Ram Duware Jo Mare #1

Baba Malukdas! Even the name is so dear! It melts sugar into body–mind–breath! There have been so many saints; the whole sky is filled with the glimmering stars of saints, yet none can be compared with Malukdas. Malukdas is matchless. His uniqueness lies in his carefree abandon—in masti, in ecstasy, in divine intoxication. The very name ‘Maluk’ has become synonymous with masti. There is some wine in the name itself. Just repeat the name and an inner dance begins.
Malukdas is neither a poet, nor a philosopher, nor a theologian. He is a mad lover, a moth! And he has known the Divine the way a moth knows the flame. That recognition is of an altogether different order. Not from a distance, not a mere acquaintance—that recognition happens by losing oneself, by effacing oneself. ‘Ramduware jo mare!’ Dying at Ram’s door, he recognized Ram. It is no cheap affair. Writing poetry is a cheap thing; anyone who can juggle rhymes becomes a poet. But Maluk’s masti is no cheap thing; it is a costly bargain. You have to stake everything. If you save even a little, you miss. If you save a grain’s worth, you miss. If you wager ninety-nine percent and keep even one percent back, you miss, because in saving that one percent your dishonesty is exposed. In staking ninety-nine percent your faith is not proved, but in saving that one percent your cunning is exposed. A stake, if it is a stake, is a hundred percent; otherwise it is not a stake at all, it is shopkeeping.
If you would walk with Maluk, you must understand the gambler’s way; leave the shopkeeper’s way behind. This is the way of those who stake all—of the mad ones!—not of theologians. It doesn’t look as if he had read the Vedas. It doesn’t look as if he knew the Upanishads. And yet the secret of the Vedas and the essence of the Upanishads are spread and scattered through his very life-breath. Has anyone ever known the Vedas by studying the Vedas? By knowing oneself the Veda is known. There are not four Vedas—there is only one Veda, within you; it belongs to your consciousness. And there are not a hundred and eight Upanishads—there is only one Upanishad! And that Upanishad is not a scripture; it is the very being of the Self.
Malukdas is no pundit, no man of learning. If you would recognize Malukdas, you must turn the temple into a tavern. Then ritual worship won’t do. Formal ostentation will not bring the Divine within your grasp. A heartful surrender is needed. Surrender—total! Such surrender that if you bow down, you never rise again. If you have bowed at his threshold, what rising again? One who returns from the Kaaba never went to the Kaaba. One who comes back from the temple must have gone somewhere else; he did not go to the temple.
I have heard: In Bengal there was a great grammarian. He never went to the temple. His father grew old, ninety years of age. The son too had crossed seventy. At last the father said, ‘When will you go to the temple and call upon Ram?’ The son said, ‘I am a knower of grammar. What is the use of uttering ‘Ram, Ram’ in the singular number all life long? In the plural, I will call Ram just once—and only once! And if the call is true, it will arrive in one go. And if the call is false, then how can it ever arrive even in a crore of repetitions? If the boat is of paper, row it a crore times, it will keep sinking. If the boat is true, then just once you launch it, it reaches the other shore. What is the point of shooting arrows into the dark? Once, with total energy, gathering all sight into one focus, I will call upon Ram.’ The father said, ‘I am old, you too are seventy; don’t keep entangling yourself in these vain arguments. Whenever I ask you, you say this—“I will call once!” At last when will you call?’ He said, ‘I will call today itself.’
The son went to the temple, as the father used to go daily—it had been his lifelong rule. The father kept watching the road: the son will return, will return, will return. He didn’t return. When noon drew near and the sun began to decline, the father ran to the temple to see what had happened. By then people were already coming from the temple; they said, ‘Your son has passed away. He only stood once before the image, called out ‘Ram’ with a great cry, and fell right there. He never rose again.’
Such is the gambler’s path. ‘Ramduware jo mare!’ He attains the supreme Life.
But we are clever ones, schemers. It is precisely our cleverness that is drowning us. Our cleverness has become our noose. Even with the Divine we walk by calculation. We trade with him too: ‘If I give this much, how much will you give? If I perform this much virtue, how much heaven will I get? If I give this much charity, what will be its fruit?’ And there are priests eager to exploit you. They say: ‘Give a penny here, reap a crorefold there.’
That is not religion; that is lottery talk. Then the greedy become interested in such religion—not lovers, the greedy. And what has love to do with greed! Love knows surrender; it asks for nothing, though it receives much—why only a crorefold, it receives infinitely, infinitely! But the longing to receive is not in love. Love is blessed simply in giving; it is fulfilled, gratified in offering. That the Divine accepted my gift, my oblation—is that not enough? That much joy is plenty. Even that much joy cannot be contained; the chest will prove small as the whole sky descends into it.
The lover is absorbed in giving. If the greedy one gives, he keeps glancing from the corners of his eyes to see whether it is returning or not returning—and whether more is returning or not returning. At least as much as has been invested should come back with interest! And one who worries about interest cannot become disinterested, cannot become simple. One who longs to get, his renunciation is false. Renunciation is true only when renunciation is an end in itself; there is no other goal, no other destination—when renunciation is enjoyment in itself.
Therefore Malukdas says: ‘Ramduware jo mare!’ If you come on this path, come prepared to die. This is the path of moths. And how many centuries have passed—moths keep dying on flames! For there is a secret in dying which only the moth knows. Those who stand afar and watch can never see that truth; it is an inner experience. The delight of melting, the joy of dissolving, the ecstasy of being lost—the moth knows! And the Divine is the supreme flame. Before that supreme flame you must be ready to lose yourself.
Surrender is sannyas. Total surrender is sannyas.
Malukdas has defined the sannyasin rightly: ‘Ramduware jo mare!...’ If once the head has bowed at Ram’s door, where is rising again? Where is looking back? Where is calculation?
Concerning Malukdas’s life, a few little things are known. They are symbolic—worth understanding. On the surface they do not look very precious, but if you enter inside those symbols, great secrets, great mysteries will surely open.
The first incident known about him is that from childhood he had a strange habit. If he found a thorn lying in the path he would drop a thousand tasks and first remove that thorn. From the time he was small! If he saw litter lying about—and India’s roads! No dearth of filth! No dearth of thorns! If he was sent on an errand, hours would pass because first he would clean the path, remove the rubbish, pick out the thorns. Sometimes he would be sent in the morning—‘Go bring vegetables from the market’—and he would return at dusk. All day his mother would wait at the door: ‘Where were you? Where did you go?’ He would say, ‘Even more urgent work arose, more urgent than vegetables—there were thorns on the path, there was filth—I picked and removed them.’
It looks like a small thing, but it is not small. He did the same all his life—he picked thorns from people’s paths. He picked thorns from people’s lives! He cleaned the rubbish filled in people’s minds. The son’s signs are seen in the cradle!
A sadhguru once saw him picking thorns from the path, gathering litter. The sadhguru followed behind this little boy and watched this amazing lifestyle the whole day. In the evening, returning, he said to Malukdas’s father, Sundardas: ‘Blessed are you! A sadhguru has been born in your house!’
Sundardas struck his head with his hand. He said, ‘We are troubled by this sadhguru! Good for nothing. Send him on a small errand, the whole day is spent, he doesn’t return. Had he been born in a sweeper’s house, it would have been better. He must have been a sweeper in his past life. I don’t know what craze has seized him! I have beaten him, scolded him, explained in every way that this is not our work. What have you to do with it? Do you have nothing else to do but keep cleaning the roads?’
But the small boy Malukdas would laugh and say, ‘This is exactly what I have to do my whole life; so I am practicing.’
But that sadhguru said, ‘Don’t speak thus. You do not know what you are saying. A flame has descended in your house! As yet he can do nothing else—he is a little child—so he cleans the outer rubbish. Soon he will clean the inner rubbish. Many lives will become pure and limpid because of him. And do you see—’ said the sadhguru—‘he is ajaanbahu—his arms are so long they reach to his knees! Either he will be a chakravarti emperor or an extraordinary awakened one!’
Just as the astrologers had said about Buddha—that he would either be a chakravarti emperor or a supreme Buddha—so exactly did that sadhguru say of Malukdas. About Buddha one can still understand that perhaps he might become a chakravarti—he was the son of a king. Malukdas was born into a simple, poor, humble family. Concerning him, even to imagine that he would be a chakravarti emperor was impossible. Buddha could indeed have become a chakravarti. He was a king’s son; the kingdom could have become a little larger. But Malukdas...!
The father asked, ‘Are you joking? He is no Buddha. Buddha could have been a chakravarti emperor, but he is the son of a poor man. How will he be a chakravarti?’
What the sadhguru said was very lovely. He said, ‘He will become a sadhguru—that itself is to be a chakravarti emperor. The world is not conquered by conquering the world! One who conquers Paramatma conquers the world.’
There are two ways to conquer the world: one is Alexander’s way, the other is Buddha’s. Alexander sets out to conquer the world and dies defeated, goes empty-handed. Buddha does not conquer the world—he conquers the supreme truth enthroned within—and upon conquering that, the whole world is conquered.
I have heard—an ancient tale—
Shiva was playing with his sons—Ganesh and Kartikeya. In play he said, ‘You two go and circle the world and return; whoever comes first will receive a prize.’ Kartikeya at once vanished! The moment he heard, he ran. Ganesh cannot run anyway—how to run with such a body! And how could he win against Kartikeya! But the prize went to Ganesh. How did he win it? The tale is sweet and very telling. Ganesh went nowhere. Shiva himself said, ‘At least get up and take a few steps! Kartikeya has gone to circle the whole world; having toured the world he will be back any moment.’ Ganesh said, ‘Don’t worry.’ He rose and circumambulated Shiva once and said, ‘This is my circumambulation of the whole world. Having circled you, what remains?’
By the time Kartikeya returned the prize had been given. Shiva said, ‘Kartikeya, what can I do? You have lost the wager; Ganesh has won. I suspected he would win. He has chosen the way of the Buddhas.’
Kartikeya went by Alexander’s path. Ganesh went by Buddha’s path.
Circle the whole world—what a long journey; perhaps it may never be completed. Whose has been? The ambitioner’s journey is always incomplete. The race of desire has never been completed, nor will it be. Desire is insatiable. But one who attains oneself, one who attains Paramatma, has attained everything; what remains for him to attain? Having attained the Master, his entire dominion becomes yours.
An emperor was returning home—having made the tour of victory of the entire world. He had a hundred queens. He sent word: ‘Whosoever wants whatever, I will bring it.’ One said, ‘Bring the Kohinoor diamond.’ Another said, ‘Bring gold ornaments.’ Another said, ‘Bring saris.’ Each asked for something. But the youngest queen said, ‘My lord, you are returning; what else is needed? Just return safely!’
The emperor brought gifts for all. He gave gifts to ninety-nine queens and embraced the youngest. He said, ‘You have defeated them all. You have obtained me; and having obtained me, my entire dominion has become yours. You are wise. These ninety-nine appear wise, but they have proved most foolish.’
This world is strange; its arithmetic is most strange! Those who should prove wise, do not; they prove fools. And the so-called fools prove wise.
Count Malukdas among the fools. He obtained the Master and obtained all.
This is the first incident known from Malukdas’s childhood—that he would clear rubbish from the paths. And a sadhguru had said to his father, ‘Do not be afraid, do not worry; a flame has descended in your house. He will remove rubbish from many lives. For now it is only an outer indication. It is symbolic.’
The second incident of childhood—an everyday happening that troubled his parents—was his love for sadhus and satsang. If a sadhu came, if a saint came, then Malukdas would forget all about home. Days would pass, he would not return home. He would get absorbed in the saint’s company. Whatever was in the house, he would give it to the sadhus. Many have given to sadhus, but the way Malukdas gave—perhaps none has given like that! He would steal and give. If parents did not consent, in the night when all were asleep, he would steal from his own house and take things to the sadhus. If some sadhu had no blanket and winter was descending, if some sadhu had no umbrella and the rains were at the head—he would even steal in order to distribute.
Sometimes even theft can be meritorious. That is why I tell you: actions themselves are not sin and virtue—the intentions hidden behind actions are. Sometimes even the virtuous is sin, and sometimes sin becomes virtue. The arithmetic of life is like a riddle. It is not a straight line. No one can assert this is right and this is wrong; that if you do this it is right, and that if you do that it is wrong. Everything depends on the inner intent, the inner longing. Who would call theft a virtue? But how can I call Malukdas’s theft a sin? His theft cannot be called sin. And even if you do not steal, what virtue is happening! Even when you give charity it turns into sin, because behind your charity is a business mind. Even when you build a temple it becomes sin, because at the temple gate you have your stone set with your name carved on it.
You see how many temples there are in the country! ‘Birla Temple!’ Once there were Krishna’s temples, Ram’s temples, Jain temples, Buddha’s temples—had you ever heard of ‘Birla Temples’? What no one ever did till now, Juggalkishore Birla has done.
I have heard that when Juggalkishore Birla died—he was known to me. He even wished to establish a business relation with me. He said to me, ‘If you propagate Hindu Dharma, I am ready to give whatever money is needed.’ I said, ‘Keep your money with you. Where there is Hindu, where there is Muslim, where there is Christian—where is Dharma? I cannot propagate any religion.’ He looked at me with great surprise and said only one sentence, ‘Why are people like you always so awkward!’ ‘I am ready to give everything, unconditionally, as much money as you need, but Hindu Dharma must be propagated throughout the world—two things: Hindu Dharma and Mother Cow!’ I said, ‘That I cannot do. That is impossible.’ … When Juggalkishore died, naturally he thought he would enter heaven. He had built so many temples—what more was needed! And he did reach heaven. Naturally he entered with swagger. He asked the gatekeeper, ‘Do you know the reason I have been admitted to heaven?’ The gatekeeper said, ‘Everyone knows the reason.’ Juggalkishore said, ‘Of course. So my fragrance has arrived here before me! I built so many temples!’ The gatekeeper said, ‘You are mistaken. You are not entering here because of the temples. Because of the temples you would have had to go to hell. It is because of the Ambassador car you manufactured.’
Juggalkishore was startled: ‘Ambassador car! What has that to do with entering heaven?’ The gatekeeper said, ‘Whoever sits in an Ambassador keeps chanting Ram-Ram. The number of people you have made chant Ram-Ram, even great pundits and priests could not! … It is a wondrous vehicle—the Ambassador! Everything makes a noise except the horn! Whoever sits in it chants Ram-Ram; whoever sees it chants Ram-Ram and instantly jumps aside from the road!’
He thought he entered heaven due to the temples. But those temples became symbols of Birla’s ego. And where ego has entered, where is virtue?
Even when you give charity—for what? Is there joy in giving, or are you calculating what you will get back, expanding a shop? If charity is a means, it becomes sin. If charity is an end, it is virtue.
Thus it can happen that Malukdas’s theft is virtue, and the charity of a Juggalkishore Birla is sin. He was ‘giving’ me money—as much as needed—but there was a condition. Was that charity? He wanted to buy me. Where was charity in that? Where there is a condition, where is charity? Charity is unconditional.
Some miracle-stories are also associated with Baba Malukdas. Similar tales get attached to many saints. There is a secret behind their attachment. Do not take them as facts. If you take them as facts, delusion arises. Take them only as indications. They are symbolic. As the tale about Jesus says that he raised Lazarus from the dead: ‘Lazarus, come out of the tomb!’—and Lazarus came out of the tomb. He had been dead four days! A similar story is told of Malukdas, that he called a disciple back from the realm of death.
Either we take these as historical facts, as Christians do—‘It historically happened that Jesus truly brought Lazarus to life’—or we take them as deep symbols. If you take them as historical facts, they become worth two pennies. First of all, they turn false; they are not true. Life has no exceptions; its law is alike for all. No one returns from death; no one can be brought back. If Jesus could bring Lazarus back from death, then why did he die on the cross? Why could he not bring himself back? He brought Lazarus back! Just as he called out to Lazarus, ‘Lazarus, come out of the tomb!’—in the same way on the cross he should have called to himself, ‘Jesus, don’t die; let the cross be fixed, but do not die!’
If Malukdas brought a disciple back from death, then where is Malukdas? He too died. At his own death he did not remember his art, his miracle! No, these are not historical facts. Those who take them as historical facts commit a grave mistake. They may think themselves devotees, but they are not; they harm Dharma. Because of such talk, Dharma appears untrue. If you tie such untruths to Dharma, along with the untruth the boat of Dharma will also sink. Do not yoke Dharma to untruth.
Yet there is great essence in these stories.
Jesus gave eyes to the blind, ears to the deaf, speech to the dumb, feet to the lame, life to the dead—these are symbols. You are all blind. You are all deaf. You are all dumb. You are all lame. You have all died—dead even before birth. You are all living in tombs. Your body is nothing but your tomb.
The sadhguru calls you from your tomb—‘Arise! Awake!’ He calls. If you can hear his call, your deafness falls away. If you feel his touch, your closed eyes open. ‘Closed eyes open’ means: the fog that was there dissolves; the darkness that was there is cut; the curtain that was there is lifted. The dumb begin to speak; the lame climb mountains. These are only symbols of the fact that such is your potential, which can become truth in the company of a sadhguru. You are not lame—you are worthy of climbing the supreme peak of life—but you have forgotten your worthiness.
As if a bird had forgotten its wings.
And it can happen.
Take a pigeon out of an egg in your home and never let that pigeon meet other pigeons. Keep him apart from the world of pigeons. He will not even know there are others like me, others who fly into the distant blue, who long to meet the moon and the stars, who spread their wings and vanish into the infinite sky so that it cannot be told whether they remain or not. That pigeon will not even be reminded of his wings. How could he be reminded!
You must have heard such tales; not tales, true incidents. Sometimes a human child is reared by wolves. Just a year or two ago, in Uttar Pradesh, a boy was brought in who had grown in a wolves’ den—twelve years old. But he moved on all fours. He had never seen a human being.
Living with wolves, he walked as wolves walked—on all fours. His gait was so swift no man could match it. He had a ferocious body. His nails were like knives, his teeth so sharp that if he bit you could not free yourself. He would eat raw meat. It took four men to hold him if he was to be caught. Even then he would slip away. Whenever he ran, it was on all fours.
He had never seen anyone who could stand on two feet—how would the memory arise? A seed is needed even for remembrance. If you keep a pigeon in your home and do not let him know other pigeons, he will never fly. Perhaps he will flutter his wings only while lying on the ground.
Such is the situation of every human being. Until you find the satsang of the Buddhas, until you find the company of a sadhguru, you will not be able to spread your wings, nor open your eyes, nor climb the heights that are yours. You will not attain that supreme state whose other name is Paramatma. And you will not see truth, because your eyes will remain veiled by the curtains of untruth.
And what alive are you! What is your life? A deception. Alive only in name. You eat, you drink, you get up, you sleep, you walk, you work; breath comes and breath goes; seventy years flow by as water in a river; and then one day you fall into dust. What is your life! This life knows nothing of the Eternal. This life is entangled in toys. Such a life entangled in toys cannot be called life.
What is called ‘the world’ is a child’s toy,
If gained it is dust, if lost it is gold.
Some pleasant season, some lonely mood,
Crying every moment is crying in vain!
The monsoon cloud is a madcap, how should it know
Which path to spare, which roof to drench.
This time which is yours, this time which is mine,
There is a guard at every step, yet it is to be lost.
Sorrow or joy—both are companions at some distance,
Then it is road and road—neither laugh nor weep.
Vagabond whimsy has spread the courtyard thus,
The sky its sheet, the earth its bedding.
What is called ‘the world’ is a child’s toy,
If gained it is dust, if lost it is gold.
This is the strange law of the world—if gained it is dust, if lost it is gold! What you obtain turns into dust. Your hand touches gold and it too becomes dust! You are so dead that as life comes to your hand it becomes death. Whatever you have attained has become worthless. Yes, desire wanders far and wide. What is not obtained—distant drums sound sweet—and you go on running and running—running till one day you fall, one day you are gone. You see others falling, yet the thought does not arise that you too must fall. The distant appears as gold. What is not attained seems gold; the moment it touches your hand, it becomes dust.
Will you call this life?
If this is life, then what will death be? What else can death be? Life is that where the Eternal is experienced; where Paramatma is enthroned within; where his lamp burns—without wick and without oil! That which burns and never goes out. Where there is a ceaseless shower of bliss! Where Amrit drips! Until you become acquainted with such eternity which has no death—until you recognize the timeless—do not think you are alive.
In this sense I would take Malukdas’s tale. In this sense I take Jesus’ stories.
The disciples are dead. The sadhguru awakens the dead. But these are not historical facts; these are symbolic truths. Great poetry is hidden in them and great mysteries too. They are not facts—they are truths. Facts are worth two pennies; truths have value. But how to speak truths? Our language is impotent; it cannot reveal truths. That is why we must choose symbolic stories, we must make indicative gestures. How to point to the moon?—one must raise a finger. The finger is not the moon. Do not grasp the finger, else you will miss the moon forever. All these are fingers.
One more mention of this kind occurs in Malukdas’s life; it is worth keeping in mind. It occurs only in Malukdas’s life, hence it is all the more important. Jesus too raised the dead. In many saints’ lives such stories are told. But this is told only in Malukdas’s life: the emperor Alamgir came to see Maluk and was astonished. What he saw, he could not trust his eyes. He narrowed his eyes and looked again—yet things were as they were. He saw Malukdas hanging in midair, dancing and singing! His feet did not touch the ground.
Suspended!
Surely we would say, ‘A miracle has happened!’ But all saints are in midair. Which saint’s feet touch the ground? One who is free of the earth’s attraction is free of gravity as well. With eyes of skin you will see their feet touching the ground, yet the feet of a saint do not touch the earth.
The Zen fakir Rinzai would say to his disciples, ‘Listen—remember one thing: surely walk through water, but let it be remembered—water must not touch your feet!’ The disciples went many times to the river outside the village and tried walking; what could they do?—the water touched them! They would meditate much, sit under trees, sit like Buddha for hours, then rise and walk in the river; again the water touched their feet. At last they said, ‘What kind of condition have you placed! If it is water, it will touch the feet. And when we come out of the river, if it does not touch the feet, how will we have been in it?’ Yet whenever they returned, Rinzai would ask, ‘What happened? Remember: let your feet surely walk through water—but let the water not touch your feet! Only then will I know meditation has happened.’
The disciples were tired—this was never going to be fulfilled, and with such a condition, meditation would never be fulfilled.
Then one time they were journeying, and by chance a river came on the way. The disciples were delighted—today it would be clear whether water touched Rinzai’s feet or not! Rinzai entered the water with ease; the water certainly touched him. The disciples stood in the river and said, ‘Stop, Master! You take our lives. Your own feet are being touched by water!’ Rinzai said, ‘Where? My feet are not touching water, nor is water touching my feet. Look carefully! Look at me! You are looking at water, not at me.’
So of course feet will touch the ground. Whether Buddha walks, or Jesus, or Malukdas, or Kabir, or Nanak—of course feet will touch the ground. But I tell you: if you recognize the saints—then they do not touch, will not touch, cannot touch. Because the saint is free of gravity. The earth holds no attraction for him. The soil holds no attachment for him. One who has dropped identification with the body, one who has known ‘I am not the body’, has known ‘I am not earth’. This is the meaning of being in midair.
Then why does the saint not go into the sky, why in midair? ‘Midair’ means in the middle. It too is a symbol—the middle. A saint always abides in the middle, always free of extremes.
Some people, leaving one thing, grasp another; they rush into an extreme. They leave wealth and grasp renunciation—that is an extreme. They leave food and grasp fasting—that is an extreme. They leave the world and grasp sannyas—that is an extreme. The saint abides always in the middle. Buddha said—Majjhima Nikaya! His path is the middle; he avoids extremes.
If you hold the pendulum of a clock in the middle so that it goes neither left nor right, what will happen? The clock will stop; time will halt. The mind’s law is: it goes either left, to one extreme, or right, to the other extreme. One who is a glutton can at any moment become a great faster—remember. Go to Uruli-Kanchan; whoever you see there, know they are former gluttons! Why else would you go to Uruli-Kanchan!
One who has been crazy for women will some day run away leaving women, take a vow of brahmacharya. Whoever takes a vow of brahmacharya, know he has been licentious. Otherwise, why take the vow! Only the licentious take vows of celibacy. And if celibacy has to be made into a vow, by the very fact of being a vow it becomes false. A vow means—it is forcibly imposed, by strength of resolve; you have bound yourself in restraint—yama, niyama, samyama—fenced yourself on all sides so that no danger befall. You have put chains on your own hands lest in some weak moment you bolt. You have surrounded yourself so that even if you want to get out, you cannot.
One who has been licentious will take the vow of celibacy. One who has been a hedonist will, sooner or later, become a yogi. Whomever you see standing on his head, be alert—these are hedonists who have now turned upside-down. Otherwise, what need is there to stand on your head? If Paramatma had wanted you upside-down, he would have given feet on your head, at least horns if not feet, a three-horned tripod to stand on. He would not have given such a round head. The intention of Paramatma does not seem to be headstands—your round head makes it clear. One who does shirshasana needs the support of the hands, or a pillow, or must stand against a wall. Paramatma has made you to stand on your feet. But from one extreme man goes to the other.
In extremes is bondage; in extremes is the world. The middle is liberation; the middle is transcendence.
Thus, what Alamgir saw—that Malukdas hung in midair singing, chanting, dancing, inebriated—that is a symbol: seen in the middle, in between.
Mulla Nasruddin returned home late one night—three o’clock. The bell struck three. As Mulla climbed into bed, the wife said, ‘Listen to the clock—it’s three!’ Mulla said, ‘Don’t worry—it isn’t three. In fact, so your sleep would not be disturbed, I hung onto the pendulum; only twelve struck. As soon as I let go the pendulum, three hours struck. I should have held it a little longer, but how was I to know when the striking would end! I saved nine hours, but three did strike.’
If you hang onto a clock’s pendulum, the clock will stop. Neither twelve will strike nor nine nor three nor one nor two—nothing will strike. It will not strike at all; the clock will stop. Exactly such an amazing event happens to the one who stands in the middle of life’s extremes. Time departs from his life. He becomes timeless. Within him, time comes to an end. And where time goes, there is the gate of eternity.
But I am not telling you to hang from a clock’s pendulum. The mind too is a clock.
Even scientists now agree that within the body there is an arrangement like a clock. That is why if you eat daily at twelve, then precisely at twelve the belly announces, ‘Now it is time.’ If you sleep daily at ten, at ten your eyes begin to blink, yawns come. There is a clock within you that runs silently.
Mulla Nasruddin returned home at three again. He would stay longer at the tavern; he rose only when the tavern closed. The tavern closed at three, then he rose. … He came home; the maid met him at the door. The clock struck three and the maid said, ‘Where have you been, master? Do you know your wife has given birth—and to three children at once?’ Mulla said, ‘Blessed be God! Good I didn’t return at twelve!’
Outside there is a clock—artificial, makeshift. Within is a clock—the biological. One must be free even of that clock. Only one who understands the futility of extremes can be free of that clock. But great alertness is needed. For the mind’s habit is: when it tires of one thing it immediately chooses the opposite. It thinks, ‘There is no juice in this—perhaps the opposite has juice.’ When it tires of that, it runs back to the other side—and so it swings and the inner clock keeps running. The inner clock is the foundation of your so-called life. Then one birth occurs, another occurs; births upon births go on; the inner clock runs and the journey of births runs on. When the inner clock stops, the journey of births stops.
Alamgir saw Malukdas hanging in the middle; this is a symbol. No one can literally hang in the middle. Do not take it as fact.
Just these few incidents of Malukdas are known. The rest—his lovely utterances are available. Seek Malukdas in them.
Beware, do not seek poetry, do not seek the polish of language, do not seek grammar, do not seek logic. People like Malukdas are not concerned with these. Their language is sadhukkadi. They do not calculate meters and measures. But you will surely hear the inner music; you will surely hear the anahat nad; you will surely find the imprint of the heart’s music. You will surely find the image of the Divine peeking through these simple words.
But we are taught the opposite things.
When Kabirdas is taught in universities, it is his linguistic polish, the poetic form of his metrical compositions, the flow of his prose, his verse—these secondary things. It is as if you went to meet a man and returned speaking only of his garments—‘What a lovely coat! The buttons were of gold! Ah… Your chair too is very good; you sit with great taste!’ Even the man would be a bit puzzled.
Such a mention occurs in Mirza Ghalib’s life.
Mirza Ghalib was invited by Bahadur Shah Zafar to a banquet. Others were invited too. It was a royal gathering. Mirza Ghalib was a poor man. All his life he could not pay off his debts. Courts and lawsuits went on. Always in tatters. He has written in a poem: ‘On the day the beloved comes we glance once at him and once at our house—for today there is not even a mat in the house! There is not even a mat to spread! The Master has come—what seat to offer! With what face to ask him to sit! Today there is not even a mat in the house!’ There was nothing; even fasting was on. A royal invitation came; he was glad at least one day there would be good food. But his clothes were not proper. Friends said, ‘In these clothes you will go—to court? The doorkeeper will not even let you in; the guard will push you out at the gate.’ Mirza said, ‘Was the invitation sent to me or to my clothes? I will go as I am.’ He went so. Friends said, ‘Still, heed us; if not, your wish!’ And what was to happen, happened. As soon as he tried to enter, the guard held him: ‘Where are you going inside? Get out!’ Mirza said, ‘I am Mirza Ghalib.’ He said, ‘I understand. Your brain must be addled. You—Mirza Ghalib! Get lost!’
Mirza returned. He said to friends, ‘You were right. Lend me your coat, shirt, turban, shoes.’ Borrowing the clothes, he returned. The same guard bowed low in greeting. He did not even ask for an invitation—he didn’t have it now; the guard had already snatched it before. He only said, ‘It seems you are Mirza Ghalib.’ Mirza smiled and entered.
The emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar himself was a great poet—‘Zafar’ was his nom-de-plume. He seated Ghalib by his side. But Zafar was astonished. At first he said nothing; courtesy prevented it. But when the matter went too far, he could not refrain. He said, ‘Forgive me, I cannot resist asking—what are you doing?’ Mirza was doing something strange. He would pick up a barfi and touch it to his turban—‘Here, turban, eat your fill!’ Then he would touch the coat—‘Here, coat, eat your fill!’ Then to the shoes—‘Here, shoes!’ He himself did not take a single morsel. Zafar asked, ‘What are you doing? What manner is this? There must be some secret.’ Mirza said, ‘No secret; it is simple. When I came, I was thrust out. Now only the clothes have come; I am not here. I am only the peg on which these clothes hang. Does a peg eat! That would be absurd. So I am feeding the clothes—feeding the peg would be worse; the peg cannot eat. At least the clothes can hold a little—see, the barfi goes into the coat pocket, the laddu into the shirt pocket, a barfi into the shoe.’ How to feed a peg? I am only a peg.’
Then Zafar heard the whole story. But by then it was late. The incident is significant.
Yet Kabir, Sur, Maluk, Raidas, Farid, Nanak—people study them in the university the way Mirza Ghalib would be recognized by his clothes. Do not look in this way. This is no university. This is a meeting-place of mad lovers, a tavern! Here descend into rasa. Do not worry about meter, grammar, or language. People like Malukdas care nothing for such things.
‘Ab teri sharan ayo Ram.’
Simple words. If you understand, all the scriptures are hidden in them. If you don’t, you may think: what is there to explain, to understand?
‘Ab teri sharan ayo Ram.’
First, give a little attention to this word ‘ab’—‘now’. It is exactly like the opening of the Brahmasutras—‘Athato Brahma-jijnasa’—‘Now, the inquiry into Brahman.’ ‘Now.’ What does ‘now’ mean? It means: I have seen much of life; I have tasted all flavors. Everything here is tasteless. Where sweetness was glimpsed, I found the bitterness of neem; where I thought there was wealth, there were not even shells; where I saw the glitter of diamonds, there were only pebbles and stones—therefore, ‘now’. ‘Now’ means: after experience. ‘Athato Brahma-jijnasa!’ ‘Ab teri sharan ayo Ram!’ I am too tired. I don’t know at whose feet I have gone! I don’t know whose feet I have held! I don’t know where all I have bowed, at how many doors—and from everywhere I returned empty-handed; therefore now I have come to your door! ‘Ab teri sharan ayo Ram!’
The deception of the world man has made—I have seen and recognized it. There are only dreams there, not truth. Mirages, false semblances; the real man is lost somewhere. There is no trace of the real man.
Body–mind–breath, all pride is gone;
A man has become like a burning house.
The posture is gone, the bow has fallen from the hand;
A man has become like a breaking sword.
Weariness in the dawn, then weariness in the din;
Weariness upon weariness in every limb is man.
In the day’s ascent he was a flying craft,
Every evening a bruise is man.
Body–mind–breath, all pride is gone;
A man has become like a burning house.
Buddha said: What I have left behind is not a palace; it is all aflame—it is a pyre!
… ‘A man has become like a burning house!’
Malukdas searched life from all sides, probed, recognized, experienced—and found it utterly hollow. If you want to waste time, that is another matter.
But people are strange. They play cards. They move chess pieces. If real elephants and horses are not at hand, then wooden elephants and horses—or if there is a little money, ivory elephants and horses—and if you ask, ‘What are you doing—these moves, these wins, these checkmates?’—they say, ‘We are killing time.’ You madman! Is time killing you, or are you killing time? Are you in your senses? Time’s sword is daily cutting you. Your neck is daily being severed. You die daily. And is there that much time that you should cut it? There is so little time—and in this little time the truth has to be recognized. In this little time self-recognition has to happen, self-awareness, self-realization. But people flee on in unconsciousness. There is a crowd and you run with the crowd. Not a trace of awareness.
Dhabbuji reached home. He shouted, ‘Alas! My pocket was picked!’ His wife glared and said, ‘But when the pickpocket put his hand in your pocket, didn’t you notice? Speak up—why don’t you speak?’
Dhabbuji’s eyes dropped. He said, ‘Why not notice… It’s just that I thought it was my own hand.’
Where is awareness! Unawareness is running. Are you living in awareness? If in awareness, would you kill time? Do you have so much time? And what is as precious as time? Once gone, it never returns. With millions of efforts you cannot get back even a single moment. You waste it in cards and chess and in sitting at films! The same time in which Paramatma may be found—you cut it! The time in which mines of diamonds may be found—you spend it on toys!
Malukdas saw all this. His eyes must have been sharp. From childhood he used to clear rubbish from roads; he must have had an eye for rubbish. Soon he must have understood that in this life there is nothing but rubbish. When death comes and snatches away everything, then whatever there is, is rubbish.
Understand the definition of wealth.
That alone is wealth which death cannot snatch. What death can snatch is not wealth; it is the deception of wealth.
But people live in the deception of wealth. There are those who have so much and yet whose demands are endless. Who could be poorer? And there have been people on this earth who have almost nothing and yet are supremely content. Even what little they have seems more than needed. They are the truly wealthy. They are emperors.
‘Ab teri sharan ayo Ram.’
Malukdas says: Having seen everything, having knocked on infinite doors—across infinite lives—now I have come into your refuge. Now understanding has dawned; now there is awakening; now awareness has arisen.
‘Jabai suniya sadh ke mukh, patit-pavan nam.’
How did I come to you? There is no glory of mine in this… Understand the devotee’s humility, the devotee’s gratefulness… How did I come to your door? There is no pride of mine in it, no merit of mine.
‘Jabai suniya sadh ke mukh, patit-pavan nam.’
When from the mouth of an accomplished sadhu I heard your name, the taste arose. A single drop of Amrit fell upon my tongue too.
‘Jabai suniya sadh ke mukh, patit-pavan nam.’
When from a sadhguru I heard your name and when I saw the joy shimmering in his eyes, and heard the anklets tied to his feet, and the single-stringed ektara thrumming in his hand—then since that time only one melody rides me: how to find you? where to find you? where will you be found?
‘Yahi jan pukar keenhi, ati satayo kam.’
And I have not come raw; I am no unbaked pot; desire has tormented me much and the fire of desire has baked me much—thus I have come to your door.
There are only two kinds of life: the life of kama and the life of Ram. Kama means: more, more, more—desire, craving. One life is of kama—this too should be mine, that too should be mine! Let there be endless getting. Let me have all. Let me gather all the flowers.
It is from old times. Jhaggar Miya was famous for wit and repartee. At a gathering when tea-cups came, he shouted, ‘From here, from here!’ The servants heard the loud voice—‘From here, from here!’—and started serving from that side. When betel-leaves began being distributed, he shouted again, ‘From here, from here!’ Hearing this, Rai Bahadur Shyamnandan Sahay grew angry. He barked, ‘Who’s that—lay on the shoes!’ He hadn’t finished when Jhaggar Miya piped up, ‘Shoes—From there, from there!’
This is our style of life: let all the flowers come to us, let all the thorns go to others. But others are doing the same: let all flowers come to them, let all thorns come to you. Hence the great snatching. Flowers cannot survive snatching; they are delicate. With such snatching, flowers cannot survive. Thorns are strong—they survive. The whole world has filled with thorns.
‘Yahi jan pukar keenhi, ati satayo kam.’
Why does desire torment so? Because there is competition in desire, continual conflict, a throttling contest. People ride on each other’s throats. Hands are in each other’s pockets. Each sits ready to cut the other’s neck.
Malukdas says: Seeing all this, experiencing all this, I have come—do not take me as raw. I am baked. There is no intention of looking back toward the world, not even a desire to glance at it.
‘Vishay seti bhayo aajij, kah Maluk gulam.’
He says: I have reached a miserable state. I am utterly wearied. Because of sense-enjoyments, because of desires, I have become very poor, a beggar I have come. Having long been a slave. ‘Ab teri sharan ayo Ram!’ I have come into your refuge. If you free me, liberation will be.
Smiling he bears all oppressions now, the man;
In the color of jackals, man has begun to live.
He cannot tell flowers from thorns;
Whatever the crowd says, that is what he says.
How will he ever fight the current of time,
When like a straw he has begun to drift?
For a few coins he breaks all relations;
He clutches everyone’s arm—man.
Just look around, look at yourself, look at others—and you too will understand: the bustle you are caught in is utterly futile. Nothing but thorns will fall to your lot here. Only ashes will come to your hands. And perhaps among the ashes will be embers too; and if they fall into your palm, blisters will rise and you will be burned.
‘Sancha tu Gopal, sanch tera nam hai.’
Malukdas says: One thing I have understood—everything here is untrue; true is only you.
‘Sancha tu Gopal, sanch tera nam hai.
Jahaan sumiran hoy, dhanya so dham hai.’
Where your remembrance is alive—where a few mad lovers gather and remember you—there is the tirtha, there is the temple. Apart from you nothing is true. All other relations are false, all bonds false. Our relations—what are they? Perhaps a little organized method of quarreling. Those we call husband and wife—we call it a bond of love—but love perhaps happens for a moment or two; the rest is quarrel and conflict. Between parents and children there is quarrel and conflict. Between generations the gap is so vast that even speaking is difficult. Children speak to parents only when they need money. Parents speak to children only when the urge to scold arises. Otherwise there is no relation.
A husband and wife went to a hotel to spend their holidays. They asked for a room. The manager said, ‘First give proof that you are indeed husband and wife.’
Surely it was a hotel in Delhi!
The wife flared up, elbowed her husband and said, ‘A thousand times I have said: carry the certificate! When you leave home, why don’t you carry the certificate? Answer!’
The manager smiled and handed over the key. ‘Sir, I have received the proof. Take the key and go in! You are certified husband and wife. No other certificate is needed.’
Husbands and wives are quarreling. Parents and children are quarreling. Brother and sister, brother and brother, friend and friend—quarreling. Here enemies are enemies—and even friends are not friends; they are friends of utility.
Jesus’ famous saying is: Love your enemies as you love your friends.
I was speaking to a Christian missionary. I asked him, ‘Do you understand the meaning? It means there is no great difference between friends and enemies. Love your enemies just as your friends. Jesus is saying clearly: your friends and your enemies are of the same category. One who is friend today may be enemy tomorrow; one who was enemy yesterday may be friend today. What difference?’
Machiavelli—the Chanakya of the West—wrote in his book: ‘Do not tell your friends what you do not want to tell your enemies, because who knows when a friend will become an enemy. And do not say about your enemies what you would hesitate to say about your friends, because who knows when an enemy will become a friend.’
Here enemies become friends, friends become enemies. This world is a strange maze. From this maze—says Malukdas—I am utterly weary; it is all false, all drama! What is happening on this side of the curtain is not true; inside the curtain the matter is something else. Sometimes go and see a Ram-Leela from behind as well—from behind the curtain where the actors dress.
In my village whenever Ram-Leela happened I always watched from behind. Outside—what is there? See it once; the same play each year. But the inner play is wondrous. I saw Sita taking puffs on a beedi! She is just about to go on stage—swayamvara is being enacted—the last puff! I saw Ravana scolding Ramchandra: ‘Hey you scoundrel, you had to look at my side and speak, and you were looking at my wife!’—His wife must have been seated among the spectators—‘If you repeat this mischief, I’ll make chutney of you!’ That is the real drama; to see it you must look behind the curtain.
The manager would ask me, ‘Why do you want to see from behind? The whole village watches from the front; only you say, “Let me sit behind!” What is there behind?’ I said, ‘Do not worry. From this I get very deep sutras.’
Look at life carefully. Lift a few curtains. Peep inside the outer structures and you too will say this—
‘Sancha tu Gopal, sanch tera nam hai.
Jahaan sumiran hoy, dhanya so dham hai.’
‘Sancha tera bhakta, jo tujhko janata.
Teen lok ko raj, manai nahi anata.’
Blessed is that bhakta who knows you as truth! Note: it is not a matter of believing, it is a matter of knowing. Everyone believes—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. But believing is nothing. Knowing, experience—only experience is liberating.
‘Sancha tera bhakta, jo tujhko janata.’
Note, Malukdas does not say ‘who believes you.’ There is no emphasis on faith, belief, or creed—there is emphasis on experience. All the knowers, all the Buddhas place emphasis on experience. And one who has known you—even if the sovereignty of the three worlds be given to him—his mind is not enticed.
‘Jhutha nata chhodi, tujhe lav laiyaa.
Sumiri tiharo nam, param pad paiyaa.’
He leaves false bonds, transcends false ties—and by remembrance of your name alone, by lifting his eyes towards you, by bowing toward you, he attains you; he attains the supreme state. But this will not happen through believing. What will belief do? Belief makes false things go on.
I have heard: In an electrical engineering exam a professor asked a student, ‘Tell me—how is it that when the switch is pressed, the fan begins to run?’
Humbly the student said, ‘All by God’s grace!’
From believers of such a kind nothing will be resolved. To know God is a far greater matter. The price must be paid! Belief is a cheap business. Parents believe, the crowd believes—when all believe, you also believe. Believing seems convenient. All believe; if you do not, there will be trouble. If you believe, there will be ease.
In Russia, being an atheist is convenient—everyone is atheist. In India, being a theist is convenient—everyone is a theist. But there is not a hair’s difference between Indian theists and Russian atheists—both follow the crowd. There is no power in your theism, nor in their atheism. One must inquire as an individual. One must progress through one’s own search.
‘Jin yah laha payo, yah jag aaikai.
Utar gayo bhav par, tero gun gaikai.’
One who has attained you in this world—he alone has used the world well. Then he need not return to the world again. One who has learned the lesson—why come back to school? One who has passed the examination—why return to the classroom?
‘Tuhi matu, tuhi pita, tuhi hitu bandhu hai.
Kahat Malukdas, bina tujh dhundh hai.’
You alone are mother, you alone are father, you alone are friend and kin. Says Malukdas: Without you there is only haze and darkness.
Your priests will not give you this Paramatma. They can give many sermons. They itch to sermonize. Let someone just turn up—they grab him to preach.
‘Help! Help!’ A poet peeped into a well—a man was drowning. He quickly pulled him out.
‘How shall I repay your kindness! You saved me from drowning—gave me a new life!’
‘Just listen to my poems and you will be free of this debt,’ said the poet.
‘Why didn’t you say earlier you too are a poet? Listening to a poet’s poem I jumped into this well. Where is that poet?’
‘In the same well—looking for me.’
‘Then fine—where will he escape! I will recite poems to my heart’s content.’ Saying this, the second poet also dived into the well.
These are your poets, your pundits, your scholars, your philosophers—looking for someone! There is junk collected in their skull, which they’ll dump into yours. Nothing will happen by them. You must sit with a sadhguru who has known, who has lived, within whom the flame has been lit—then, coming to him, your extinguished lamp can also be lit. Paramatma is not a theoretical discussion; it is a transformation of life; it is a revolution to the roots.
‘Kaun milavai jogiya ho, jogiya bin rahyo na jai.’
Who will unite me with that Supreme Paramatma?—some jogiya, some sadhguru, some supreme yogi—one who has already united! Yoga means union. ‘Jogiya’ means one who has united with Paramatma.
‘Kaun milavai jogiya ho, jogiya bin rahyo na jai.
Main to pyasi peev ki, ratat phiron peev-peev.’
I wander thirsty for the Beloved, crying ‘Beloved, Beloved!’—but who will show me the way, who will teach me the path, who will hold my hand? Only one who has known Paramatma! Many who know scriptures will be found; beware of them! They are no more than parrots. Seek a sadhguru.
The search for a sadhguru is an indispensable step in the search for Paramatma. If you would go to the other shore you need a boat. Don’t be entangled with those who talk about the boat. Many are talking only about the boat—that it should be like this, like that; that in the olden days it was like this; ‘Now where is a boat—such was in the Satya Yuga!’ Those who keep talking scriptures are talking of the boat. Riding on the word ‘boat’ you cannot cross—you will drown badly. A sadhguru is needed.
Who is a sadhguru? One whose utterance is apta—attested by his own realization. Who says, ‘I have known; that is what I am saying.’ And in whose presence you begin to experience something, whose vibration begins to touch you, whose presence resonates the strings of your heart’s vina, and you feel that what you are hearing is not merely brain-talk, it is a surge from the heart, a fragrance. Then do not move away from that door.
‘Jo jogiya nahi milihai ho, to turat nikasun jeev.’
Malukdas says: If I do not find a sadhguru, I am ready to lose my life! I will stake everything, but I will obtain the sadhguru.
‘Guruji aheri main hirni…
Guru marain prem ka ban.’
He says: O sadhguru, I am like a doe, and you are the hunter! Draw the bow of love and pierce my life with the arrow of love!
‘Jehi lagai soyi janai ho, aur darad nahi jan.’
And this pain of love is known only to the one whom the arrow of love has struck. So if you find a sadhguru and your life is pierced by his arrow of love, you will not be able to explain to anyone; you cannot tell, you cannot prove. People will call you mad, crazy. They will say, ‘You have lost your senses; you were all right—what has happened to you?’ But do not try to explain to others; that attempt never succeeds. Yes, if someone is tinged by your tune, if some seeker begins to sway seeing your joy, then surely tell him your heart’s truth—for only one who has tasted a little of love’s pain can understand. One who has tasted sweetness—if you speak of sweetness, he can understand. One who has drunk poison all his life—do not speak to him of Amrit.
‘Kahain Maluk, sunu jogini re, tanahi mein manahi samai.’
Says Malukdas: Listen, O yoginis, O lovers, O beloved seekers—listen! He who is Paramatma is nowhere outside—he is contained in this very body, in this very mind. But someone must give a clue!
We have forgotten the path to our inner being. We know all the roads that go outward, but the road inward we no longer know. For ages we have not gone there; for births we have not gone; the path is obstructed, perhaps the door is shut and has become a wall.
‘Tere prem ke karane jogi, sahaj mila mohiyan aaye.’
But when love happens with the sadhguru, because of that love, he who is hidden within begins to be revealed—like a bud opening into a flower, like fragrance rising from the flower. As if there is a lamp within you and the guru’s flame lights that lamp—your inner flame flares up, and you too become illumined.
These utterances of Malukdas are exceedingly sweet! Do not take these words as mere words; they have arisen out of the experience of truth. But the truth of these words you will know only when you too drown in love, drown in bhakti, descend into meditation. ‘Ab teri sharan ayo Ram!’—when you too can say: I have seen life enough, I found nothing; now I have come into your refuge!
And the condition of coming into refuge—you know it!—‘Ramduware jo mare!’
Enough for today.