Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #9

In the dense wilderness of emptiness,
In the searing heat of struggles,
I searched you here and there—and found you in my own innermost heart.
I kept on flowing endlessly, yet
I did not know what I am.
I remained unacquainted with dreams, but
not unknown to the eyes.
What a bewildering magic of dilemma it was—
I forgot; I could not see
whose countless images are formed in the mirror of my tears.
Sitting bowed and still in the temple,
when frightened, my faith deceived me.
Every stone became worthy of worship
when blind attachment was shaken.
This body was an eternal offender—
I forgot; I could not see
that a childhood-like Nirvana was hidden in my own tainted courtyard.
Delusion kept tangling in its net,
but the knots would not open.
The trance of emotions snapped,
but the statue would not form.
When ocular knowledge led me astray,
I forgot; I could not understand
who it is that shows me the way, hiding in the heartbeat of my breaths.
Draped in the hypocrisy of worship,
my body sat on the banks of the Ganga.
The wish-fulfilling gem kept slipping each moment
with every turn of the mind’s restlessness.
I dipped the body daily in the sacred stream,
I forgot; I could not think
that all sins are washed in the worship of self-purification.
Hearing the unique glory of names,
I kept muttering in misery unceasingly.
To hide my own sins
I made a false religion into a smuggler.
Adopting various devices,
I forgot; I could not see
that all my impurities are hidden in my own impure thinking.
In the dense wilderness of emptiness,
In the searing heat of struggles,
I searched you here and there—and found you in my own innermost heart.

Man is a search—an eternal, a timeless search. It isn’t even clear who it is we are searching for. How could it be clear until we find it? Nor is it certain toward which destination we move. How could that be certain until the destination is found? Such is our uncomprehending quest.
But one thing is clear—absolutely clear: as man is, he is not fulfilled. Something is lost, something missed. There ought to be something that is not. Call it what you will—call it Paramatman, call it Atman, call it Moksha, call it Nirvana, call it Truth. Yet one thing is hidden in everyone: man is not as he should be. He is a little off, a little displaced from the point, from the center. Not where he should be.
Hence there is a restlessness, a burning. Day and night, a concern. A cloud of worry surrounds man. However many pleasures, the worry does not go; however much wealth, the whisper doesn’t cease: I am not where I was to be; I am not what I was to become; what was to be received has not yet been attained. The search remains; the journey is yet unfinished. Even if the whole world is gained, this lack stands erect—and becomes denser.
Because of this lack, there is religion. Not because there is a God. Of God we know nothing. But we do know that within us there is a lack, a vacancy. And when there is thirst, there must be water; when there is hunger, there must be food. If within there is absence, there must be that which fills it. The name of that fulfiller is Paramatman. He who will fill it is God. Whether God is or is not is not the question; within us, there is lack. And if there is lack, there will be that which completes it, as surely as thirst entails water, hunger entails food.
And the wonder of wonders is revealed when that which we sought is found within ourselves. For whom we roamed to the horizons through births upon births, for whom we wandered long distances—could not find. The wonder of wonders is that day when we find him within.
In the dense wilderness of emptiness,
In the searing heat of struggles,
I searched you here and there—and found you in my own innermost heart.
Perhaps that is why we do not find him—because he is hidden in the very seeker. Break open a seed—what will you find? Neither flowers nor fruits. Break a seed—what will you find? An emptiness. Yet in that very emptiness flowers are hidden, fruits are hidden, a vast tree is concealed. If you look at yourself in that manner, you will find emptiness; if you place yourself in the right context, you will find fullness. It is a matter of context.
If you tear a seed as such—no flowers, no fruits, nothing. But if you place the seed in the earth and let it break there, in the right context, soon a sprout will emerge. Soon green leaves will appear. Soon you will find a tree standing. Soon flowers will load it, fragrance will begin to fly. All this was hidden in that void of the seed.
Such is man’s state. Man is a seed in which Paramatman is hidden. But if you cut man open like that, you will find nothing within. Therefore science does not find the soul; it simply slices the seed. Religion finds the soul because religion dissolves the seed in the right context. The name of that context is religion. The name of that context is meditation. The name of that context is prayer, worship, adoration—methods of the same art: preparing the soil, removing stones, uprooting weeds; then sowing the seed, watering it, and awaiting the spring.
This is the true purpose of religion: to provide you the right context, the right soil, so that your seed may break—not anyhow, but in the proper ground, in the right communion, in satsang. Then you too will flower. And only as a flower can you be glad, can you be fulfilled; only then can you be satisfied.
Doolan says:
He who brings fodder to the elephant, and a grain to the ant as well—
such a Name must be sought.
Doolan asks: Who is it that feeds the elephant and the ant alike—the small and the great, the tiny and the vast? Who is that?
Such a Name must be sought.
Who is hidden in the whole of existence—who is green in the trees, red in the flowers, gold in the sun, silver in the moon? Who holds this vastness together? What hands sustain this immense orchestration? He must be sought.
Doolan says: Without seeking him, no contentment can be. He must be sought. To find him is to find all; to lose him is to lose all. In his attainment lies attainment—because once he is found, nothing remains to be found. Having found the Master, you inherit his mastery; having found the emperor, you receive his empire. Without him, you beg and beg—you are a beggar and remain one. Your begging-bowl has never been filled, nor will it be. It will be filled only by the Master.
Such a Name must be sought.
Some listen to ragas and raginis, some listen to scriptures and Puranas.
What shall Doolan listen to now, who has heard the flute’s strain?
He says: I have heard the strain of his flute. I have heard the anahat nad. I am dyed in his bliss. I call to you: wake up now. The hour has come. Don the shawl dyed in love and rasa! Wrap yourself in the cloth tinged with love’s color and nectar. Dye yourself in the Beloved, in devotion, in feeling. I have heard his flute; I have heard the anahat nad. Ever since I heard it, all other sounds turned pale; ever since I heard his music, all other music is mere noise. He who has seen his light finds all lights dim; he who has tasted his bliss finds all other pleasures like pains. He who has seen that flower blossom finds all other flowers worthless, thorn-like. He who has sipped a drop of that nectar-life finds all other lives empty of essence. To him, all other life is like death.
Some listen to ragas and raginis...
...some listen to stories and Puranas.
People drown in scriptures, in words, in sounds.
What shall Doolan now listen to...
...who has heard the flute’s strain.
There is a sound to existence. When you become utterly silent, empty, it is heard. When there is no clamor in the mind, no hustle of thoughts, when the flow of thought ceases, when within there is hush—just hush! No words forming, no thoughts, no desires, no feelings, no imagination, no memory rising—when the total movement of mind is quenched, when citta-vritti nirodha happens, when within there remains only you, like an empty mirror upon which no image forms—only then the sound is heard, the sound of existence itself, the heartbeat of existence, the ebb and flow of existence’s breath. That sound is called anahat nad.
Anahat, because it is not produced by the collision of two things—unstruck. Strike the drum and two collide: hand and skin. Pluck the vina and two meet: fingers and strings. That sound is anahat—it arises without two, for in that void there is only One. It is the frolic of the One, the dance of the solitary, the music of aloneness. Poets have called it the strain of his flute. It is playing continually. Those who have known say this entire existence is woven of that nad, created of it, condensed music—yet one must learn silence. The subtler the sound, the deeper the silence required. Only when supreme silence flowers can you hear the supreme music. It plays within you, it plays without you. We are limbs of its festival.
When earth sinks into the ocean,
there is the oneness of dissolution.
I have drowned in you so utterly
as rhythm dissolves into tone.
In the ocean of your remembrances my body and mind are drenched.
The infinite depth of breath is my submerged shore.
Like the play of ripples is the very movement of my life.
In death’s sweet, bottomless lap is the immortal success of the Great Union.
Renunciation is the deathless tale of love,
where loss is victory.
When earth sinks into the ocean,
there is the oneness of dissolution.
I have drowned in you so utterly
as rhythm dissolves into tone.
When the wick burns, the moth too burns; the lamp is the vessel and base.
The deathless soul is a companion of births; the perishable body is mere transaction.
Limits belong to the body; the heart is a free and boundless sky.
When the body becomes boundless, even limit becomes limitless.
When no division remains in the mind,
only then does the body merge.
When earth sinks into the ocean,
there is the oneness of dissolution.
I have drowned in you so utterly
as rhythm dissolves into tone.
Unwitting, to your water-spot I came with an empty pitcher.
With the thread of your glance you tied me; in love you drowned my breath.
Now it seems as if from the water-spot is the life of the pot;
its beauty from the spot; the spot’s youth from the pot.
I had not known before—
love’s thirst is inexhaustible.
When earth sinks into the ocean,
there is the oneness of dissolution.
I have drowned in you so utterly
as rhythm dissolves into tone.
As rhythm is drowned in tone—rhythm cannot be separated from tone; as a ray cannot be separated from light—so when you drown in the inner void, a great dissolution happens. Ego is gone, gone forever. All clamor and marketplace of ego are gone. Void remains; and in that void, the Full enters.
I have drowned in you so utterly
as rhythm dissolves into tone.
When earth sinks into the ocean,
there is the oneness of dissolution.
As earth drowns in the ocean and there is deluge, so when you dissolve into your inner emptiness, then the anahat is heard; the flute of Krishna is heard. You have placed Krishna’s image with a flute in temples. Worship a million times—nothing will happen. It is only a symbol—poetic, beloved if understood, but meaningless if you keep knocking your head before it. It is the symbol of the anahat nad.
Radha’s name is joined with Krishna as a shadow with a body. But scriptures say: when did Radha happen? Hard to say. In the ancient texts there is no mention of Radha. It begins very late: the saints of the medieval age began to speak of Radha—and now she seems as historical as Krishna. But Radha never happened; Radha is a symbol—a very sweet symbol. Those who have dived into the inner anahat say: Radha is “dhara” reversed—only a symbol. Dhara, the current, flows outward, downward. Ganga leaves her source, the Gangotri, and moves toward the ocean. The current goes far; its destination is distant; it moves away from the source, moment to moment farther.
Those who have heard the anahat say: reverse “dhara” and you have “Radha.” When your consciousness stops flowing outward and begins to flow inward—when you turn from the ocean toward the source—when you begin to dive within—then Radha is born within you. Dhara becomes Radha. And the moment you become Radha, union with Krishna happens; the flute is heard; the strain becomes audible, his dance visible. Those who would seek the anahat must become Radha.
Radha is not a historical person. Radha is the name of an inner event in every devotee. Radha is the devotee’s ultimate state—just a breath before union with Krishna. For a single moment Radha dances around Krishna—coming nearer and nearer—and then dissolves into him. The day you dissolve into your own source of consciousness, that day the deluge happens—ego is gone. Where ego is not, there is the supreme music. Your ego is the obstruction. Because of your ego the meter does not set, the song stumbles, the raga cannot settle, the flute cannot play. Your ego fills the flute—how will the flute be played? Empty the ego, let the flute be hollow. Kabir said: I became a hollow reed of bamboo; and since becoming a hollow reed, day and night his music flows through me.
Doolan says:
This family, this world—river, boat, coincidence.
Passengers alight here and there and go on their ways.
This world, this family, beloveds, friends, this crowd—this expanse of relationships—is a river-boat meeting. You sit to cross; many others sit. Some talk happens, some acquaintance is made. From where do you come, where do you go? Names, addresses. Friendships perhaps, enmities perhaps. Soon the boat will touch the other shore, and the travelers will disembark, each to his path.
Birth is to board the boat; death is to get off. Between them, all the friendships and enmities. What an expanse we make! How many attachments, how many bonds! And what suffering from these bonds. All the while we know death will come. The boat touches shore—and travelers alight. Before birth we had no relation with them; after death, none remains. We didn’t know them before boarding; we will not know them again. Yet for a moment together we create such a world!
This family, this world—river, boat, coincidence.
Passengers alight here and there and go on their ways.
I have seen flowers blossom and scatter—
how can I say your garden’s spring will abide?
Where there are a hundred thousand blossoms,
there too arrives the fall.
Where fall bites, there spring smiles.
This sunshine–shadow of change is the eternal rhythm of life.
Only the urge to smile always is a delusion nursed in dreams.
I have seen dreams being made and breaking—
how can I say every dream of yours will be fulfilled?
In those eyes filled with honeyed dreams, tears also nest.
Those lips of satisfaction burn in thirst as well.
Dreams are angry with the eyes, but the ocean of tears never empties.
The brine rises, and only the empty pitcher cracks.
I have seen the pitcher filling and breaking—
how can I say this vessel will remain full forever?
Whoever is born upon this earth cries at birth;
awake, he cries through life and rarely sleeps in peace.
Beauty, form, adornment—all fragrance for two days, then gone.
Whoever took pride in himself—his ego deceived him.
I have seen the sun ascend and descend—
how can I say your pride will make you immortal?
I have seen flowers blossom and scatter—
how can I say your garden’s spring will abide?
Springs come and go. Life comes and scatters. Flowers bloom and mingle with dust. Remember this transience—remember it always. From remembrance of transience, the search for the eternal is born. The transient cannot satisfy. What is the worth of what is today and gone tomorrow? What meaning to clutch for a moment what slips away the next? Soap-bubbles—made and gone—what reliance? Dreams that break—however sweet—one thing is certain: only that breaks which never truly is.
This is one of religion’s eternal foundations—only that breaks which is not. That which is, is forever. That which is does not come and go. That which comes and goes is not. Hence the transient is called maya—only seeming to be. Before you can grasp, it slips away.
I have seen flowers blossom and scatter—
how can I say your garden’s spring will abide?
I have seen dreams forming and breaking—
how can I say every dream will be fulfilled?
I have seen the pitcher filling and breaking—
how can I say your vessel will remain full?
I have seen the sun rise and set—
how can I say your pride will make you immortal?
Look carefully—open your eyes! All that is, runs like shadows. What was just now, is gone now. What is now, will not be now. What is here to hold? What to clasp to your heart? What you clasp will not remain, nor will the heart. Hands will not remain, nor that which they hold. If this arrow pierces deep, it awakens.
Only those are awake in this world who have seen its transience and known its futility. When the world appears insubstantial, rest vanishes. Then a restlessness arises: where is essence? What shall we seek? Whose refuge? Whose shade that will not leave us? In that very moment one goes—Buddham sharanam gachchhami, Sangham sharanam gachchhami, Dhammam sharanam gachchhami. One seeks the company of a Buddha, the congregation of the awakened. One seeks the essence of their awakening. As long as you trust dreams, the search for truth will not begin. When dream is seen as dream, the quest for truth becomes inevitable.
Doolan says:
In this world, who has kept his head?
Life for a handful of days—finally, to be dust.
The proudest heads, Alexanders, fell into dust. Swords in hand, the earth trembled under their stride—how they strutted! The earth must have laughed—knowing they are made of her and will return to her. Leap a while—soon you will sleep in the grave. Your limbs of my clay, strutting upon me!
Yet delusion continues. Many Alexanders came and went—the delusion does not break. Every new child comes carrying the same delusion. We do not learn. All around, death gives reminders. This leaf, green a moment ago, turned yellow and fell—no wakefulness comes. You tread upon the yellow leaf; you forget—it has narrated your entire story.
A bier passes along the road—yesterday this man was greeted with salutations. Today he is finished; they have bound him and carry him to the cremation ground. You stand by the road, much sympathy on your lips: so sad; young family—what of the children? You offer condolences for the dead—but not for a moment do you remember that tomorrow your bier too will pass and others will stand by the way speaking sympathetically of your young family and your children. Remember a little for yourself. Every bier is your bier, if you have understanding. Every yellow leaf your death.
There is an English saying: Send not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.
He who begins to see thus—every yellow leaf my tale, my pain; every bier my bier, every pyre my pyre—how long can he remain lost in dreams? He must awaken. This sting will awaken him; this pain will open his eyes. He will set out upon the quest for truth.
Whether this rainbow-hued world is gained or not—what of it?
If imagination itself is false, whether form is found or not—what of it?
As enchanting as the little picture of the world,
so vast is the empty sky.
The world too is vast,
but only as much as one is engrossed there.
In this world a strange reversal—
I have seen the one who gains, weeping.
Here all are looted—but I have seen the one who loses, laughing.
Whether the expanse of this great void is found or not—what of it?
If all is to be looted, whether treasure is found or not—what of it?
What if by the world’s every pleasure
your bag of desires is filled?
Even after sowing thorns,
will the garden smile with flowers?
All flowers fragrance two days,
then wither and go.
Whoever loved in this world
was in the end deceived.
If love like the garden’s flowers is found or not—what of it?
When life itself is transient, whether rights are found or not—what of it?
What eyes called truth,
the inner called false.
In this confusion of false-truth,
every truth slipped from the hand.
What eyes called truth,
the inner called false.
In this confusion of false-truth,
every truth slipped from the hand.
When was breath? when thirst?
When the longing to live?
Only deception remained as truth;
thirst lingered near the cremation ground.
To eyes sunk in craving, whether adornment is found or not—what of it?
When deception is the world’s truth, whether foundation is found or not—what of it?
What will you gain here? Here the one who gains and the one who does not—both are equal. Death strips both naked; both hands are emptied.
Whether the expanse of the great void is found or not—what of it?
If all is to be looted, whether treasure is found or not—what of it?
All equal: emperors and pawns all alike. A little noise, a little upheaval, a little story—never completed; people are completed before the story. Whose story is ever fulfilled? Who attains his desires? Who can say, my longing has come to completion? Run as you will, the distance between you and the horizon remains the same; the distance between you and your craving remains as it was—whether you gain or not.
Whether this rainbow world is gained or not—what of it?
If imagination is false, whether form is found or not—what of it?
It is a rainbow—lovely to see, but the fist grasps nothing. Perhaps the hand gets a little wet, for a rainbow is but tiny drops of water hanging in air, pierced by sunlight weaving a net of colors.
At death, the hand is not even wet. In a rainbow, the hand gets wet; at death, the hand is utterly empty, utterly dry. How many rainbows you clutched, how many you chased! Not only children chase butterflies; the old also. Children entangled in toys—and the old in toys too. The toys differ—some small, some big. Children and old alike on the journey of ego. Children can be forgiven—what experience do they have? But the old, at the edge of death, one foot in the grave, still in the scramble—snatch a little more, a higher post, a little more prestige, fame, name, a little more swagger. Pause a little. Consider a little. Before running, hesitate a little.
If love like the garden’s flowers is found or not—what of it?
When life is transient, whether rights are found or not—what of it?
To eyes drowned in craving, whether adornment is found or not—what of it?
When deception is the world’s truth, whether foundation is found or not—what of it?
Once this is seen—your own end is seen—you are initiated into sannyas. This I call sannyas; this is initiation. Death initiates man; none else can. Thus death is the guru; therefore the guru is called death—acharyo mrityuh.
The guru is called death because there is no greater guru than death. Not only Nachiketa—every Nachiketa must be initiated by the Lord of Death. Whoever sets out upon the quest for truth must be initiated by death. Without death’s initiation, the gates of immortality do not open. Recognize death. Reading the Gita, the Koran, the Bible—nothing will happen. Recognize death.
Often it is that those who read Gita, Koran, Bible are those afraid of death. Reading for fear of death; reading to find assurance that the soul is immortal, that somehow one won’t die. Thus people seek consolation in scriptures. This is upside down.
Read death—and you will understand the scriptures. Read scriptures—and you may deceive yourself about death, place a curtain between yourself and death. That curtain will become the curtain between you and God. Death must be looked into—eye to eye. It is life’s greatest truth—the most certain. Nothing else is certain, only death. Wealth—uncertain; position—uncertain. One thing is certain—death will be. Do what you will, death comes. Death has never broken a promise—utterly reliable.
If in this world you are to have faith—have it in death. Death never deceives. Wherever you hide, it finds you. He who looks death full in the face—his life begins to change; that revolution is sannyas. Then whether he stays at home or in the marketplace—it makes no difference. The memory of death stops the scramble; ambition dies. If it comes—fine; if not—fine. Success—fine; failure—fine. Fame—fine; infamy—fine. Tomorrow death will come and wash it all away—famed and unfamed will lick dust.
Doolan is right—
In this world, who has kept his head?
Life for a handful of days—finally, to be dust.
Why make eyes with a mirror that burns the eyes?
Why embrace with smiles that which the heart does not accept?
How long can one live strangling one’s desires?
Can one call a cup of poison nectar and drink it?
Thirsty eyes can be deceived,
but the heart cannot be deceived.
A lamp may burn without oil,
but without a wick, how will it burn?
Call poison poison and drink it if you must—
why love it as nectar?
Granted life is a play, but
not all roles are of one’s choosing.
Take the wrong role, and
everything falls out of tune.
Nectar at the lips, poison within—
such a pitcher is deception.
He who calls thorns flowers
is a merchant of fraud.
Why love, to be bitten by, that which deals in deceit?
This multicolored world—
who has received everything at his door?
One’s world is only as much
as suits one’s heart.
All colors, all styles of the mind—
its laughter, its tears.
One loves mud;
another longs for gold.
If joy and sorrow are of one’s own mind,
why deal in pretenses?
Why make eyes with a mirror that burns the eyes?
Why embrace with smiles what the heart does not accept?
Meet the gaze of death—and the heart is filled with an immediate no—no to all that is futile; no to all that death will snatch; no to all that you were running after with such relish. Your heart will say, do not waste time. You have run enough—now stop. You have searched outside enough—now search within.
Why embrace with smiles what the heart does not accept?
False smiles, false formalities, false hypocrisies begin to drop—by themselves.
Call poison poison and drink it if you must—
why love it as nectar?
You will still live—knowing death is coming. But then you know poison is poison, not nectar. Life is but an expansion of death. Death does not come at seventy; it begins with birth. Death is spread over seventy years. Life is a slow, gentle chain of dying.
Why love, out of fear, that which deals in deceit?
Why live fearful, frightened, trembling? Fear of what? When all is to be snatched, what is there to fear?
Know this: in the last two world wars, psychologists were astonished to discover that soldiers fear until they go to war; but once in the battlefield, fear vanishes. Astonishing—logic would expect the reverse. In the camps they fear—hearts thump—sleep does not come. But in the trenches, with bullets whizzing, bombs bursting, fire raging, bodies strewn—fear disappears.
Why? Because when death is utterly certain, fear disappears. Uncertainty breeds fear; certainty ends it. When death stands before you—then so be it. Then soldiers play cards; yesterday’s companions are gone; tomorrow we may be gone—yet they play. They drink, they dance, they sing in the trenches under bombardment—songs of love, songs of beauty.
The arithmetic is simple. However paradoxical it appears, it is simple. When death is certain, fear has no ground. Where there is no fear, there is no greed.
Remember: fear and greed are two sides of the same coin. The more fearful, the more greedy; the more greedy, the more fearful. Without fear there is no greed; without greed, no fear. They come and go together.
Man fears and hence averts his eyes from death. He takes shelter in doctrines that promise the soul’s immortality; that God will save if you pray, perform rituals, chant. This is fear and greed masquerading as religion. Where fear and greed are, religion cannot be.
Why do you go to doctrines and scriptures? Out of fear of hell, greed for heaven. He who thinks in terms of hell and heaven is worldly.
One day people saw Rabia in the market of Bukhara, running with a torch in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. They asked: Rabia, why this madness? She said: I go to burn your heaven with this torch and drown your hell with this water—because until your heaven and hell are destroyed, you cannot be religious. I came to say this. I carry these so someone would ask.
As long as hell and heaven exist for you, you are worldly. Worldly people have spoken of hell and heaven; the wise have spoken of liberation—Moksha. Moksha means freedom from fear and greed. Its first discipline: meet death eye to eye. Do not deny it. As of now, for you there is only death. Where is the soul—for you? The soul may be, but not for you. You have not even faced death; how will you meet the immortal? Behind death, the immortal is hidden. Meet death—and you are entitled to the immortal. He who meets death, hears within what the Vedas declare: Amritasya putrah—you are the sons of the immortal. He who meets death is the child of immortality.
Doolan says:
In this world, who has kept his head?
Life for a handful of days—finally, to be dust.
Doolan says:
Plant the sapling of love in that heart where it can take root;
hundreds and thousands, weary, will rest in its shade.
See this arithmetic. Speaking of death—and suddenly love! Not a leap at all. After death, only love remains worth speaking of. He who has seen death—fear and greed are gone. What remains of his energy becomes love. The culmination of love is prayer.
The fearful, the greedy—have no energy for love. The miser cannot love; he is afraid. He doesn’t befriend—for friendship may cost! He keeps distant.
Once I lived long in a home: the master neither spoke lovingly to his wife or children nor straight to his servants. Always sidelong, always fleeing. I asked: why? He said: the day I speak lovingly, trouble comes: my wife asks for a new necklace, a new sari, a new car. The children put their hands in my pocket—bicycles, guns, toys. Servants ask for a raise if I so much as look at them. So I never see them; I don’t admit they exist. I keep distant; otherwise all hands reach my pocket.
I understood why in the shop he seemed more gracious—there his hand is in the customers’ pockets. There he smiles. At home, hard and cold.
The miser fears love. Why is he a miser? Out of fear—hoarding for security: for old age, illness, accident; when none will stand by, money will. When friends turn, children go their ways, money remains. He hoards out of fear. Fear breeds greed; and greed breeds fear. The rich cannot sleep—for fear of loss. Those with nothing sleep carefree—nothing to lose. The one who has, neither wakes, nor sleeps, nor lives—only guards. Fear increases greed, greed increases fear; all your energy is consumed. How will love take root? The ground is overrun with thorny bushes of fear and greed. Where will the rose grow? No space. No energy, no leisure.
Love needs leisure. Love needs energy. Love’s flowers are very delicate; without care, they do not bloom. Unblessed is he whose life has no love—no shade, no rain of contentment, no satisfaction. When love’s flowers blossom, your life feels fulfilled, meaningful—as a tree is laden with flowers like a bride.
Doolan says:
Plant the sapling of love in that heart where it can take root.
Therefore, from death we move to love. Understand death—and fear is gone, greed gone. No need to fear—death will be. If you cannot avoid it, why run? And what you save, death will snatch. Then greed is meaningless; the logic is broken. Energy is freed—from fear and greed. That energy becomes love.
Plant the sapling of love...
Now it can be planted—your heart is empty. In this emptiness love can spread. Plant it now—the hour has come. Only such a moment allows the sapling to take root.
Plant the sapling of love in that heart where it can take root;
then hundreds and thousands, weary, will rest in its shade.
Your own weariness will vanish—beyond that, many will sit in your shade and lose their fatigue. Satsang will gather around you. When your lamp is lit, others’ put-out lamps will catch fire—light from light. Flowers from flowers. Seeing your flowering, others’ buds will tremble with life. Seeing the shower of nectar in you, others will take heart to set out on the journey—to seek Ram.
Such a Name must be sought.
Seeing a true master—one in whom love has flowered—this search inevitably arises in you as well.
Until you make the world’s pain your own,
until you light love’s wick in your eyes—
how will you understand the intoxicating ground of song?
How will you know what innate love turns life into a garden?
If your longings have not been filled
with vermilion dreams;
if, seeing the suffering, tears have not fallen;
if hunger in your life has not become
an image of worship—
if your glory is only the satisfaction of your own thirst—
how will you know the inner’s expansion?
How will you know what selfless kindness confers divinity?
This world is a tavern,
but the heart is only for drinking.
Intoxicant is scattered in every particle—
the wine of boundless pain.
If with your lips you have only learnt
how to swallow poison and hatred;
if your mind has only learnt
how to spit out embers—
how will you know the endless stream of nectar?
What gentle chiming of feeling fills the mind with ecstasy?
Every song is a temple of feeling—
self-offering of one’s very life.
Every line is sanctity itself—
a salutation to the lamp of love.
If destiny has not gifted you
with a sweet throat;
if nature has not granted you
the boon of laughter—
how will you know what vibrates as the vina’s string in song?
What gift of the confluence of notes
immortalizes music?
Let a little love arise within—and the first eye that recognizes God opens. Be filled with love, and God is—then, only then. Ask for no other proof. Love is the only proof of God.
How will you know the intoxicating ground of song?
What innate love makes life a garden?
How will you know the inner’s expansion?
What selfless kindness confers divinity?
How will you know the endless stream of nectar?
What gentle chiming fills the mind with ecstasy?
How will you know what vibrates as the vina’s string in song?
What gift of the meeting of notes makes music deathless?
Let your own vina sound a little—then you will know. Let your love surge a little—then you will know. Let your lamp be lit a little—then you will know.
Plant the sapling of love in that heart where it can take root.
In whose heart love’s sapling has taken root—everything has come. Prayer has come; worship has come; the temple doors are open.
Hundreds and thousands, weary, will rest in its shade.
Forget yourself—your fatigue of births will be erased. For the first time you will become an inexhaustible spring of energy. Infinite wealth will arise within. You will be rich—beyond question—and those around you will sit under your tree’s shade. Their weariness will ease, their hearts will be soothed. The hum of birds in your tree will awaken in them slumbering hopes, stir possibilities. Their wings will flutter. Memory will return: this can happen in me too—this greenness, these flowers, birdsong, this shade, this stream of rasa can burst within me as well.
One person attains—he becomes a path for many. One reaches the far shore—many hear the call.
Cursed the body, cursed the mind, cursed the birth, cursed the life—
Says Doolan: those who planted love, but did not preserve it.
Beware: love’s sapling is delicate—very subtle, very tender. It is no weed that grows by itself, that survives grazing and trampling. It is a rose—hard to plant, easy to die. The higher the climb, the greater the care. Love is the highest peak; beyond it, nothing.
Cursed the body, cursed the mind, cursed the birth, cursed the life—
Says Doolan: if you plant love, then keep it. If you awaken prayer, keep watering it. Protect it; fence it; guard it.
And remember, because this world is empty of love, whenever the sapling of love is planted in someone’s life, people gather from all sides to break it. Even friends become foes. They cannot bear your flowering—because your love exposes their inner guilt, wounds their pride: you are attaining while I am not? They cannot bear it. They will attack; they will argue, refute, call you mad. They will erect obstacles on your path. A rain of stones will fall upon your rose. Be alert. The greater the treasure, the greater the vigilance. Things can be spoiled just as they are being made. Spoiling is easy; spoilers are many.
The whole environment is inimical to love—filled with hatred, enmity, jealousy. Where is love’s place here? Where weeds grow in every yard, if roses bloom in yours, neighbors will not tolerate it. At first they will laugh, call you crazy. If you persist and your roses bloom, those who scoffed will descend to destroy your field—because your flowering is proof that they too could have been, but are not. Their crowd is big; you are alone. Hence Buddhas created sanghas—so you are not utterly alone; companions to give courage.
Cursed the body, cursed the mind, cursed the birth, cursed the life—
Says Doolan: those who planted love, but did not preserve it.
The monsoon rained daily up to the door,
but the courtyard’s sapling dried up thirsty.
The threshold’s parting was filled,
color came to the veil;
Un-sung songs
received the companionship of breath.
The age of rising youth grew day by day,
but the childhood of desires was lost on the paths.
The monsoon rained daily up to the door,
but the courtyard’s sapling dried up thirsty.
The garden-bed was made,
the night was fragrant;
Grapey dreams arose,
a mad rainfall.
Green branches flowered day by day,
but the bud-like dream broke unwed.
The monsoon rained daily up to the door,
but the courtyard’s sapling dried up thirsty.
As fiercely as the inner hunger burned like embers,
so much did I recognize, door to door, lane to lane.
To the beggar-like flame alms came day by day,
but the begging bowl remained empty—and cracked.
The monsoon rained daily up to the door,
but the courtyard’s sapling dried up thirsty.
Paramatman rains daily for the sapling of your love—but you are so unconscious that though the monsoon pours at your door, the courtyard-sapling receives no water.
The monsoon rained daily up to the door,
but the courtyard’s sapling dried up thirsty.
Paramatman rains every moment—unceasingly. From his side, no miserliness, no hindrance. But you have fashioned such a style of living that hatred grows, enmity ripens, the thorns of jealousy and spite flourish—love’s flowers do not bloom. Drop fear and greed—and his monsoon will reach your sapling.
Says Doolan: those who planted love and did not preserve it are unfortunate. Of those who never planted—no need to speak; they never were. Those are born who received even a little opening for love’s light—and then closed it.
Understand, whenever love arises, fear arises too—because love means the surrender of ego. Wherever love arises, ego must be relinquished—and there fear grabs hold. We clutch the ego—even if love dies. But choose love; let ego die. Ego is a broken begging-bowl; love is the treasure. Love is Samadhi. Love is all. Only love’s boat can take you across.
The day saints are persecuted,
that very moment creation turns upside down.
The umbrella slips, earth caves, the three worlds are drowned.
When love blossoms fully, the world hastens to torment. Not for nothing was Jesus nailed to the cross—people like you did it, with your reasons, your greed, fear, jealousy, ego. Socrates was given poison by people like you; Mansoor and Sarmad were slain by people like you. When the rose is in full bloom, people choose to cut it rather than rest in its shade.
Says Doolan: remember—those you crucify are the very ones who lend a little fragrance to the earth, a little shade, a few oases in the desert, a rose among thorns—the salt of life. Jesus said: You are the salt of the earth. Salt is little—yet without it, tastelessness. A Buddha, a Mahavira, a Mohammed—and the earth retains salt, some flavor.
Erase five or ten such names from history—and man becomes dull, his eyes lose luster, no dance in the feet, no song in the throat—beastly. These few have given man his humanity, culture, civilization—despite you. You gave them the cross; they gave you the throne. Because of them, a little lamp flickers within you—though you tried to extinguish theirs.
Says Doolan:
The day saints are persecuted, creation turns upside down.
You strike your own feet with the axe; you cut the branch on which you sit.
The day Jesus was crucified—how creation must have wept! Tears from God’s eyes—still falling. For those whom he comes to, nail him to the cross. The monsoon clouds gather for you—and you raise tents to shield your sapling, lest rain touch it, lest greenness come, flowers bloom. Man is his own enemy.
The day saints are persecuted, creation turns upside down.
Heaven’s canopy slips from its place.
Earth, from remorse, shrinks and caves, wanting to drown in herself.
When poison was prepared for Socrates, did earth not want to sink—her most beloved son to be poisoned? Once in centuries such genius is born—Socrates.
Heaven’s canopy slips; earth caves; the three worlds are drowned.
You persecute saints—yet they shower blessings. Jesus, dying, said: Father, forgive them; they know not what they do. Be not angry with them.
Near at hand, visible to the eyes; far away, hidden afar—
Says Doolan: the Compassionate One is like water near Malwa, far like water in the desert.
Near at hand—he is as near as your eyes are to you; he is hidden in the very eyes by which you will see him.
If you do not seek, he is far—farther than the farthest.
For those who do not seek, like Rajasthan’s desert where water is scarce; near Malwa, water is close at hand. Malwa is not far from the desert. Beside you, someone may find God within—and you, searching far and wide, do not find. It is a matter of seeking rightly. Seek rightly and he is near; seek wrongly and even distance will not bring him.
In the dense wilderness of emptiness,
In the searing heat of struggles,
I searched you here and there—and found you in my own innermost heart.
This body was an eternal offender—
I forgot; I could not see
that a childhood-like Nirvana was hidden in my own tainted courtyard.
What a bewildering magic of dilemma it was—
I forgot; I could not see
whose countless images are formed in the mirror of my tears.
When ocular knowledge led me astray,
I forgot; I could not understand
who it is that shows me the way, hiding in the heartbeat of my breaths.
He is near—throbbing in your heartbeat, stirring in your breath. Turn within. Turn your eyes inward. Leave looking outside; look within. At first, only darkness will be found. Do not fear. The outer eyes are trained outward; inside, initially, you will not see. Keep looking; soon the inner eyes adjust.
Thieves see even in others’ houses at night; the honest stumble in their own in the dark. A necessary art of the thief is to see in darkness—by practice. The eyes learn. Darkness is not darkness; it is a matter of training. After all, the owl sees at night. In the East the owl is considered foolish; in the West, wise—because he sees in the dark. My heart feels the East has wronged the owl; he has a gift. The same gift is obtained by meditation: sitting within, looking, looking—sight happens.
We even have a philosophy named Aulukya—the wisdom of the owl. This quality can be yours. At first, darkness—do not turn back. Do not think, darkness is darkness—let us go outside to the light. Practice sitting in the dark—that practice is yoga, is meditation. Sit. Today, tomorrow, the day after—one day darkness begins to thin, light appears; the eyes begin to see. Then within you is found that for which you searched outside—and did not find.
Have I lined my eyes with you—
like kohl in the eyes?
Every dream now enters bearing your coaxing.
In the idol of feeling—
your image alone, sweet;
Unbidden, unknowing, you keep changing form.
When a hazy shadow
touches the within,
On the raga of breath, a song stirs.
Have I bound you—
like anklets in songs?
Every resonance now carries your tinkle.
In mute noonday dreams—
mad memories
turn burning noon into night.
Whenever I am scorched
in the struggles of the world,
You turn intoxication into a sweet monsoon.
Have I mastered you—
like intoxication in remembrances?
Every tear now comes carrying your utterance.
Whenever love’s gaze
rises anywhere,
I see only your eternal expanse.
Call it form of pain or of love—
I see only your form made manifest.
Have I accepted you—
like pain in images?
Every thought comes adorned with you.
Have I lined my eyes with you—
like kohl in the eyes?
Every dream now enters bearing your coaxing.
Learn the art of lining your eyes—line them with meditation, with love. Then you will see him within. Seeing him is to make life meaningful. Do not go without seeing. Let a resolve arise: this time, we go knowing. And the wonder: he who goes knowing need not return. When the lesson is learnt, no more school.
Ask Buddha—he will say: line the eyes with meditation. Ask Doolan—he will say: line the eyes with love. But the other side of love is meditation; the other side of meditation is love. Bring one—the other arrives. Don the shawl dyed in love and rasa—and Paramatman is yours. The kingdom of life is yours; the eternity of existence is yours. The inexhaustible treasure is yours. You are born to be emperors—why sit as beggars?
Have I lined my eyes with you—
like kohl in the eyes?
Every dream now enters bearing your coaxing.
Let the eyes be lined a little—with love, with meditation—and you will see him everywhere: in flower and leaf, in thorn and stone. Think—what ecstasy when God is seen all around, when you live encircled by him! That intoxication is bliss—sat-chit-ananda. It is your rightful inheritance. Do not go without it. It is already given—only recognize; only turn back and recognize. Pratyabhijna—recognition alone—and the revolution happens.
Don the shawl dyed in love and rasa!
Enough for today.