Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #7

On the journey toward Truth, three steps must be understood. One is the step of the student. A student cannot relate to a guru. Even if a guru is found, the student will not be able to relate to him. The student can relate only to a teacher. The student’s role does not rise beyond the teacher. Even his longing is only to know about Truth, not to know Truth; to know about God, not to know God.

The student is eager to collect information. The student is a state of curiosity; childish. Unfortunate are those who remain students even into old age—who cling to scripture, to words and doctrines. Scripture, words, doctrines—these belong to the world of the student.

The second role is that of the disciple. With the disciple, the guru makes his appearance. The student only wants to know about Truth; the disciple wants to know Truth itself. Information does not satisfy him. Borrowed words do not quench him; he longs for experience. Within him, mere curiosity has ripened into deep inquiry, into passionate seeking. A student is not ready to stake anything—he will take what comes for free. A disciple is ready to wager all. A student cannot pay the price. And what is ever attained in this world without paying the price? You may gather pebbles, but not diamonds. The disciple is willing to pay the price.

A student learns without bowing. And if he bows, it is formal. The disciple’s entire posture is one long pranam. The disciple is a pranam. His very feeling is of being bowed; he is an empty begging bowl. In the disciple there is not even a trace of ego. The student functions from the very center of ego. The disciple dissolves the ego, he bows, he holds the guru’s feet.

The student will hear only words; into the disciple’s ears even the wordless begins to fall. The student can connect with thoughts; the disciple begins to connect with thoughtlessness. The student can grasp the gross; into the disciple the subtle begins to descend. The student reads the lines; the disciple also reads the empty space between the lines. The student does not let himself be dyed; he gathers information yet avoids being colored. The disciple dyes himself. Without being dyed, experience cannot happen. Wear the shawl of love-color-nectar!

The student’s relationship with the teacher is professional, market-bound. The disciple’s relationship is of affection, of love; not an event of the marketplace. The disciple’s bond is of the heart; the student’s link is of the head. The student is curious about the guru’s information, not about the guru; the disciple is eager for the guru; information is secondary. Once the tree itself is in your hands, all its flowers will come of their own accord.

The student plucks flowers and leaves the tree. As soon as a flower is cut from the tree it begins to die. How long will its fragrance last? Soon it will grow stale. The student gathers heaps of stale flowers! The fragrance within him soon ceases; stench begins to arise. From every pundit a stench will come—necessarily. He has collected rotten scriptures, rotten words, centuries-old rubbish. The pundit is a kind of rag market where filth is sold. Though upon the filth fine names and beautiful words are pasted, tear off the label and within you will find a corpse, not life.

The disciple is eager for the guru; he seizes the tree itself. Flowers will go on blooming in the tree—let them bloom. Why catch at flowers? Why clutch at leaves? The disciple catches hold of the root. The secret of flowers is in his hands; the source of their life is in his hands.

The student returns satisfied with information; into the disciple’s life, knowing makes its entry. Knowing is that which transforms you; information is that which fills your memory. Information increases what you know; knowing increases you. Information may be useful in the market, but knowing is what avails in Paramatman. With the boat of information you may manage some convenience in the bazaar; but the boat of knowing can ferry you to the shore of the Beloved of Beloveds.

Knowing and information seem alike, but they are not. A corpse, too, looks like the living from a distance. Come near and the odor arises. Examine closely and you will see the bird of life has flown. Information is such that its swan of life flew away long ago. Knowing is such that the heart still beats, breath still moves, the body is warm, life has lodged there; the very earth is filled with amrit.

A student wanders from one teacher to another—thousands of teachers. Wherever, however, anything is had! He lives for information. No heartfelt bonds are formed anywhere. No intimacy is created anywhere. As one buys things from shops in the market, so does the student go about buying knowledge from teachers.

The disciple’s bond is forged; the bridal-circumambulations happen. And such a marriage that there is no way for it ever to break. If it breaks, know that it never had happened. Delusion must have been taken for it. One must have merely believed it took place; no knot was tied. This knot is such that it does not open. In the world, the marriage that happens can open; there is the remedy of divorce. But the spiritual marriage that takes place between guru and disciple—there is no way for it to open. For it is not a gross knot that can be undone—it is subtle. The subtle knot is invisible; how will you open it? One does not even know how it got tied—how to untie it? It ties; the event happens. It is an event of love.

As you fall in love with someone—you do not do anything! In a first glance, love happens. It is not in your control; you are overpowered. Between guru and disciple the ultimate event of this love occurs. Overpowered, the disciple begins to dissolve into the guru—overpowered! Even if he wishes, there is no way to run now. In spite of himself, he has to go on this journey. Such an inevitable journey, such an irresistible call of love—it cannot be refused; it cannot be denied.

Student and teacher remain separate. Between guru and disciple, identity begins to form. They begin to dissolve into one another. Each one’s sky begins to enter the sky of the other.

And the third role—the supreme, the final—when the disciple does not see the guru as guru, but begins to see the doorway to Paramatman: gurur brahma. It is that ultimate state where for the disciple the guru becomes God. The guru dissolves. The guru does not remain; the gurudwara remains—a door—beyond which stands Paramatman.

This is the ultimate role. Here the disciple becomes a bhakta. When one is a student, the guru is a teacher. When the student becomes a disciple, the teacher becomes a guru. And when the disciple becomes a bhakta, the guru becomes God. This is a matter which only those who have lived it can understand. Those who saw God in Buddha—those who saw, saw; those who did not, said: we cannot understand this. A man of flesh, marrow, and bone—and you call him God? He too hungers and thirsts; he too falls ill; old age comes, death will come—call him God?

The questioners missed. Those who had become bhaktas of Buddha were not calling this flesh-and-bone body God. Beyond this door they could see God. This body of flesh-and-bone was a doorway; this was the doorframe; beyond it the infinite sky was visible—that infinite sky they called God.

Student and teacher are far apart—two different realms. The disciple and the guru come near, are bound, interwoven, joined. And bhakta and Bhagwan become one—not merely united; duality itself falls away.

In today’s songs of Doolandasa, it is the third role that is being spoken of—the ultimate state of love. It will be difficult to grasp—but if ever in life you have loved, there may be a few clues from that love.

Let us listen a little, and speak a little of our own!

In the river of life, every wave
seems ready to fade away here, Beloved!
A momentary meeting—then who knows
where I and where you will be, Beloved?
For a moment let us flow together;
let us listen a little, speak a little of our own;
come, let us take a little and give a little!
We are travelers of an unknown path,
walking is the very essence of life, Beloved!
Yet heavy, unbearably heavy
is the burden of loneliness, Beloved!
For a moment let us meet, laugh and play;
come, let us take a little and give a little!
Let us dissolve into one another!

Treasuries of joy and happiness—
this much only is their price, Beloved:
a few tiny drops of compassion,
a few gentle words of love, Beloved.
Let us fill our hearts with fragrance;
let us dissolve into one another!

Let us meet, heart’s content, openly!
This honey-grace of the world’s garden,
this nectar of spring’s sweetness, Beloved—
let it settle within two breaths
and let those breaths become the infinite, Beloved!
If we must wither, come, let us bloom;
let us meet, heart’s content, openly!

As lovers long to meet—even for a moment! For worldly union is but for a moment. Lovers sink into one another for a heartbeat, and in that brief moment a thrill, a joy, a glimpse, a ray descends. It can only be a ray—coming and gone! You will hardly know when it came, when it went. Only a whisper in the ear—and it is gone.

But the meeting that happens between the bhakta and the sadguru takes place on the plane of the Eternal because it is on the plane of Samadhi. I said: the student meets the teacher on the plane of the intellect. The disciple meets the guru on the plane of the heart. The bhakta meets Bhagwan on the plane of Samadhi. Deeper than the heart there is a space within you—there you are, there your Atman is. When union happens on the plane of the Atman, it is eternal. The intellect’s union is made and unmade. The heart’s union cannot break, yet those who meet there remain two—bound, embraced, yet still distinct; they cannot break—true—but they have not yet become one.

The meeting of the bhakta and the sadguru is not a meeting, it is a merging. They become one; a confluence happens; the king of holy places is born. And understand this about that meeting: where the bhakta and the sadguru merge, a third also arrives—without anyone hearing the slightest whisper. To symbolize this, Prayag is called the king of pilgrimages. The Ganga is visible, the Yamuna is visible, the Saraswati is not. Two rivers are seen; of those two, you can even see their meeting waters, their colors distinct. So it will be with the disciple and the guru—their colors different even after merging. But yet another river, Saraswati, meets them—which is invisible.

This is a symbol—the symbol of that inner union. Where the disciple and the guru meet, Bhagwan also joins. God is Saraswati—unseen. The disciple-guru confluence is no common event; it is the most uncommon happening in this world, for in it Paramatman enters! The highest summit, the Kailash, for there—upon that very height—begins the domain of God.

Receive Doolandasa’s words into your heart. The words are simple; their feeling is deep.

Guru is Brahma, guru is Vishnu, guru is Shankar, guru is the Sadhu.
Doolan says: worship the Guru-Govind; the guru’s way is unfathomable, ageless, and profound.

Guru Brahma, guru Vishnu, guru Shankar—the Trimurti. Understand this vision well. Only in India was it born—and born with such a unique meaning as no religion anywhere else dared to give God.

Brahma is one face of God, Vishnu another, Mahesh the third. God one; three faces. For God is one, yet his expressions are three. Brahma is the expression of creation, Vishnu of preservation, Shankar—or Mahesh—of dissolution. From Brahma, the creation of the world; from Vishnu, its maintenance; from Mahesh, its completion—its end.

No other religion in the world dared to accept God also as Death. They accepted God as Life. Jews, Christians, Muslims accepted God’s Brahma-face—only Brahma. They could accept but one face: God created the world—fine. They could not accept his Vishnu-face, for so many errors are seen in the world; if God maintains it, there should be no mistakes—so much illness, war, turmoil! Blind children are born, lame, leprous. If God is still the maintainer, how can there be such errors?

So the three religions born outside India accepted only God as Creator—he made the world in six days and then withdrew. Thereafter the world runs by itself. Whatever perversions there are were dumped upon the devil.

But here lies a logical fault. It implies two rulers of the world—God and the devil. And it implies the devil seems more powerful than God, for peace is but occasional; war is daily. Love sometimes; hate daily. Compassion sometimes; anger daily. Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas, Christs appear occasionally—and a vast crowd of the perverse, unhealthy, sick-minded daily! Satan seems to win; God seems to lose. This difficulty arose from a small weakness.

Unable to find any explanation for the world’s errors, they put God far away. God created the world in six days, then stood aside; the world is now empty of God, neglected—as if a child played with toys for a while, then tossed them into a corner and forgot them, and dust gathered on them. If the world is neglected, will our prayers even reach God? He who made the world and then withdrew—who knows if he even remembers making it? How will our outpourings reach him?

No—India dared. It accepted the second form too—Vishnu. As Brahma, he created; as Vishnu, he himself maintains. And if there are errors, there is a reason. Without darkness, light cannot be known; without death, birth cannot be. The mode of Existence is dialectical. Expression arises only through opposites. Where there is no polarity, there is no expression.

Before the world, there was no evil because there was no good. As soon as the world appeared, good appeared, and evil appeared—in equal measure. This seems scientific; the mathematics behind it is clear. You think there could be only heat and no cold? How? Heat and cold are not two—one thermometer measures both. They cannot be two. One essence, two expressions. And to be expressed, two are needed. If there were only men, the world could not go on; if only women, it could not go on.

Now science too accepts: if electricity had only the positive and no negative, there would be no electricity. Positive and negative must be together. The great Western philosopher Hegel called this dialectical evolution; Karl Marx built his socialism upon this principle—that contradiction is the nature of the world; a struggle runs between two.

Think for a moment of a Ramayana where there is Rama but no Ravana. The story will not form. Try as you may, it will not. Ravana is essential to the tale of Rama. Nor can Ravana be without Rama. Together they color the saga. On a black background white lines leap forth; thus stars do not appear by day. They are there, but unseen. At night’s darkness they appear—darkness makes their light distinct.

Opposites are needed for expression. Accepting this principle, there is no need to dump errors upon a devil. India alone felt no need to invent a devil—God is enough. India alone dared to say: God is flower and thorn. Then we gave even the thorn its dignity. Anyone can honor the flower—we honored the thorn too. We honored not only Rama; we honored Ravana, for Rama too is within Ravana.

One God has manifested in opposite forms—only thus is expansion, development, proliferation possible. The One manifests in infinite forms. Vishnu maintains. Notice: there is only one temple of Brahma in India. All other temples are of Vishnu, for all avatars are of Vishnu. Build a temple to Rama—it is Vishnu’s; to Krishna—Vishnu’s; to Buddha—Vishnu’s. The rest are all Vishnu’s.

Only one temple of Brahma? For Brahma’s work is finished—the moment he created, it was complete. Now prayer is needed. Temples are for prayer—so they belong to Vishnu. We must call to the one who maintains. To that form of God which maintains. Hence all prayers go to Vishnu.

And even more wondrous—India accepted: what is created must be destroyed. Whatever begins must end. We proceeded with a very scientific vision. We made no compromise in our scientificity; in the name of religion we did not deny science. We built a bridge between religion and scientificity. Whatever begins ends. Birth implies death. If there has been creation, one day there will be dissolution—pralaya. Then there must be a form of God of dissolution too—the very hands that created, the hands that maintained, one day will uncreate. That dissolving form we called Mahesh.

These are three energies of God—creation, preservation, dissolution—three faces. We recognized him even in death. Many people cannot recognize him even in life—thus thousands are atheists. They cannot see God even in life. And yet there have been wondrous ones who recognized him even in death. Some do not see his radiance even in life, do not hear his heartbeat in life, do not feel his breath in life—though such an immense, incomparable life surrounds them—and still they ask: where is God?

But those were extraordinary beings, with deep insight—inner eyes—who saw the hand of God even in death. For all is his; birth his, death his. Modern science accepts: earths are born and die; stars are born and die. The interval is long—but in the endless expanse what is the worth of long-time? Nightly, hundreds of stars dissolve; hundreds are born. Every moment it happens: creation, preservation, dissolution. Some are being born, some are in youth, some near death. These three processes run together in Existence.

Somewhere Brahma is at work—a new star is crafted. Somewhere Vishnu is at work—what has been made is maintained; colors are filled on petals, on butterflies; garlands of stars are arranged; within human hearts the note of life is played; birds sing, trees flower. Where life has come to be, life is preserved. And where life is tired and energy seeks rest, some star approaches death, some earth nears its end.

In the past decade scientists have researched what they call black holes. Full knowledge is not yet had; perhaps never—such is the matter. They discovered empty spaces in the sky into which, if a star enters, it disappears—utterly. Like a droplet upon a hot iron plate—pssst!—in a moment it was there, the next moment not—evaporated. Or like dew upon a leaf in the morning sun—vanished. So too stars upon entering those voids are annihilated—black holes. Black because death happens there. And just recently they have begun to find that as there are black holes, on the other side, like the other face of a coin, there are white holes—shubhra holes. As things disappear through black holes, so from white holes things emerge—are created.

Thus Brahma is found at one pole, Mahesh at the other, and in-between, Vishnu. Only one temple of Brahma—for who will worship the one whose work is done? Worship is for a purpose—hence Vishnu receives most. Yet more numerous than Vishnu’s are the temples of Shankar. So many, and made by so many, that building more became unnecessary—beneath any roof, even under a tree, place Shankar’s linga and a temple is there. Village by village, wayside upon wayside—Shankar’s shrines—because in Shankar’s hand is death, dissolution. From the one who holds death a prayer rises naturally—our future is in his hands. Today or tomorrow, we shall be in his hands.

These three are God’s energies. And Doolandasa says: I see all three in my guru.

Guru is Brahma, guru is Vishnu; guru is Shankar, guru is the Sadhu.

All three I see in my guru. I have seen Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh in my guru—this very Triveni I have seen in him. And more: I have found in my guru the very sage who showed this Triveni. This Triveni is my guru, and the gesture pointing to it is my guru.

Doolan says: worship the Guru-Govind...

Therefore Doolandasa says: worship one guru, and you have worshiped all three. What need to remember Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh separately? Remember one guru and all three are remembered. By mastering one, all three are mastered. And not only that—remember the guru, and in the guru are remembered all the sages. Namo loye savva-sahunam! Homage to all saints is done.

...the guru’s way is unfathomable, vast.

Hence: he who understands the vision of guru, who grasps the secret hidden in the word ‘guru,’ has understood the profound truth of life. Into this small word ‘guru’ we have condensed the all. It is a brief sutra holding the essence of spiritual life: as attar is distilled from a thousand thousand flowers, so from the entirety of spiritual experience we have distilled an attar—Guru. What is the work of the guru?

Where folks fall for shards of stone,
there I sell rubies, pearls, jewels.
Where connoisseurs gather bitterness,
there I sell cane, honey, sugar.
Where they worship the darkness,
there I sell sun-and-moon’s light.
Where the world opposes the heart’s pain,
there I sell the heart’s very effect.
Hidden within rhyme and meter,
I sell my heart, I sell my soul.

This is the guru’s work: where people tumble over pebbles, collecting stones, thinking them diamonds—

Where folks fall for shards of stone,
there I sell rubies, pearls, jewels—
Koh-i-nurs not of this world, treasures from another realm, jewels found in the depths of Samadhi—brought up from the innermost.

Where connoisseurs gather bitterness,
there I sell cane, honey, sugar—
where people have become accustomed to bitterness, where they think drinking poison is life—I bring sweetness; where they take thorns to be all, I sell the fragrance of flowers.

Where they worship the darkness,
there I sell sun-and-moon’s light—
where Amavas is made a goddess, I bring news of the full moon; where nights are so familiar they’ve forgotten dawn exists, I sell the morning.

Where the world opposes the heart’s pain,
there I sell the fruit of the heart’s pain—
for from the heart’s sorrow the bridge to God is built. Only those filled with tears in the heart arrive.

Hidden within rhyme and meter,
I sell my heart, I sell my soul—
A true guru is one who awakens your sleeping heart; who brings your heart near his throbbing heart so that, seeing his heart beat, your heart begins to beat; who gives you his thirst, his pain, his love; and one blessed day, gives you his God.

From the moon-face of the revered sadguru
a shower of nectar-like word has begun.
Keep the lake of your heart filled—
Doolan’s fortune has awakened.

Doolan says: my fortune has awakened; nectar from the guru’s mouth is pouring—his speech is honeyed—and I am filling my heart’s lake. Do the same, he says.

From the moon-face of the revered sadguru
a shower of nectar-like word has begun—
Do not hear the guru’s words as ordinary words; in them is something more, something else not found in words. Those words arrive steeped in some intoxication; imbued with some amrit; they carry the fragrance of Samadhi.

...a shower of nectar-like word—
And as in the monsoon the downpour begins—do not miss it. Some miss even the rain—such are the unfortunate. Sit with your vessel upside-down, and you will miss even the rains. Those who listen with the head sit with the vessel upside-down. Open the heart. Drink! Don’t just hear—drink. Only then will your heart-lake fill with nectar.

Keep the lake of your heart filled—
Doolan’s fortune has awakened.

Even a single drop—revolution happens. If the lake fills—what to say! Even a single drop changes the course of your life, changes the color, the style. A dance comes to your feet; a luster and radiance to your eyes; in your life a new longing to live! Around you, the melody of the Unstruck begins to play. Then through this very life, through this very crowd, you can pass dancing.

Let the strains of joy take flight as you pass;
sing songs of delight as you pass;
let rivers of gladness flow as you pass;
move through the world singing, playing;
pass by making the earth dance!

If you can hear thus, this can happen—if you can hear with the heart. Not as a student; as a disciple. And if as a bhakta, then you too will say: Doolan’s fortune has awakened.

Let the strains of joy take flight as you pass;
sing songs of delight as you pass;
let rivers of gladness flow as you pass;
move through the world singing, playing;
pass by making the earth dance!

Erase the very feeling of sorrow’s ache;
if you have grain, fling away the burden of grief;
burn the decrees of sorrow’s government;
if you are gilded, smash every wall of grief—
shake them, seat them, topple them as you pass!

Upon time and space’s tyrannies,
upon the uproars of misfortune,
upon the foolishness of two-day life,
upon the guilt and the shame for guilt—
cast a glance and pass on smiling.

Granted this life is full of pain,
that it is waves of trouble,
that it is one long oppression,
that it is grief upon grief—
then kick grief in the teeth as you pass!

If every breath is inclined to torment,
if life is inclined to make you weep,
if the sky is inclined to erase,
if the age is inclined to fade your colors—
then you yourself fade the colors of this age as you go!

Where the way of the world is very cruel,
where every charm is hypocrisy, every tale deceit—
then do not lodge the common complaint
that the world shows you angry eyes;
show your eyes to the world as you go!

Let the strains of joy take flight as you pass;
sing songs of delight as you pass;
let rivers of gladness flow as you pass;
move through the world singing, playing;
pass by making the earth dance!

Even a single drop falls, and you begin to dance. Then Doolan rightly says—how fortunate I am!

Keep the lake of your heart filled—
Doolan’s fortune has awakened.

Yet there are such unfortunate ones who go to the guru with deceit. So foolish, so naive, so dull that even before the guru their inner longing is to ask for the petty. The guru may offer Koh-i-nur; their eyes remain fixed on pebbles. Even before the guru they cannot leave the heart entirely naked; even there they hide, they screen, they keep a veil. If you hide your illness from the physician, how will there be healing? Hide nothing before the guru—only then will you rise from the world of the student and become a disciple.

Those who go to the guru yet are slaves of their desires—
those who act in deceit—

...their service is fruitless.
However much you massage the guru’s feet—nothing will happen. There is only one service: stand in your totality before the guru, naked in your total nakedness. Appear exactly as you are. You deceive the whole world; at least do not deceive the guru! Let there be one place where you are unburdened and need not deceive. One place where nothing need be hidden, where there is no lie. From that very place grace will descend. Else all yoga, service, bhajan, kirtan—vain.

He hears the faint call of the ant—
let your mind repeat him within.
Doolandasa says: worship with trust—
the Lord is not deaf.

Even the cry of an ant reaches him. So no need to shout—just offer in the heart, and it is done. One can say without speaking.

And with the guru you should learn this art—of saying without words, of sitting silently, of sending the message through a wave of feeling. When feeling begins to reach the guru, you will gain trust: if it reaches the guru, it can reach God. True prayer is not of words—it is wordless, silent; not articulated. What is there to speak? Before we speak he knows. Even before we know, he has known. He hears the stones, he hears the trees, he hears the ant—he sits within all.

Doolan says: having taken birth in this world,
let the name be remembered always.
Without love for Ram alone,
a hundred births are in vain.

Learn the art of taking the Name—silently, in the realm of feeling.

Having taken birth here, let the Name be remembered always.

And if you have to mutter Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, you cannot do it twenty-four hours. In sleep it will stop. There are other works too—the market, the shop, bread to earn, children to tend. He has given you this world and life—abandoning it would be an insult.

Therefore I do not favor escapees. Runaway sannyasins are not sannyasins—they are cowards. God has given life to be lived, and there is a reason behind it. Only by living life does one learn the art of going beyond it. He who flees life cannot transcend it. If you do not climb the steps, how will you go beyond? If you flee the steps, how will you cross? So no question of muttering Ram-Ram—rather, in the realm of feeling...

When you love someone, remembrance continues. A mother does a thousand tasks and still remembers her child—has he fallen from the cradle, reached the stairs, the lamp? At night clouds thunder in the sky—she does not hear them. But the child’s tiny stir and her sleep breaks. What a miracle! Thunder and lightning did not wake her, but the child’s faint whimper did. Somewhere within, in the realm of feeling, remembrance flows continuously—even in sleep.

Having taken birth here, let the Name be remembered always.
Without love for Ram alone,
a hundred births are vain.

He hears the faint call of the ant—
let your mind repeat him within.
Doolandasa says: worship with trust—
the Lord is not deaf.

Remember: God is not deaf—that you must shout loudly, give loud calls to prayer, clang the temple bells. He is not deaf; he sits within you. Whom are you trying to make hear by bells? Whom are you worshiping by shouting? Close your eyes, be silent—and your worship has reached. With closed eyes, in your inner emptiness, perform worship and sadhana. Offer your inner void at his feet—and all flowers are useless.

We conceive of God as we deal with people. We think: shout loudly and people will hear. So we think God will hear only if we shout. People may hear if you shout because they are deaf—God is not. People may need shouting because they are busy in a thousand thoughts; to break through, you must be loud. God is not busy—he is the Great Void. There, your slightest wave of feeling reaches quickly. And the more you shout, the more you betray you have no acquaintance with God. Shouters will miss. Life is full of paradoxes. The arithmetic that works outside does not work inside. Outside one and one make two; inside, one and one make one.

That which was single emerges double;
what was untangled emerges entangled;
break the shell and a pearl appears;
break the pearl and a shell appears.

Depth upon depth in life, layer upon layer. Break the deepest layer within and you find emptiness—silence. That deepest layer becomes the deepest prayer.

Lower your gaze, raise your mind,
fix remembrance upon the Name.
To Doolan the Supreme is glimpsed—
darkness dissolves.

At first it will be hard to trust that without speaking the message will reach him. Here, even with speaking it often doesn’t—how without? At first it will be hard to trust that without doing anything God can be attained. Here we labor so much and do not get wealth—how will meditation come? Position is not attained—how will God be? But the arithmetic is different.

Stand by a lake and look—your reflection is inverted. Your head below, your feet above. If fish in the lake looked at your reflection and thought that is how you are, they would be mistaken. You are the inversion of the reflection.

This world is but a reflection—a shadow raised in a dream—maya. There the arithmetic is exactly opposite. Here, to say something you must speak; there, to say something you must be silent. Here, to arrive somewhere you must travel; there, to arrive you must stop moving. Here, things are attained by effort, by great effort; there, by effortlessness, by prasad. That world is the exact opposite. But in the beginning—how to trust? In the beginning, walk a while beside a sadguru; look into his eyes and perhaps a little possibility of trust is born. Otherwise it seems unbelievable; a thousand doubts arise.

Friend, on the hope of hope
I thought this boat might reach the shore.
But the ocean’s waves rose,
and the sky was filled with cloud—
wind stormed;
the boat, old and tattered.
The little lamps of the heavens were quenched—
those silent stars.
In whose hands lay the oar,
he had no faith;
and the travelers for long were his slaves—
in his hands was drowning or salvation.
To drown in the ocean—perhaps to reach the far shore;
to lose a love—yet to hide it in the heart.
How then could I leave the boat of hope?
Friend, on the hope of hope.

The first time, only on the support of hope must you leave your boat. If through someone’s love a ray of hope arises in you—leave the boat. In this world, even with all caution, one drowns; in that world, drowning is salvation. Only those crossed who drowned—who fully immersed themselves. But fear will come; the mind will tremble, will raise a thousand doubts. In that hour, who will give you courage?

Therefore Doolan says: drink the guru’s words into your heart—fill your heart. From those very words courage will arise, hope will come, trust will be born. Around those very words, slowly, the energy of shraddha will swell within. And a little shraddha carries you across. The greatest of arguments fail; a little shraddha carries you. Mountains of logic are useless; a mustard seed of shraddha suffices.

But man’s difficulty is understandable. Wherever we trusted, we were deceived. Whom we relied upon—he betrayed. Whenever we trusted—then deception was suffered. So the habit of trust has broken. We have made a strange world: one where all arrangements are made for doubt to grow and none for shraddha.

Thus I say: the world is not yet religious. No country is religious. A few individuals have been religious—no country. India is not yet religious—these are illusions. What country will I call religious? By my definition, that land where life itself naturally gives birth to shraddha; where doubts die by themselves; where living in relationship, doubt dies of its own accord; where the entire range of experience nourishes and strengthens shraddha—that land is religious. There is no other definition. Religion is: an air, an atmosphere where shraddha arises of itself and doubt finds it hard even to be born.

Presently, the situation is reversed everywhere. Doubt springs up easily—the first movement is doubt. Shraddha appears almost impossible. People do not trust even their own. The husband does not trust the wife, the wife does not trust the husband. Each spies upon the other lest the other betray! Children do not trust parents, parents do not trust children. Friend does not trust friend—what to say of enemy. Inwardly examine—are your relationships of trust, or are they of doubt? Whether you say it or not is irrelevant. Within, if all relationships are of doubt, when and how will shraddha arise? In this world filled with doubts—where doubt is given life from all sides, where every experience strengthens it and you become more cunning, more deceitful—create at least one relationship where you remove all doubts; where you relate through shraddha—that is the disciple’s state.

When with great struggle one plague is escaped,
a fresh calamity arrives and loots again;
a new blister makes the chest bleed,
as soon as an old blister bursts.

Such is life: when, with dying effort, one calamity is escaped, a new affliction arrives. A blister forms in the heart—it has not even healed—just as the old bursts, a new arises. No delay. Deception upon deception, dishonesty upon dishonesty—everywhere. Politics everywhere. Everyone is ready to cut your throat—even if smiling! For here, it is smiling that cuts; here, massaging the feet is how throats are seized. Whatever he says, his eyes are upon your pocket. When he will pick it—who can tell?

In such a world of deceit, it is a marvel that someone attains discipleship. It is a blessed hour when you find someone before whom you can trust—and you say: all right, if you must loot, loot—but I will not doubt. If you must erase me, erase me—but I will not doubt. Having doubted so long, I got only ashes. Now let me sip a little of shraddha’s nectar.

My head spins rowing this boat
and feeding myself illusions of pleasure;
ah, the struggle of life! I am tired, O Lord;
my breath has broken breathing breath.

If such an experience has arrived, learn the lesson of shraddha. Breathe anew. In a new world, in a new air, drink new rays, new dew. You have seen the world of doubt—taste the realm of trust a little.

Lower your gaze, raise your mind,
fix remembrance upon the Name.

Now lower your eyes—set aside the ego. Much you have strutted—what have you gained but pain?

Lower your gaze—
now put away the arrogance.
Raise your mind—
awaken consciousness. Drop ego and awaken awareness.
Fix remembrance upon the Name—
The method for both is one: if remembrance of the Lord’s Name settles, ego will wane on one side and consciousness will awaken on the other.

Fix remembrance upon the Name.

To Doolan the Supreme is glimpsed, and darkness dissolves. The Supreme—Param-pada—means: that upon attaining which nothing remains to be attained; having found it, you know you never lost anything. Darkness dissolves—our darkness is from doubt. Our doubts have congealed into deep darkness; our doubt is our Amavas. Let tiny lamps of shraddha be lit—and Diwali happens.

Yet it seems doubt is cleverness and shraddha is simplicity. Doubt seems intelligence, shraddha seems an invitation to be looted. It seems so; the truth is the reverse. People have been looted by doubt; those who have reached, reached by shraddha. Whoever has reached has done so through trust; whoever has been looted has been looted by doubt.

If the city’s Grand Pundit had known life’s secret,
then he too would have joined the drinkers’ gathering.
Someone, at the time of ecstasy, spilled the wine’s cup—
else the lamp upon Sinai would have been the pivot of light.
Stuck in arguments, poor intellect remained—
what a marvel if the heart too were slain by knowing!

This alone is the distinctive honor of us poor ones—

If the great city-pundit truly knew the secret of life,
he too would have applied to join the drunkards’ assembly.
If the pundit knew anything, he would not be entangled only in scriptures; he would have gone where the nectar overflows; he would have sought a sadguru.

If, in the hour of ecstasy, someone had not spilled the cup,
then the lamp of Sinai would have been the axis of light.

Stuck in arguments, poor intellect remained—
what a marvel if the heart too were pierced by knowing!

Will you remain entangled in intellect—or will you let the heart be drenched? Intellect means doubt; heart means love. Until the heart is wounded by knowing, until knowing’s arrow strikes the heart, there will be no miracle. Your life will remain hollow, dusty.

This alone is our unique pride—we who seem poor outwardly, simple and plain; yet our pride is this: our hearts are wounded, stricken by love. Within us, shraddha has arisen. Within us, discipleship is born.

The guru’s word does not fade, the thread never snaps.
Drink with ease, O Doolan, the elixir of Ram you have mixed.

Doolan says: whatever I do, the guru’s words do not leave me. Even if I wish, I cannot forget. Like a shadow they follow. Waking, sleeping—always with me; they surround like the air. As breath goes on, so does remembrance.

The guru’s word does not fade, the thread never snaps.

That thread of love that has been tied—that knot of affection—it does not break; there is no way to break it. No sword can cut it; no fire can burn it.

Drink with ease, O Doolan, the elixir of Ram you have mixed.

Now I drink and go on drinking—mixing the elixir of Ram and drinking it.

Thus Doolan says: become as fortunate as I became—that at the guru’s feet I drank the elixir of Ram. Do not let the thread break; keep the inner remembrance alive. You too drink thus. Do not only listen—drink. Digest! Let the guru’s words become blood, flesh, marrow; become your limbs. Do not remain mere head-information; spread over your heart. Let anyone cut you and find within only the guru’s words—or the remembrance of God.

It is said: when Sarmad’s head was severed, a miracle occurred—so it should be; whether it occurred or not is secondary, but it should have. Historically true or not, spiritually it is truer than history. The truth is deeper than fact. Sarmad’s fault was that he proclaimed ‘Anal-haq’—I am God. Muslims could not tolerate it. How to bear this?

Only in this land did such daring occur—that the proclamation ‘Aham Brahmasmi’ was embraced. We accepted ‘Tat tvam asi.’ We said this and That are one. We did not crucify one who proclaimed ‘Aham Brahmasmi’—we did not behead him. Among many stains upon India, at least not this one—we did not kill a proclaimer of ‘Anal-haq’ as Mansur or Sarmad were killed. We had at least this much understanding, this courtesy.

Sarmad’s head was cut off. Just before, he was told—ask forgiveness now, say ‘I am not God,’ and you may be spared. Sarmad said: it is beyond me. How can I say other than what is? Whether my head is cut or not, I will say the same. It is not I who speak—He who is beyond the head speaks. His head was cut. Before a vast crowd, his head rolled down the mosque steps, and on each step it cried out ‘Anal-haq! I am God!’—three times.

It is a beloved tale. Historically necessary or not—it expresses the inner truth of a Sarmad. When a truth has soaked every pore, even in death its proclamation continues.

And it may have happened—so many miracles happen in this world; this is small. Sardar Puran Singh also recorded such a thing of Swami Ram Tirtha; and that is not ancient, and Puran Singh was thoughtful, awake—not a sentimental devotee.

One night he stayed with Swami Ram in the Tehri Garhwal hills, in a distant bungalow of the Tehri king. At midnight—‘Ram-Ram-Ram’—a voice arose. He started: Who is chanting? Is Ram Tirtha sitting in meditation? He lit a lantern—Ram slept; yet the sound persisted. He thought: someone outside. He circled the veranda, the bungalow—no one, silence everywhere. Yet outside the sound grew faint; inside it grew stronger. Closer to the cot—stronger still. He placed an ear upon Ram’s arm, upon his leg—the sound surged. He woke Ram: What are you doing? From your body ‘Ram-Ram-Ram’ is arising. Ram said: For long I remembered, it has sunk. Now I do not chant—but it happens by itself. The echo resounds. Do not worry; sleep in peace. Forgive me that your sleep was disturbed—but it is beyond my control.

If from the body the sound of Ram can arise, what wonder if from Sarmad’s severed head it could arise? But only when remembrance has soaked you thus know that you have drunk and digested the elixir of Ram. The more you repeat with feeling, the deeper it goes—for you do not know how deep you are! You are as deep as the sky is deep.

The scissor cuts itself;
the flame congeals, the fire freezes.
Whatever intelligence tries to raise,
sinks the more in the clay.

Raise any truth in your awareness, and it will sink deeper into you. Within you are depths where the impossible happens—scissors cut scissors; the flame somehow freezes. There are such mysteries within you. You sit at your own doorway; you have not entered your inner palace. You circle outside the mansion, so pleased—yet you have no link with your own treasure, and you lust after another’s. If only you found your treasure—your envy, jealousy, greed would fall in an instant. Beyond it there is nothing to be had—ever. You are the Supreme Wealth. You are the Supreme State.

A friend in adversity is the true friend;
a king in righteousness is the true ruler.
Doolan says: he whose love for the Name is firm—
that one alone is called a bhakta.

He alone is a bhakta in whom only love remains—dense, dense love; all else is dissolved.

Our own are our own—strangers changed their ways;
the angle of seeing changed, the subject of song changed.
The mad were mad—and the clever got lost too—
thus spring arrived, thus the garden’s color changed.

Again the goblet foams, again the sea of wine is high;
fortune of the garden changed, the mirror of the garden changed.
Every drop a pearl, every mote a musk grain;
the measure of seeing changed, every old imprint changed.

When love becomes dense within you, the whole world becomes other.

Our own are our own—strangers changed their ways;
The angle of seeing changed, the subject of song changed.
The mad were mad—but the clever too got lost—
so arrives the season of spring, so the garden’s colors change—
when spring comes, not only flowers—thorns bloom; not only flowers—stones bloom.

Doolan says: he whose love for the Name is firm—
that one alone is called a bhakta.

Let this miracle happen within you. Become a bhakta. Only then will you know the secret of life; only then will you know how much God has given—and yet you remain naked, a beggar! God has given so much—you are an emperor.

Ram’s Name—two letters—if someone repeats unbroken—
Doolan says: the inner lamp will kindle
if the mind is filled with trust.

Go on repeating. Take care: repetition does not mean merely the word—deepen in feeling, deepen.

Ram’s Name—two letters—repeat unbroken—
Doolan says: the lamp within is lit
if there is trust in the heart.

You have heard tales of classical music—of Raga Dipak. By playing a certain raga, extinguished lamps would light. Today it seems fanciful, legendary. But scientists say it is possible: sound is a form of electricity; a specific sonic impact can create fire.

Thus when an army crosses a bridge, they are instructed not to march in rhythm—left-right—because that rhythmic impact has broken even strong bridges. So in every country, when a troop crosses a bridge, they break step. The stroke of rhythm—the stroke of sound—can kindle fire.

So Raga Dipak may have been. Whether or not—it does not concern me. I have nothing to do with classical music outside. But within, the truth is absolute: there is a raga that kindles the inner lamp—the remembrance of the Name; the prabhu-name. Any Name. Do not think only ‘Ram-Ram’ will do. It is the remembrance that matters—say ‘Allah,’ or any you love.

The English poet Tennyson wrote in his memoirs: from childhood, somehow I discovered—how, when, I do not know—that when alone I would sit, and ecstatically repeat, ‘Tennyson, Tennyson...’—my own name. I would feel such joy, such intoxication—as if drunk. I would sway. Whenever I got the chance, I would go on—‘Tennyson, Tennyson...’ And slowly, what meditators call Samadhi began to happen to me through repeating my own name! I was amazed. Say ‘Ram’ or ‘God’—fine. But your own name? But all names are his.

Tennyson’s insight applies to you. Repeat your own name—it will work. The real issue is this: to dive in utterly into a single mood, so totally that the world is forgotten; so that concentration becomes one-pointed and a single stroke goes on—then the inner lamp lights.

Ram’s Name—two letters—repeat unbroken—
Doolan says: the inner lamp will kindle
if the mind is filled with trust.

If there is feeling in the heart—everything becomes possible.

Tears give birth to pearls;
rest gives birth to waves of unrest.
When the breeze trembles a hundred times in the garden,
a fine line appears upon the bud.

Tears make pearls. The breeze must pass a hundred times over the bud before a delicate line appears. When infinite times you remember the Divine, then the inner lamp lights. It can light; it must be lit. Without lighting it, do not leave. One thing only—attain it.

If worry it must be, let the heart worry for the Beloved;
if dust we must become, become the dust of the Beloved’s street.

In life there is worry—thousand anxieties. If worry it must be, let it be for something of worth; let the inner remembrance be of the Beloved alone.

In this world, O friend, bondage is unavoidable;
let the heart be captive to the curling tresses.
If life’s name is wanderlust, O wise ones,
then circle the streets of the Beloved.

If life is vagrancy, a futile wandering—let it be so, then let it be in the Beloved’s lane!

Since life is hanging upon one upheaval or another,
why not be the drunk who dances and sings in the tavern?

And when everything is being lost—why not drink, be ecstatic, and dance!

Since life hangs upon one commotion or another,
why not be the drunk who dances and sings in the tavern?

Come, O drinkers—drink and dance. When life will slip from the hands anyway—why not make it a dance? When this body must go—why not let it fall in the Beloved’s street? When anxieties will encircle anyway—why not squeeze them into a single anxiety for Him?

If we must live among deceits, O men of intellect,
why not taste the cup of the slow-pouring Beloved?

Since the struggle is inevitable—why struggle with trifles—
why not, leaving the motes, grapple with the sun?

If struggle it must be—then collide with the moon and the stars, with the sun himself!

If worry it must be, let the heart worry for the Beloved;
if dust we must become, become the dust of the Beloved’s street.

If such a resolve arises in your life—the blessed hour has come. The lamp can be lit. The density of resolve!

Ram’s Name—two letters—repeat unbroken—
Doolan says: the inner lamp will kindle
if the mind is filled with trust.

Enough for today.