What does 'Piv, piv laagi pyaas' mean?

Osho, Dadu said, after becoming Dadu, “Piv, piv laagi pyaas.” Did Dadu also say “Piv, piv laagi pyaas” before becoming Dadu?

Dadu would not have been Dadu had he not said it before. “Piv, piv laagi pyaas”—that very refrain is what made Dadu into Dadu. This very repetition, this very thirst, this very calling is what carried him to the Divine. Dadu said it first; that is how he became Dadu. Had he not said it before, Dadu would never have been born. We only heard of it afterward, when Dadu had become Dadu. Understand this a little. Dadu had already said it; we heard it later. Dadu lived a life of thirst—only then did the moment of fulfillment arrive. He wept—only then came contentment. But we did not hear when Dadu was weeping. That weeping was private, in solitude. It was his own. We heard only when Dadu had become Dadu—when his lighthouse appeared. What I am telling you now, I had said to myself many times long before my…

Such longing is born whose shore is nowhere. To gain the Shoreless, the price is shoreless longing. “The spark of Your love, O tyrant, burned a whole world— flashing here, smoldering there, burning here and there.” Then fire is everywhere; no spring is seen—only autumn. “Seeing, joy’s flowers bloomed; thinking, dust of sorrow rose— what people call spring is only the shadow of fall.” As understanding dawns, as the Guru’s word descends, as the meaning flowers within—then we see: what we thought was spring was a limb of autumn, necessary only so autumn might be. Here, life is but a way of dying—a long procession of death, dying slowly, daily. Here, love is love’s deception. Here, light is only outside—within, deep darkness. All this outer shine is worth two coppers. “Birahin bihare rain-din…” When this is seen, there is neither day nor night—only longing. In these moments, strange experiences come.

Question: Second question: Osho, is abhipsa enough for the Lord? But if it is the kind of abhipsa Farid pointed to—if within you, truly without any greed, having seen the futility and meaninglessness of life, having looked through all its experiences, a clear sense has dawned that here there is nothing else worth attaining, nothing else worth knowing; that it is Truth one must know, that unseen which sustains all; because only by knowing That will we find the ultimate rest—otherwise this scramble will go on and on; we have gained all and, having gained, seen that nothing is really gained, the hands remain empty—if from such understanding a tongue of flaming fire rises within you; or in the satsang of a Buddha the contagion of his thirst infects you, provokes you, sets you ablaze, fills you with urgency, gives birth to a fire of longing—viraha—then abhipsa is sufficient.

With that light extinguished, the land grew dark—‘the night has fallen on this land.’ ‘Come, Khusro, let us go home’—time now to go home; there is nothing to remain for. What you now take as light is not light. What you take to be water is not water. And what you use to quench your thirst will not quench it—it will increase it. Keep one thing in your heart: wait for His arrow to pierce your heart; from nail to crown be set ablaze in the pain of separation. Let there be in you one prayer: your viraha, your invitation, your call. Let there be one single prayer and one single feeling—that without meeting Him, no joy is possible. Then it will not be long. Without hands, without bow and arrow—His arrow is always ready, always aimed. Open your heart here, and the arrow flies from there.

If a drop of water comes a dart of fire follows— a thunderbolt without pity— when has this vow been broken? It is the papihā’s refrain. Not by water will it quench nor be pressed by stone nor fear tongues of flame— this is the lover’s longing— It is the papihā’s refrain. When your life is filled with that refrain—Pi kahan? Pi kahan? Where are You, Beloved?— It is written in Nanak’s life: He was young. That night the revolution came. He sat remembering the Lord. Midnight passed. His mother came: Sleep now. Nanak said: Hush—listen. Outside a papihā called: Pi kahan? Pi kahan? And Nanak said: If he will not stop, I will not stop. If he does not notice midnight, why should I! If he calls, I will call. Today I have decided: if the papihā stops, I will stop—otherwise not. His beloved is lost; mine too.