself as flame.
This temple’s lamp—let it burn in silence!

Tempesty, bewildered, night’s swoon is deep;
Be priest today—the little sentinel of light.
Until the bustle of day returns,
Until then it will keep watch each instant;
Filling the lines with waters of aura,
This herald of dusk—let it burn till dawn.
This temple’s lamp—let it burn in silence!

Make a lamp of your life’s energy—a temple’s lamp—so that at least it may take you to the morning; that it may see you through the night; that it may bring you to the dawn!

This temple’s lamp—let it burn in silence!
Silver-conch, gongs, golden flute, veena-tones—
They filled the aarti hour with a hundred rhythms;
When the throats were many and harsh,
Stones smiled, darkness played.
Now in the temple the Chosen is alone—
Let this flame melt the courtyard’s emptiness.
This temple’s lamp—let it burn in silence!

Within you the lamp of consciousness must be lit—the lamp of dhyana. Who will light it? Who will give the method? Go near a lit lamp—and your unlit lamp may catch fire. Just going closer and closer, there comes a moment of proximity, of intimacy, when from the lit lamp a leap of flame passes to the unlit. Thus from Guru to disciple light is transmitted. Only thus.

Books have what is written about light, but not light. Books have what is written about water, but not the lake that can quench your thirst. Scriptures hold dear and beautiful words—but only words. You can neither drink those words, nor digest them, nor wear them, nor spread them as your bed. Do not get lost in them.

There are two kinds of wanderings in the world. One is the wandering of the ignorant. The other is the wandering of the pundit—the so-called learned. Save yourself from the ignorant’s wandering—and from the pundit’s too. Only then will you set out on the inner journey. The ignorant thinks, “Because I do not know scripture, therefore I am ignorant.” The pundit believes, “Because I know scripture, therefore I am wise.” Both are stuck in scripture. Their difference is a difference of more or less—not of essence. Both have wandered outside. Neither has entered within.

Without the Guru who will show the path—what device can we make?

What device shall we make that the Eternal Life be attained, that the Beloved be found, that we become brides!

All saints, coming together, say one thing—let us go to the Beloved’s land.

And those who know are astonished to see that the instruction of all saints is one. All the wise are of one view! If there is any difference, it is among pundits. If there is any divide, it is among the scripture-experts. The saints’ teaching is one. What is that teaching? In two words it can be gathered. The whole sky is not enough—but in two small words: “meditation” and “love.” Therein the teaching of all saints is contained. Be silent within—that is dhyana. And let that silence not be dry—let it be juice-soaked, love-soaked, with the veena of love playing, the tinkle of love moving, the breeze of love flowing. Let meditation’s void be there—and love’s flower bloom. Then there is nothing more to gain. Paramatma will come seeking you. When, on what hour, on what unknown moment He will knock at your door—cannot be said.

When will the Beloved be met?—anxieties keep gnawing.
Without the Guru who will show the path—what device can we make?
Without the Guru, turning beads—one’s birth goes to waste.
All saints, coming together, say one thing—let us go to the Beloved’s land.
If the Beloved is met, it is by great fortune; otherwise, great sorrow.

Even without the Guru people turn beads. Without the Guru they practice disciplines, methods, yoga, tapas, bhakti. But done without the Guru something is missed—something fundamental. Until you have seen a living Guru in meditation, diving into love, whatever you do will be shallow, hollow.

Before a little bird learns to fly, at least it must watch its parents fly. If from the egg you keep a bird carefully and never allow it to see another bird spread its wings and take to the sky, then that bird will never flutter its own wings, nor fly in the heavens. It will not even remember that it has wings; that it has the capacity for the far journey of the sky; that meeting the moon and stars is also its right—this will never even occur to it.

So the little bird sits on the rim of the nest, watches its mother fly, its father fly, coming and going. Slowly it begins to flutter. Trust begins to arise. Then it hops from one branch to another. The trust becomes denser. Then a longer leap—from one tree to another. Astonished, wonder-filled—“So I too can fly?” The day this trust arises—“I can fly”—there is no more need for the Guru. But until then, the Guru is indispensable. Without him you will even turn beads—but your turning will be dead.

The honeybee came and hummed:
“Listen, tender bud,
Open the doors of blind scent!
See, spring has come,
With new joy, new delight.
Open your treasury of fragrance—open!
Roll the pearls of your eyes to your fill!
Spread your welcome at His feet!”
The honeybee came and hummed—
“Listen, tender bud!”

Rise, poet—take up the lute of feeling,
Pour your eager, intoxicating new tones!
And then, dissolved in them,
Strike a new resonance!
Leave your slackness—pluck the strings!
In notes, the heart; in the heart, love;
In love, pour the stored outpourings!
And from those outpourings, fill your worship!
And then fill them with infinite hope!
Lay it all, poor, at the Beloved’s feet!
Rise, poet—take up the lute of feeling,
Pour your eager, intoxicating new tones!

Let someone call, someone cry out, someone shake you awake. “The honeybee came and hummed.” Let a bee arrive and say to the bud: open! How would the bud even know? If it had ever opened, it would know. It has never opened its petals; never played with the winds; never danced in color; never looked at the sun; never met the moon and stars. How would it know how to step into the Unknown!

The honeybee came and hummed:
“Listen, tender bud,
Open the doors of blind scent!
See, spring has come,
With new joy, new delight.
Open your treasury of fragrance—open!
Roll the pearls of your eyes to your fill!
Spread your welcome at His feet!”
The honeybee came and hummed—
“Listen, tender bud!”

Thus a Guru comes and whispers in the disciple’s ear—
“Open the doors of blind scent,
Listen, tender bud!”

When a Guru whispers thus, and the bud within the disciple hears the news—my fragrance is within, let me open, let me fly. When dreams awaken in the bud—who will awaken these dreams? Dreams of the Unknown, of the impossible—who will stir them?

Rise, poet—take up the lute of feeling,
Pour your eager, intoxicating new tones!
And then, dissolved in them,
Strike a new resonance!
Leave your slackness—pluck the strings!
In notes, the heart; in the heart, love;
In love, pour the stored outpourings!
And from those outpourings, fill your worship!
And then fill them with infinite hope!
Lay it all, poor, at the Beloved’s feet!
Rise, poet—take up the lute of feeling,
Pour your eager, intoxicating new tones!

Let someone speak in your ear. Let someone shake you from sleep. Let someone call you. You have wandered far in forgetfulness. You do not even remember yourself. Let someone call, let a voice be heard. And the one who hears—that one is a disciple. The one whose being fills with a fresh upsurge at the voice—that one is a disciple. In whom a new imagining spreads its wings; in whom a new tone begins to hum; who steps into the Unknown; who plucks the strings of that veena never before touched; who opens the doors of fragrance never before opened—without a Sadguru, this cannot be.

Doolan Das is right:
Without the Guru who will show the path—what device can we make?
Without the Guru, turning beads—one’s birth goes to waste.

Keep turning beads without a Guru, keep repeating Rama’s name without a Guru—all will go in vain.

Some fear learning. Some fear that to learn one must bow. To learn, one must spread one’s bowl before another—this feels like wretchedness. Such unfortunate ones will remain deprived. Life’s treasury will be plundered and they will remain beggars; not a grain will fall in their bowl. Learning requires the capacity to bow. And remember, only the strong can bow, not the weak. The weak fear bowing—for they know they are weak. If they bow the whole world will see their weakness. They hide it.

Understand this psychological fact well. People usually think that the one who bows is weak; the one who surrenders is weak; the one who has faith is not intelligent. The reality is exactly the opposite. Ask psychology! Religion has always said this, but now psychology too supports it. Psychologists say: the person who bows is resolute—only then can he bow; bowing requires great resolve. It is a paradox. Surrender needs a great will. Only he can bow who trusts that even if I bow, my dignity is not exposed; even bowing I will not become mean; bowing does not destroy my self-worth. He who has such trust in his self-worth alone can place his head at someone’s feet. The weak, the ones with inferiority complex, are always afraid that someone may make them bow; that they may have to bow before someone. They are rigid, ever defensive. Such persons are weak—not truly rich, not truly possessed of self-worth.

Only he can bow who knows that even bowing I will not be annihilated. Only he can bow who knows that even bowing I will remain. My being is so, so dense, that by bowing it will not be erased.

Therefore in this world a wonder is seen. Those with the greatest self-worth are the least egoistic. Those with the least self-worth are the most arrogant. Those we call saints are egoless—Mahavira, Buddha, Kabir, Nanak, Mohammed, Jalaluddin—these are egoless beings. But do not imagine they lacked self-worth. They alone possessed it. In egolessness they opened their flowers, their petals. From them rose the fragrance of self-worth. They were powerful beings.

The weak do not bow. The weak do not walk the path of religion. The weak walk the path of politics. The greater the inferiority complex inside, the more one moves toward politics. For politics is about making others bow, not bowing oneself; conquering others, climbing on their heads. These are signs of the weak, the sickly-minded. A healthy man is not interested in politics; cannot be.

Go your way, wayfarer!
Why sing life’s songs?
What will you know of life?
Go your way, wayfarer!

Like the bee tasting nectar,
Singing you wander the roads;
In life’s fairgrounds of form, taste, song,
What would you know of the shadows
Where fallen leaves rot?
What will you know of life?
Go your way, wayfarer!

Gazing only from above
Will you teach life’s device?
He who has not plunged to the bottom—
What jewel can he bring?
With false gems fill your bag—
Do not think them true grains.
What will you know of life?
Go your way, wayfarer!

Do not remain a bystander on life’s road, a spectator. Otherwise your hands will gather trash—not diamonds; foam of waves—not pearls. And most in the world are but wayfarers, spectators. No one wants to pay the price. No one wants to go deep. Sitting on the shore, they gather foam. Yes, sometimes at dawn, under the sun’s rays, the foam glitters as if rainbows have come; sometimes in moonlight it looks like heaps of silver. But from afar. When you take the foam in your palm—nothing remains but the sea’s salty water. For diamonds you must dive, make the plunge. Spectators’ hands get nothing. Do not be a spectator.

People come here and say: “We’ll first watch meditation; let others do it. If it appeals to us, then we’ll practice.” How will you see others do meditation? Meditation is an inner state. You cannot enter another’s inner state. There is no way. Meditation aside—just try entering someone’s dream! You cannot even enter that, though it is false. How then will you enter meditation, which is true?

Mulla Nasruddin was speaking with a friend. Mulla said: last night was great fun! I went to the Kumbh Mela. Such crowds, such spectacles! My friend listened; unmoved. Mulla said: you don’t seem impressed. I saw such a lovely dream—such fun at the Kumbh, such jostling! Not impressed? The friend said: Why should I be impressed? I too dreamt last night that I took Hema Malini to the Himalayas—utter solitude! Hearing “Hema Malini,” Mulla shouted: What sort of friendship is this! Why didn’t you call me? He said: I did call, but your wife said you’d gone to the Kumbh Mela!

Can you go into another’s dreams? Can you enter another’s inner state? Meditation is the deepest state of your within. Dreams are only the foam. Even those you cannot hold. Yet people say: we’ll watch others meditate.

Yes, you may watch Meera dance—her dance will be visible. But how will you distinguish Meera’s dance from a dancer’s? The same gestures, the same movements, the same postures. Where is the difference? Meera has meditation within; the dancer has not—how will you see that? In Meera’s dance the event of meditation is happening—how will you understand by seeing? You think seeing Buddha sitting will show you meditation? Yes, you will see Buddha—seated in lotus posture, eyes closed, like a stone statue. But what more will be seen?

But people say: we’ll first see others meditating. People have become spectators. This century is the greatest spectator-century. Here people do not do—they only watch. They do not wrestle—they go to watch. They do not dance—they watch someone dance. They do not pluck strings—they listen to professionals. Now even going there is not needed—the record plays at home, and one becomes a connoisseur.

They watch films… and how they watch! They know there is nothing on the screen. But the spectator within is so strong that they forget. The screen is blank—they know it. They have seen it blank. Only a play of light and shadow is going on. But as scenes occur, their hearts are moved. If there is a sensational chase—police cars racing along mountain edges, roaring—then you cannot sit still; you straighten in your chair—lest something be missed.

Spectatorship grows. Where television has spread, the condition has worsened. In America, each person on average watches five hours daily. In twenty-four hours, eight in sleep, eight commuting and working, some in eating, smoking, shaving—what remains is five hours. People sit as if glued to the chair; they do not get up. Before their television sets they sit.

This showy, watching tendency is dangerous—for it means when will you experience? Someone plays football—you watch; someone plays hockey—you watch; someone wrestles—you watch; someone loves in a film—you watch. Will you only watch? Will you ever experience? Even meditation—you come to watch! Watch everything else if you must—but at least experience meditation. People are spectators. And what you learn by watching, what you then do by that learning—there is no life in it. It is lifeless. The beads move in the hand; within, a thousand other things go on.

Without the Guru, turning beads—one’s birth goes to waste.

Be warned. If you wish to waste life—then keep doing as you do: watching, without bowing, without surrendering, without satsang, without bonding to a Sadguru. It will look clever. Some learn meditation from books. They dig methods out of books. Not even certain whether those who wrote the books ever meditated!

I have seen many books. Perhaps one in a hundred on meditation is written by one who has practiced. Ninety-nine are written by those who read others’ books and then wrote. For those very authors come to me whose books on meditation are famous, asking, “How to meditate?” I ask them: At least you should not ask—you have written such a beautiful book! They say: The book is beautiful because it can be written beautifully—we read ten, twenty-five books and wrote. Writing is an art. But meditation—I still don’t know it.

Meditation cannot be learned from books; nor by watching others. It is such a subtle process that only when there is union of feeling with someone, a relationship of love, a bonding such that duality is gone—only then can it be learned.

If the Beloved is met, it is by great fortune; otherwise, great sorrow.

Keep one criterion: if the Supreme Beloved is found, life is meaningful; otherwise it was only a long journey of pain—no story, only misery.

Search here, search there—yet when Paramatma is found, He is found right here—closer than your own self. That is the great mystery. He is not far. This is why we miss. We search far; Paramatma is near. Perhaps even “near” is not proper—He is the seeker himself. “Near” is not proper—the seeker is a wave of Paramatma. Peep within yourself—you will find. But our eyes have become accustomed to looking outward. Even when we close them, we look outside.

Close your eyes and look! Even with closed eyes, the shop is seen, the ledgers are seen. Close your eyes—still the same people—wife, children, home, market, friends. Close your eyes—same world. At night you sleep—dream—same world.

Mulla Nasruddin tore his blanket one night. His wife stopped him—What are you doing? Mulla said: So now you have started coming to the shop as well? Then he came to his senses. He sells cloth—tears cloth all day. A customer must have come in the dream. The fervor arose—he tore the blanket. And for a moment he was angry at his wife too: It is fine you interfere at home—but at the shop too? Don’t sit here; don’t do that; now you won’t let me tear cloth either!

What do you see in sleep? Sleep is a reflection of your day. In sleep too the outer crowd, same market, the same work continues with little rearrangement. Even in sleep you do not go within. Without going within no one will know the truth of life—of oneself, of Paramatma.

Search here, search there—yet I find Him at my own side.
Doolan Das sings: I bow at the feet of all saints.

Doolan Das says: Since I recognized that He is at my own side, since I recognized—by my side—I bow at the feet of all saints. All saints! Keep note: if you bow only to Mahavira, you have not yet found. If you hesitate to bow to Buddha because you are a Jain—how can you bow to Buddha? If one who bows to Rama cannot bow to Krishna? If one who bows to Mohammed cannot bow to Christ? If one who places flowers on the Gita cannot place two on the Quran? If such miserliness still lurks within, understand—you have not yet found. For one who has found, temple and mosque are one. If the mosque is near, he will meditate there; if the temple is near, there. Such power belongs to one who has found—who knows who he is within. Then sit anywhere! He will read the Quran and the Gita and the Bible—with one and the same feeling.

I bow at the feet of all saints—sings Doolan Das.

You have heard the famous Jain mantra—Namokar, have you not? Jains interpret it wrongly. The mantra says: Namo Arihantanam—homage to the Arihants. But ask a Jain pundit and he will say: homage to Jain siddhas. Therein Buddha will not come, nor Christ, nor Zarathustra—as if the franchise of enlightenment had been given only to Jains! As if Paramatma were so stingy He made only one alley—and only those who pass through that will reach His temple.

All alleys are His. This whole Vrindavan is His. Arihant does not mean a Jain siddha; it means one who has slain all enemies—ari means enemy; hant means to slay. One in whom lust, anger, greed, attachment, ego—no longer are—homage to Him. Namo Arihantanam.

Namo Siddhanam: homage to all who have perfected their souls. Do you think those who made this mantra did not understand? If they had wanted, they could have added the word “Jain.” Not even once is it added. Namo Airiyanam: homage to the Acharyas, to the Gurus. Namo Uvajjhayanam: homage to the Upadhyayas—in whose presence we learned. And the last line is wondrous: Namo Loe Savva Sahunam—homage to all sadhus in the world. Savva Sahunam. What could be more explicit? Savva Sahunam—all sadhus.

But ask a Jain pundit and he will say: “Sadhu” means only Jain sadhus; others are not sadhus—they are wrong. “Guru” means only Jain gurus; others are pretenders. Scripture means only Jain scriptures; others are false texts. Whenever the knowers shower nectar, the pundits turn it to poison. Namo Loe Savva Sahunam!

Doolan Das says:
I bow at the feet of all saints—sings Doolan Das.

The yogi did not know the art of yoga.

First learn the right device, the method, the discipline. Let yourself be disciplined by someone.

The yogi did not know the art of yoga.
He dyed his garments deep with ochre,
But his mind was not dyed in the Guru’s knowing.

First dye your heart—then dye your clothes. Ochre garments are ancient symbols of sannyas. Ochre is the color of light—the color of the rising sun, the color of fire, of certain blossoms. Three things are hidden in it: to kindle the light within so dawn arises within; to light the inner fire in which the ego is reduced to ash, your being becomes pure gold; and to blossom the inner flower so it is not left a bud; to release the inner fragrance.

But by dyeing clothes it will not be done. First dye the heart; then the clothes may follow. Do not think dyeing clothes will dye the heart. When the heart is dyed, clothes are dyed by themselves; but dyed clothes do not dye the heart.

The yogi did not know the art of yoga.

First learn the device—that inner change must precede outer change.

He dyed his garments deep with ochre,
But his mind was not dyed in the Guru’s knowing.

You have not yet been dyed in the Guru’s wisdom—inner dawn has not happened, flowers have not blossomed, spring has not come, meditation has not been born—within is undyed, and outside you dyed yourself; this is not only a hindrance but an easy trick. Anyone can buy ochre for a couple of coins. Dye the cloth and you are a yogi—if only it were so cheap!

You have not read the true Name of two letters—
And you think to learn all wisdom!

Without the remembrance of the Lord, do you imagine you will become wise—through scriptures, words, doctrines? Whom are you deceiving? Do not cheat yourself.

Without true love sprouting in the heart, where would the Lord be pleased?

Until true love arises in your heart, do you think God will be pleased with you?

Without true love sprouting in the heart, where would the Lord be pleased?

When the Creator’s creations
Turn beautiful, time and again,
Then He creates yet again,
More wondrous than before—swift.
When did He learn to sigh
Upon failing?
When did He sit silent,
Head upon knees?

Then why should I, friend,
Cease creating worlds anew?
Though this lamp go out a thousand times,
Why should I cease to light it?

It is very hard to dye the heart—therefore people found it easy to dye clothes. Dyeing the heart is difficult; the color will not take, it keeps fading. Lighting the lamp within is hard; it keeps going out, it doesn’t stay lit. Meditation won’t be caught; as it comes, it slips. Years pass before meditation is caught. Years before love is held. But do not be disheartened. If Paramatma is not tired, and creates the world every day—giving birth to new ones—then why should you tire? We are His limbs. Why should we tire?

Then why should I, friend,
Cease creating worlds anew?
Though this lamp go out a thousand times,
Why should I cease to light it?

Do not drop the effort. Keep at it, keep at it, keep at it. The happening is certain; it will happen. The date cannot be fixed. That is why in olden days we called God “Atithi”—Guest. We called the Deity “Atithi,” and the guest a “deity”—for this reason. Atithi means one who comes without a fixed date.

Today’s guests inform us in advance—we need a new word for them. They telegraph: coming by such train. To call them atithi is not proper. The meaning has gone. In old days there were no telegrams, no letters; no news was given. Suddenly the guest would appear at the door—startling—giving no time to prepare. No time for husband and wife to quarrel—“He’s come again, the wretch! How many days will he torment us? Let’s borrow furniture from the neighborhood.” No chance. The atithi arrived without a date.

We called the guest “deity.” Why? Because the Deity too comes without a date. Suddenly one day He is at the door—when your readiness is complete.

Without true love sprouting in the heart, where would the Lord be pleased?
The Master of Doolan Das is Jagjivan—my mind is mad for His darshan.

Doolan Das says: I have gone mad, become intoxicated. Once the Guru was found—Doolan’s Master is Jagjivan—in meeting Jagjivan I met the Master. Jagjivan became my Master. Through knowing Him I came to know Paramatma. Now only a frenzy remains—how to have His darshan! The Guru is found, the door is found—now how to enter the temple! The devotee weeps, calls out, weeps and weeps—let me enter the temple; open the gate.

When the cuckoo called in the fifth note,
The lord of seasons has arrived today!
Smiling, the buds then
Poured out their stores of honey;
In the nests chirped forth
The voices of countless chicks;
The kinnarins went mad,
Singing songs of welcome;
But who knows what the dewdrop
Whispered on arriving!
It trembled, and in an instant slipped—
Tears flowed from the eyes.

Flowers bloom—and the devotee weeps. Birds sing—and the devotee weeps. Streams flow—and the devotee weeps. Spring comes—and the devotee weeps. The monsoon clouds gather—and the devotee weeps. But his weeping is intoxicated weeping. He weeps for the Beloved. What else do we have to offer but tears? Tears are our only wealth truly ours—flowing from our soul, descending from our depths, our very essence, our life’s call, our mantra-japa.

If you learn with a Sadguru you will not learn to turn beads—you will weep. The rosary of tear-pearls will turn. If you learn with a Sadguru there will be no parrot-repetition of “Rama-Rama.” Within, day and night, in every pore, in every particle, heartbeat to heartbeat, without words, wordlessly, silently, an unbroken prayer will hum. Then He comes; He surely comes. But when, at what hour—no one knows.

When will the Beloved be met?—anxieties keep gnawing.

Blessed are those in whom this anxiety has arisen—when will the Lord come! His footfall seems to be heard. The first tidings seem to arrive—the messages come. His fragrance seems to waft, His coolness to drizzle, drops of Amrit begin to fall. Soon there will be a torrential downpour. Soon endless suns will rise. But when? No fixed hour can be. No prophecy can be made. This much can be said: he who calls—finds. The thirsty—his thirst will be quenched.

Jesus has said: Knock—and the doors will open. Ask—and it shall be given. How long it takes you to knock depends on you—on how urgent is your knocking, how vital, how alive, how total! Knock—the doors will open. Ask—you will receive. From that door no one has ever gone empty, nor can anyone ever go empty.

Enough for today.