Ram Duware Jo Mare #5

You did not come to dwell within them,
so these songs wept and wept.
As lightning you laugh each day in the cloud-mass,
you become fragrance and abide within the flowers.
The blueness cannot cover your whole body;
on the star-path your foot-light shimmers.
This form of yours that shines everywhere—
this whole world that again and again flares into brilliance—
bringing these gleams and gathering them into the heart,
these songs wept and wept.

They say: upon the path where the Chariot once passes,
a lamp is lit there.
From my own height I keep watching—
you have not passed this way even once.
In the dark my voice keeps calling in vain;
in every corner I keep seeking you.
But, finding you nowhere,
these songs wept and wept.

How long will the light rain blows upon me?
On which day will the Chariot cross me over?
On what day will you come with flaming arrows,
draw a line across my heart—and be gone?
On what day shall I take your fire upon my head?
I shall open my life before your arrows, lay it bare.
Thinking thus, writhing in separation,
these songs wept and wept.

Paramatma is the fragrance of life, the aroma of life, the music of life, the celebration of life. Without him everything is meaningless. Without him everything is sorrow. Without him, other than death, life is nothing at all. Paramatma alone is life; all the rest is death. Paramatma is simply another name for life. And we have not known him. We have not lived him. Then what else should our songs do but weep? What else should our eyes hold but tears? Our hearts are empty, hollow. That is why we are afraid to look within. We wander on the outside. We keep deceiving ourselves, entangling ourselves, keeping ourselves endlessly busy so that we may not have to glance within. Because whenever we look inside, we find nothing in our hands but emptiness.

Buddha says: Look within. Kabir says, Nanak says, Maluk says, all those who have known say: Look within. But how shall we look within? It is darkness upon darkness, a night of no moon. The moon never rises there! Nor will it rise as things are. There are obstructions to the moon’s appearing. Some clouds surround us. Even when the moon does rise—and it does—our eyes remain deprived of it. Even when we go within we do not see the indweller; there is an obstruction, a barrier. And the barriers are of our own making. No one else has built those mountains. Therefore, on the day you truly will, they will fall—because you built them. But you have not willed it. You have made friends with the obstacles; you decorate them and polish them.

The first and greatest obstacle is: ego. You do not know who you are, yet you go on claiming, “I am.” Such a claim without knowing! Whom are you deceiving? Had you been deceiving others, it could be managed; but you are deceiving yourself. One who does not even know “Who am I?”—how can he say “I am”? Only upon knowing who you are does it become clear that you are. You have not asked the essential question yet. Even the curiosity you do have is full of dishonesty.

People come to me and ask: Who made creation? As if it concerned them in some way! As if they were bound to the making and unmaking of the universe! Does the Atman survive after death? You are alive now and you do not seek the Atman; the Atman is resident within you now, yet you do not search for it, do not feel for it—rather you ask: Does the Atman survive after death? These questions are deceptions. They keep your delusion that you are religious intact. You remain irreligious and wrap yourself in Rama’s name; inside, everything remains the same—just the same fraud, the same hypocrisy. Inside, only sorrow. Within you there are wounds upon wounds. Where there could have been flowers, there are only wounds. Where there could have been festival, there is only mourning. And you are so cunning that you even turn your mourning into religion. You start calling mournful faces “mahatmas.” You regard the sad and the indifferent as sannyasins. A sannyasin is one who is filled with his music; a sannyasin is one who has heard the call of his flute—and has danced! Become a Radha, become a Meera, a Chaitanya, a Maluk—then you are a sannyasin! Let bells bind your feet, celebration fill your life-breath, songs shower from your lips, and amrit rain in your innermost—then you are a sannyasin!

But whom have you called a sannyasin till now?
Weeping people; half-dead people; sad, withered—hard to even call them human—call them ruins at best, and you have worshiped them. You have worshiped thorns; you have forgotten flowers. There is a reason: you harmonize with thorns—you are thorns. You are filled with sorrow; you understand the language of sorrow. You too are sad; with sadness a bridge is made. You are empty of celebration; your life is not a life, therefore you find your fit with the dead. You worship them.

Worship the flowers. Worship the moon and the stars. Worship this great festival that is happening all around! Paramatma is not a person; the very name of this celebration is Paramatma. This vast dance—from the blades of grass to the mighty suns—this is Paramatma. There is a path for you to be suffused in it too. Ah, if only you could dance! Ah, if only you could sing! But let the dance be such that the dancer disappears, and the song such that no singer remains. Then a descent will happen in your life. Then a ray will enter. If you disappear, Paramatma is ready—now, this very instant—to enter within you. He has been ready since forever! He has been waiting at the door!

How long will the light rain blows upon me?
On which day will the Chariot cross me over?
On what day will you come with flaming arrows,
draw a line across my heart—and be gone?
On what day shall I take your fire upon my head?
I shall open my life before your arrows, lay it bare.
Thinking thus, writhing in separation,
these songs wept and wept.

He stands there, bow and arrows in hand. Only you are hiding; you do not come to the fore. And who has hidden you? Your identity, your ego. Ego is your own invention; Atman is the gift of Paramatma. You are the Atman, not the ego.

Ego means: name, fame, address, color and form. Ego means: body, mind, heart. You are beyond these three. There, there is no body, no thoughts of mind, no feelings of heart. There is silence. The ultimate void. In that ultimate shunyata, the Full enters at once. To attain the Full there is but one condition to fulfill: become emptiness.

These words of Maluk are steps leading toward that emptiness. See these words through the eyes of a seeker; not as a student, not as a scholar—but as a searcher for truth. And there is a great difference. If you read these words as a scholar, you will remain empty-handed. This arrow will not be able to pierce you. This Chariot will not pass through your life. These songs will go on weeping—Paramatma will not be able to come to dwell in you.

You did not come to dwell within them,
so these songs wept and wept.
As lightning you laugh each day in the cloud-mass,
you become fragrance and abide within the flowers.
The blueness cannot cover your whole body;
on the star-path your foot-light shimmers.
This form of yours that shines everywhere—
this whole world that again and again flares into brilliance—
bringing these gleams and gathering them into the heart,
these songs wept and wept.

You will keep on weeping—even as existence smiles on every side. Each bud smiles; each particle smiles. Only you go on weeping. And the cause of your weeping—you yourself have created it. If you wish, you can drop it—now. No one can drop the ego gradually. When understanding dawns, it drops instantly. Once you understand, it is impossible to go on holding the ego, because it is your hell.

Take these words as a seeker takes them, as a truth-thirsty one—not as a student. These words can open new doors within you. They are not the words of a pundit; they are the words of a man of prajna. The words of one intoxicated, who has drunk his wine and known its ecstasy, who in drowning in it has become masti. These are songs sung in ecstasy. Do not hunt in them for meter, do not hunt for syllabic counts, do not hunt for poetry; all that is there, but it is secondary. Do not get entangled in it. Grasp the essence. Do not start collecting shells.

Great research work is done on saints. In every university the research goes on. After three or four years of labor a student returns with a Ph.D., a D.Litt.—and not a single drop of saintliness has touched him. He remains caught in syllables, in meters, in words, in the arrangement of words—the trifles. When was Malukdas born, on what date, in which year—his energy is spent on these. To what end? When will you be born? On which date? When will you invite the Guest?—this he forgets. When will these meters be born within you?—he forgets. His eagerness is not to take life from these words, hence he misses.

These are not mere words; they are burning embers. Not mere words—they can transform your life; there is alchemy hidden in them. They can make you new, give you a new birth, link you to the eternal, open the doorway of Paramatma. Only if you are filled with this longing will something be understood; otherwise you will be left holding only sobbing.

They say: upon the path where the Chariot once passes,
a lamp is lit there.
True, utterly true. If but a single ray of the Divine passes through you—if his Chariot passes through your within—then lamps are lit everywhere. It becomes a Diwali. If but a single drop from his squirt-gun falls upon you, then colors scatter everywhere, and it is Holi forever.

They say: upon the path where the Chariot once passes,
a lamp is lit there.
From my own height I keep watching—
you have not passed this way even once.
Your being upon a height is itself the obstruction!
From my own height I keep watching—
you have not passed this way even once.
Until you bow down, he will not pass. His passing is in your bowing. They are the two faces of the same coin: your bowing, and his passing through.

Calling and calling you may go on. People sit with rosaries in their dark corners, muttering Ram-Ram. Go on muttering. Your fingers will tire, your lips will tire, your throat will tire; you will find no trace of him. The way to find his trail is: the art of disappearing.

Do not be proud, O mad one; Hari is the smasher of pride.
The first saying of Maluk: do not be egoistic. O madmen—do not be egoistic. Erase ego. It is the first condition of Paramatma. Hari’s very first stroke falls upon your ego. You bow down; let him break your ego, your pride, your arrogance; let him demolish your heights. One sits atop the peak of wealth, one atop the peak of position, one atop the peak of knowledge, one atop the peak of renunciation—and as long as you are upon any peak, you will be deprived of the summits. Bow down, and all summits are yours—the summit of summits is yours. The Master of masters is yours.

Do not be proud, O mad one; Hari is the smasher of pride.
This is the first condition: no ego. Ego is what keeps you deranged. As long as it is there, a man remains split, fragmented, broken. However much you try to join the false, it does not join. Will paper boats ever cross the ocean? And can you dwell in palaces made of playing cards? A little gust of wind will come and the palaces will fall. It is just like this that all our palaces fall. All palaces have fallen. Our boats have sunk just so—of Alexanders and of the small, of the great; of the poor and of the rich. The boats are paper; the boats are not to be blamed. It is a wonder that we still keep floating those very boats that we see sink every day! Still we remain engrossed in worshiping the very name, fame, glory, ego that we see breaking daily and mixed with dust. Strange unconsciousness! What a spectacle! What a hypnosis!

Do not be proud, O mad one; Hari is the smasher of pride.
Through pride Ravana fell, and found heavy sorrow.
The whole history of mankind is the history of two kinds of people—either of Ram or of Ravana. And mostly of Ravana. Ninety-nine percent of Ravana, one percent of Ram. Ram appears, as it were, only in footnotes; the history is Ravana’s. Because of Ravana, sometimes, out of compulsion, Ram is also mentioned. You call it the Ramayana—the story of Ram; it should not be called so. The entire story is of Ravana. The whole drama is his. Ram seems almost irrelevant—as if whether he is or not makes no difference. In truth, the heavy one is Ravana.

And that is the difference: Ravana means “many.” One ego is not enough for him; one head is not enough. Ten egos, ten heads. Cut off one head, one ego—and another sprouts. Ram is almost nothing; Ravana is immense, occupies much space. Ram is shunya. History has two streams: one of Ram, one of Ravana—one of ego, one of egolessness. One is of those who believe “We are something, and we will prove it.” The other is of those who know “We are nothing; Paramatma is all. Of my own, there is nothing; all is his.”

Burning jealousy and selfhood do not please Raghunath.
Jealousy, ego, vanity—Paramatma is not pleased by these even a little. Carrying such piles of falsehood you will not reach him. Carrying these diseases you will not even come near. You must become healthy. These are diseases, ailments—yet how tightly you clutch them! No one has ever found joy from them, nor have you. What has ego given you other than pain and anguish? It has made you fight, drowned you in quarrel, surrounded you with anxieties; the priceless time of life is being spent in pointless entanglements, needless calamities. When will you awaken? When will awareness come?

Awake, O Imperishable!
Awake, O beam-being! Lotus-throne! Dweller of the moon-realm!
Awake, O Imperishable!
Walker of jewel-studded paths, awake;
roamer of star-forests and sky-ways, awake;
awake, connoisseur of the detachment-realms, sannyasin of the honey-forest!
Awake, O Imperishable!
Awake, artisan of the deathless sky!
Singer of the house of Mahakaal!
Poet with ambrosial voice of heaven—awake, tender light’s light!
Awake, O Imperishable!
Fish of the stream of splendor, do this:
merge me into yourself!
I long today to drown
in the moon’s circle.
Awake, O Imperishable!

Paramatma is as present within you as without. First you must recognize him within; then you can recognize him without. The one who cannot recognize within—what will he recognize outside? Go to temple, mosque, church, gurudwara—you will go empty-handed, and return empty-handed. The net of priests and pundits is not religion. Religion is not confined to temples, mosques, churches, or gurudwaras. If you cannot perceive the nearest within you, how will you see him without? How will you recognize him in the trees? In the sun, the moon, the stars; in people, in animals, in birds; in stones? And you go before a stone idol to wave the platter of arati! Will you see Paramatma in a stone idol? I am not saying Paramatma is not there—Paramatma is in stone too, in all stones—even in those that have not become idols. Paramatma alone is. The whole existence is pervaded by him. Perhaps it is not even exact to say that existence is pervaded by him; it is more precise to say that existence and Paramatma are synonymous—two ways of saying the same thing.

Will you be able to see Paramatma in a stone statue? In your own within, where the river of life flows, where the lamp of consciousness burns, there you cannot recognize him! First he must be seen in the inner temple; then all places are his temples.

The Muslim fakir Bayazid said: When I went to the Kaaba the first time, I saw only the stone of the Kaaba and nothing else. When I went the second time, I saw the Owner of the stone. And when I went the third time, I saw neither the stone nor the Owner of the stone. I was startled. The first time I had seen the stone; the second time I had not seen the stone but had seen the Owner of the stone; the third time, neither the stone nor its Owner appeared. Naturally, Bayazid was shocked. In his shock he closed his eyes—and then he saw the One who truly is, the Master of masters. After that Bayazid never went to the Kaaba again. What is there to go to now?

Go to temple, mosque, Kaaba, or Kashi or Kailash—it is all futile. Go first within!

Awake, O Imperishable!
Break this slumber a little…
Awake, O beam-being! Lotus-throne! Dweller of the moon-realm!
Awake, O Imperishable!
Walker of jewel-studded paths, awake;
roamer of star-forests and sky-ways, awake;
awake, connoisseur of the detachment-realms, sannyasin of the honey-forest!
Awake, O Imperishable!

And the first step of awakening is—since ego is stupor—the first step is: drop ego. Say, with your whole being say: I am not. This is prayer; this is meditation. Do not merely say it—know it: I am not. Do not merely know it—experience it: I am not. Probe a little and you will know with certainty that you are not. This “I” is delusion.

“I” means: we are separate from existence. As if, in the ocean, if a wave were to become self-aware she would think, “I am—separate from the ocean, separate from other waves.” Just so are we waves in the ocean of his consciousness. The only difference is that we have a little awareness; the wave has none. The wave is asleep in deep sleep. We too are asleep, but our sleep is broken here and there; it is the early morning’s sleep. When the milkman knocks on the door you hear something, when the wife makes tea you catch a faint inkling of sounds from the kitchen—and then you turn over, pull the blanket on and sleep two moments more. Such is your sleep. Something is heard. Had nothing been heard at all, Maluk would not speak, I would not speak. Speaking would be futile. Something is heard—though in sleep. The call reaches the ear. Upon that slight inkling rests the hope that perhaps you will awaken.

When you awaken the first thing you will see is: I am not separate. We are joined to existence. One. The whole existence is one. Nothing is isolated here. The name of that oneness is Paramatma. In that unity alone is bliss; in that unity alone is truth; in that unity alone is Advaita. That unity itself is Brahmanubhava, Samadhi, Nirvana, Moksha, Kaivalya.

Burning jealousy and selfhood do not please Raghunath.
Ego will remain filled with jealousy. Jealousy is ego’s food. Ego burns and frets—this is its very life-breath. It always thinks: With whom am I greater? If it finds itself greater than someone, it beams. Small children climb onto their father’s chair, stand on its arms and say, “Look, father, I am taller than you!” But those whom we call grown-ups are not very different from children. They sit on some chair in Delhi and declare, “I am great—none greater than I.” These are little children who have climbed onto a chair’s arms. By climbing onto the arms of a chair children do not become great, nor does anyone become great by sitting upon the thrones of Delhi. If ego finds itself greater than someone, it swells up like a balloon when air is pumped into it. And we keep on pumping air into it because we want to appear bigger than other balloons. Great competition—hence great jealousy. Others too are engaged in the same effort.

A woman went to a doctor. She had been married only yesterday. Perhaps she had foresight! She said to the doctor, “Please examine me—am I pregnant?” The doctor felt playful, asked her to lie down, and just below her navel he signed his name in extremely fine letters—so fine you would need a magnifying glass to read them. The woman said, “What are you doing?” He said, “Signing.” She said, “What will your signature on my belly achieve?” He said, “Don’t worry. When these letters begin to be readable to you, understand that you are pregnant. Let the belly swell. When the letters come into focus, come back.”

Little children, little egos. Listen to the chatter of little children!

Two children were talking. One said, “If any swimmer, any diver, then none like my father; he goes under for five or seven minutes—no trace!” The other said, “That’s nothing! If diver, then my father—seven years ago he dived and hasn’t come up yet!” That is diving!

Little children are just beginning to write ego—in their lisping way. But the journey of foolishness begins—ending in Delhi; ending in the wasting of life somehow or other.

If you find someone greater than yourself, pain arises, torment arises—a grievous wound. Great is the blow. Even the greatest are hurt when they see someone greater. How will you arrange it so that in every way you are greatest? Life has many dimensions. Perhaps you have the most wealth. What of it? Your servant may be healthier than you—then jealousy will arise against the servant. A beggar on the road may be more handsome than you—what then? Ego will beat its head. Someone may be more intelligent than you.

Napoleon was five feet five. His whole life he suffered from it. He had everything, a great emperor; yet this splinter never stopped pricking him. Among his soldiers were men taller than he. His bodyguard was six feet; one was six and a half. One day Napoleon was trying to adjust a wall clock; his hand could not reach. His bodyguard said, “Please let me; I am taller than you.” Napoleon said, “Take your words back—or I will have your tongue cut. Say: I am longer than you, not higher.” See how ego hurts! Say “longer,” not “higher.” How will you be higher? The soldier immediately apologized—the wound had been touched.

Lenin became dictator of Russia, the largest country on earth—one-sixth of the world’s land. No country larger. He had one hitch: his upper body was large, his legs short. It hurt him immeasurably. He would always arrive at assemblies before the people; they thought, “How humble!” The real cause: if he arrived after, people would see those short legs and that large torso. He came first and left last. He had chairs made tall; he sat with a table in front. Because his feet did not touch the ground, if anyone peeped under the table he became angry—for his feet hung in the air. Whoever peeped never got his forgiveness.

What will you do? You may have wealth, status, prestige—everything—but in some matter there will be someone better than you. Someone’s nose is fine, someone’s eyes are beautiful, someone’s complexion fair, someone’s body robust.

In one town a king feared going out. He had to, sometimes. But he feared one man who sprawled before Shiva’s temple, blissfully lost in push-ups and devouring the offerings. No worry at all. He was so strong that whenever the king passed, he would catch the elephant’s tail and stand holding it. Imagine the king’s state! The elephant could not move. The king looked a perfect fool on his elephant—more like on a donkey! A crowd gathered and laughed. The mahout urged on, the king fumed, the man held the tail. The king could not bear it. He asked a fakir, “What to do? I fear going out lest I meet him—he is always there.” The fakir said, “Do not worry; summon him to the palace, I’ll set it right.”

He was brought. “How long will you live on alms? We will give you one rupee daily,” said the king. In those days, a rupee was much. “Only a small task,” they said. “Which?” he asked. “At Shiva’s temple, light the lamp each evening at six; extinguish it each morning at six. That’s all. You’ll receive a rupee a day.” He thought, “Good. I already live there. I’ll light at evening, extinguish at morning.” A month later the fakir told the king: now go out. The man grabbed the tail out of habit—and was dragged. “What happened?” both asked. The fakir said, “Simple. I gave you one worry: all day you were anxious—is it six or not? You looked at every man’s watch: has the hour struck? The king had said exactly at six; not a minute late. Push-ups interrupted, you checked the time, at six you ran to extinguish, then again push-ups. This twofold worry ate you up; the worm of concern hollowed you. In a month everything fell apart.”

But even an ordinary poor man can cause a king pain.

Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last Mughal emperor of India, loved to write verses. Some were good—but whether truly his is doubtful. He wrote daily. He asked Ghalib, “Mirza, how many days do you take to write a ghazal?” Ghalib said, “Days? Sometimes months pass, sometimes a year—and it does not come. If it is to come, it comes; it is his gift. When he blows the note, it plays. However much we strive, it does not happen; I have stopped striving. I wait for his mood; when spring comes and the flower opens, it opens. If his mood is not, then grind the pen as I may, it does not happen. I could deceive others, call it a poem; but my own heart does not accept it.” Zafar said, “I thought you a great poet; I am better! I compose even while sitting in the latrine!” Ghalib said, “Pardon me, that is why your verses smell of the latrine.” The emperor was deeply hurt; he could say nothing to Ghalib, yet the wound remained.

What will you do? In every condition you cannot be higher. Ego will either puff you up—and the puffed-up ego becomes hypersensitive; tiny things wound it. A man you greet daily—if today you forget to greet him on the street—he is hurt; for twenty-four hours he broods, “What happened? Why did he not greet?” Or ego sees someone greater and is agitated, burns—in hell. Hell is nowhere else; it is your ego. It burns you in every condition. And however much you puff it up, there will always be people more puffed up. The world is vast; sooner or later you will stumble.

They say the camel does not go near the mountains. It seems right. Camels live in deserts; they do not go towards mountains—for in deserts they are the mountains. Near the mountain they would know their actual worth. But sometime a man must meet a mountain; where you meet a mountain, there is your pain. That is why you could not forgive Jesus; camels came near a mountain. You were camels. In the desert, all was fine. But the mountain of Jesus, of Socrates, of Buddha, of Maluk, of Kabir—you have never forgiven them. Their presence agonized you, because your ego was deeply hurt: I have not known Paramatma yet—and Malukdas has known! I have not yet seen—and Kabir has seen! This weaver, this man of two pennies—he has seen! How will you accept it? You will take revenge. Hence for centuries you have tormented saints. There is arithmetic behind the torment: their presence burns your ego. From those saints from whom you could have taken amrit—you took none. Seeing them, you drank poison within. Wondrous are you! From those who could have quenched your thirst forever, you returned more parched. From those whose one drop could quiet your craving forever, you returned carrying fiery coals. Where you could have filled your cloth with flowers, there you gathered embers. Ego does exactly this. Ego will keep you far from Paramatma, far from saints, far from the true guru. Ego always likes to be with the lesser, because there it feels, “I am the mountain.”

Therefore you prefer flatterers—those who praise you: “Wah, you! What to say!”

Mulla Nasruddin took service in a Nawab’s house. What service could a man like Nasruddin do but flattery? The Nawab was delighted; he kept him always near, fed him at the same table, let him sleep in the same room—because Nasruddin constantly pumped air into his ego’s balloon. One day both sat to eat; new okra had come. The Nawab told the cook, “Well done!” Nasruddin said, “Okra is indeed a wondrous thing! In the ancient scriptures now lost, okra is called the king of vegetables. Emperor of vegetables! As you are among men, so is okra among vegetables. On earth it is nectar. If one were to eat okra for life, one would never die.” The cook heard this and began to prepare okra every day. On the seventh day the Nawab flung his plate; called the cook: “Rascal! Do you wish to kill me? Okra, okra, okra—there is a limit!” Nasruddin flung his plate even harder and said to the cook: “You won’t only kill the Nawab—you will kill me too, you murderer!” The Nawab said, “Nasruddin, weren’t you the one praising okra as nectar?” Nasruddin said, “Master, I am your servant, not okra’s. If you call day ‘day,’ day; if you call day ‘night,’ night. I am your servant. Your yes is my yes; your no my no.”

The egoistic will always gather such people around them. Hence around politicians you find flatterers—chamchas. The politician changes; the chamchas remain, shifting to the next politician. They are not servants of okra! Whether okra’s name be Morarji Desai or Charan Singh, what do they care? They serve the chair. Whoever sits in the chair, he too gets served by the way—but they serve the chair. They honor the chair, whoever sits upon it.

Each person—watch yourself—feels pleased with those who flatter them. Beware of them! They are not friends, but foes. A friend is one who tells you your state. That is why Kabir said: Keep your critic close; build him a hut in your courtyard. Serve him well, keep him near—he will keep reminding you of your reality. He will not call your thorns flowers. Even if he calls your flowers thorns, there is no harm; by calling flowers “thorns” they do not become thorns. But those who call thorns “flowers,” if you listen to them—and the ego wants to—then at least for you a delusion is created.

Burning jealousy and selfhood do not please Raghunath.
He whose heart harbors pride—his chest will be broken by the Lord.
Where there is selfhood, there is no God. Let selfhood go—and there is God.

Learn but two virtues, brothers: compassion and humility.
Maluk says: Learn two things. First: I am nothing—humility. And the second follows by itself: compassion. The egoistic is not compassionate; he is hard. To prove his ego he must become stone. The egoless becomes tender, melts; his behavior is love-filled.

Grasp the feet of the sage; thus alone will Raghurai be pleased.
Hold his feet. Only then will you be able to charm Paramatma. And who will hold his feet? The one willing to bow.

This is the great teaching: do not be hostile to others.
Says Maluk: Remember Hari and cross over the ocean of becoming.

He says: This is the supreme counsel. In one sentence all is said. One small key opens the largest lock. Do not think it small—this key opens even the lock of the temple. As soon as you become humble, the message of Paramatma begins to be heard. Your eyes open—because ego alone has drawn the veil. Your ears open—because ego alone has filled them with stones. Your heart begins to be stirred—because ego alone has made you inert. Humility melts you; you begin to flow. Where there is flow, there is life; and where there is life, there is Paramatma.

O traveler, awake! A message has come
from your own land.
Hearing the secret news, thrilled,
birds opened their beaks;
with love, bowing again and again in salutation,
rows of trees swayed.
From the far eastern shore,
awakening each blade of the world,
in the forest the well-known sound of dawn-breeze
has come.
O traveler, awake! A message has come
from your own land.
In the lake of the sky has unfolded
a hundred-petaled rosy light;
the long-suffering earth,
in that splendor, is swooning with joy.
Kissed upon every hair, a blessing of the Lord
has risen to the head;
in handfuls of rays has come
the father’s loving benediction.
O traveler, awake! A message has come
from your own land.
Today, upon my heart has awakened
the Aryan sensitivity of the ocean shore,
seeking the very source of splendor
in the astonished face of dawn;
from which horizon-line
does this red arise—and beyond that, what?
Why has a forgotten and misty land
returned to memory?
O traveler, awake! A message has come
from your own land.

If ego falls away you will hear the message of your real homeland. The Vedas will awaken within you; the Upanishads rise; the Gita burst forth; the Quran hums. You are sitting upon treasures! Ego crushes them all beneath a rock. Beneath the boulder of ego lie the springs of amrit suppressed.

The first step in the journey of religion is: erase yourself, wipe yourself out; become not. Then all the rest happens by itself. Do this much, and Paramatma is ready to do the rest.

From the mind remove so many delusions.
Do you know how much you have already squandered? If only you knew, your heart would stop with a thud—how much you have lost! Only when you awaken will you see: Ah, for lifetimes how much was lost! How much treasure was mine, and I remained a beggar! The whole empire was mine, and I went on gathering pennies! Heaps of Kohinoors lay within, and I gathered colored stones on the seashore! Paramatma is existent within you; what more do you ask? What else can you desire? None of your desires, none of your demands will ever be satisfied. Even if you attain what you asked—it will not quench you. You can be quenched only by Paramatma, only by Nirvana; only by self-realization. Nothing less will satisfy. It never has; it never can.

From the mind remove so many delusions.
You have squandered so much! Awake even now. Still there is time. It is not too late—though you can go on squandering for lifetimes yet.

If you travel abroad, do not ask the priest; do not blame the day.
Evening comes—take your meal; but do not venture without a lamp.
He who says, “This is the demons’ hour—an inauspicious time,”
has his intelligence struck dumb—he is a fool.

You behave like fools; your intelligence is wounded. You go to foreign lands and ask the Brahmin: Is the day auspicious? Ask if your heart is auspicious! You ask about the day—yet all days are his. All days are auspicious. What are you asking of astrologers—lagna, muhurta? Lies! Because you are foolish, cunning men sit everywhere to exploit you.

Two astrologers met each morning on the way to the market to set up their stalls. They would first show their palms to each other: “How will business go today?” At the auspicious moment, each gifted the other four annas. No loss—each got a quarter! One read the other’s hand, the other returned the favor. These are the astrologers you consult? They keep caged birds who pick slips to reveal your fate. The world is a great joke—Ram-matched pair! Fools are many, tricksters are many.

They say the happiest household is where the wife is blind and the husband deaf. The husband can do whatever mischief he likes; and the wife can rant as much as she pleases—the husband hears nothing; the wife sees nothing. A Ram-matched pair! Rare—because you do not let Ram match you. You match yourselves, or you let astrologers match you. What will they match! And the truth is: you yourselves are parts of one pair—the fool, and the clever exploiter.

So much exploitation goes on in this world in the name of religion. Why? You are as responsible as the exploiters. You invite exploitation; they perform it. If they did not, someone else would—because you want an exploiter.

If you travel abroad, do not ask the priest; do not blame the day.
Do not blame days. And if misfortune alone befalls you, know that within there is a stupor because of which misfortunes happen.

But man has a cleverness: he wants to thrust every responsibility onto others—fate, wrong time, the right foot not set out of bed, a cat crossed the road, an one-eyed man met me! Seeing an one-eyed man you should be glad—Advaita! The bother is with two eyes; when one remains, what is there to say? Jesus says: the day your two eyes become one, your entire inner world will be filled with light. Blessed if you meet the one-eyed! But no—you say: The whole day goes wrong. The wrong is done by you; it arises from within. But blaming the outside is convenient for ego; it does not wish to take fault—so it shoves it elsewhere and thus saves itself.

Evening comes—take your meal; but do not venture without a lamp.
Night falls—people light a lamp to eat. And by day? They remain in darkness in all their doings. Darkness means stupor. Break the stupor—that is the lighting of the lamp. Light such a lamp as burns twenty-four hours—in sleep too, in waking too.

He who says, “This is the demons’ hour—an inauspicious time,”
has his intelligence struck dumb—he is a fool.
This entire time is God’s. Each moment is auspicious and beautiful. Become beautiful; become aware.

If you are good, all are good; speak ill of none.
You see in others only what is in you. You see your own shadow and are frightened of it.

A dog strayed into a palace made of mirrors. Seeing itself reflected in countless mirrors, the dog panicked. Surrounded by dogs everywhere—he forgot the door, barked; when one dog barked, all barked; he leapt—but upon whom? He went insane. In the morning his corpse was found. This is our story. When you bark at another, pause—are you seeing only your reflection?

Mulla Nasruddin once found a mirror by the roadside. He had never seen one. He looked—astonished: “Looks exactly like father. He has been dead long. Hah! He must have loved having his picture taken; good I found it—I shall keep it safe.” He hid it upstairs. But wives see everything. People say: wherever you are, God sees; whether or not God sees, the wife sees! She saw him hide something, and later found the mirror: “Ah, so now he is after this hussy—even in old age! Today when he returns I will teach him a lesson. Bringing pictures into the house!”

Look carefully: you see in others what is within you. If you are sad, the moon in the sky will appear sad. If you are joyous, even the new moon night appears like a full moon. We keep projecting. Therefore for the Buddhas the whole world becomes Buddha. Those who have known Paramatma—this whole world fills for them with him; it becomes God-perfumed.

“To this day that gaze is not forgotten—
you looked upon me once.
We drink our own tears, yet
people call us wine-bibbers.
Wine is wine—but, O Saqi, if offered with love,
then even poison becomes the water of life for us drunkards.
We are messengers of the Beloved’s light—
O Shad! With us this dark night comes to its end.”

To this day that gaze is not forgotten. If once the gaze of Paramatma descends within you—it does not forget, cannot forget. Then in every gaze his gaze is present. If in your gaze his gaze has entered—then in each gaze is that gaze.

We drink our own tears—
and then only one longing remains: how to drown in him, become one with him. He is seen everywhere, yet a slight distance remains—between seer and seen. This is the devotee’s pain. The worldly man’s pain is: wealth does not come, status does not come. The bhakta’s pain is: I see Paramatma—when will the distance end? This tiny gap—an inch between “I” and “Thou”—wounds. It too must disappear. The devotee longs to be fully dissolved, that Paramatma may be fully dissolved into him—no obstruction, no separation, no sentiment left.

We drink our own tears, yet
people call us wine-bibbers—
for one to whom Paramatma appears everywhere, whose tears too are smiling, whose tears dance, whose tears are prayer—people will say he is drunk, not in his senses. That is why the knowing ones often appear intoxicated. Among the Sufis they are called mast. We too have a word: paramhansa.

Wine is wine—but, O Saqi, if offered with love—
if the true Pourer is found, the one who pours the stream of bliss into you—that is the wine.

Wine is wine—but, O Saqi, if offered with love—
then even poison becomes the water of life for us drunkards.
He who has seen him—even poison is no more; only amrit remains.

We are messengers of the Beloved’s light—
O Shad! With us this dark night comes to its end.
For the one whose dark night has ended, it seems it is ended for the whole world. His restlessness is: why do people still live in darkness? There is nothing but light—why do they collide and fall? The path is clear and straight—why do they drop into pits? He cannot understand; he is impatient. His eyes opened—so it seems everyone’s eyes have opened. Buddha said: The day I became Buddha, the entire existence became Buddha for me.

Tell the worshipers without deed—
God has grown weary of your devotions.
How can one love God who hates his man?

Say to the hypocrites, the priests, the so-called religious: God is tired of your worship. Your worship is not worship. You do not bow; your ego becomes stronger. One who returns from mosque or temple returns with more glitter upon his ego—he boasts: “You are all sinners; I alone am virtuous.” Give a little donation, fast a little, keep a vow, recite a few prayers, memorize the Gita, chant Gayatri—their strut you see? Ego seated upon the nose!

Tell the worshipers without deed—
God has grown weary of your devotions.
How can one love God who hates his man?
All these people hate man. They arrange to send man to hell; they declare man guilty and sinful; as much as they can, they denounce man—and then they praise God! What arithmetic is this? Abuse the music and praise the musician? Condemn the dance and admire the dancer? This whole existence is his dance, his song.

It has not the color and scent of a flower,
but more than the flower it is soft.
Do not trample it with hate;
for grass too is the adornment of the garden.

A vision to whom it appears—grass becomes flower too.
It has not the color and scent of a flower—
true, not like the flower in hue or fragrance.
But more than the flower it is soft—
though it lacks color and scent, in the blades of grass there is elasticity, tenderness—velvet beyond the flower.
Do not trample it with hate;
for grass too is the adornment of the garden.
For the seer there is no difference between rose and grass; no difference between sinner and saint; no difference between night and day for one whose inner lamp is alight.

If you are good, all are good; speak ill of none.
From one whose mind holds evil, run away.

Avoid who carries slander, hate, ego, jealousy, anger, greed, delusion—avoid until your inner Paramatma awakens. The day he awakens, there is no need to avoid anyone. Then sit even in taverns, gambling dens—no harm; your presence will turn even the tavern into a temple. As you are now, even if you go to a temple, it becomes a gambling den—because you carry your air with you.

The crowd’s path is different; who will walk theirs?
Killing the self, they worship stone; in their hearts no compassion arises.

Beware the herd’s way—it is the way of sheep. One blind man holding another… both fall in the pit. All are falling into the well, and each is holding the other’s hand.

The crowd’s path is different; who will walk theirs?
Killing the self, they worship stone—
and compassion does not arise in their hearts,
for with ego the flower of compassion cannot bloom.

Trust only the One Ram; do not take counsel of the blind.

Do not learn from the blind. This crowd is blind in one sense. The saying has two meanings. One: do not take advice from the blind—the crowd is blind. The second: take counsel of the blind like Maluk, Kabir, Nanak—blind in another sense: they do not see the world; they see Paramatma. Worldly people are blind to God; they see only the world. For them there is no God—only world. For Kabir, Maluk, Nanak: there is no world—only God. They too are blind in a sense. If you must take the counsel of the blind, take it from such blind ones.

Trust only the One Ram; do not take counsel of the blind.
Says Maluk: if you will hear me—I too am blind—then my counsel is one: trust Ram alone. Leave all other trusts.

Trust only the One Ram; do not take counsel of the blind.
If you must take counsel of the blind—take mine!

If crisis comes, accept no harm; do not cling to life.
In crisis, the Atman is born. Crisis is a challenge.

The storm of life’s events, according to worth,
comes to be a friend.
It sharpens the flame of the accomplished,
and snuffs the lamp of the unripe.

Storms rise in life. Only the weak are snuffed by them. Those who have strength are made more luminous.

The storm of life’s events, according to worth,
comes to be a friend—
according to your capacity, even the storm suits you.
It sharpens the flame of the accomplished—
if there is flame within you, it gives it speed. In the forest, let a wind blow over fire—flames spread, the whole forest becomes fire. But small lamps are snuffed. The same wind that snuffs little lamps fans the forest fire. Become the forest fire!
It sharpens the flame of the accomplished,
and snuffs the lamp of the unripe.
In this world the weakest is the egoist—because he lives in delusion. Falsehood is weak; truth is powerful. Drop the false, drop false delusions!

Rituals and rites are delusion—this is the world’s noose.
You are caught in rituals—hearing the Satyanarayan story and thinking religion is done; going to the Ganges; attending the Kumbh; traveling to Hajj and becoming “Haji”; telling a few beads; repeating a name, reciting the Japji—and you think the work is done. It is as if, in a dark night, one sits muttering “light, light, light.” What light will come? Or the ill one repeats “medicine, medicine”—will he be healed? Not the hungry’s belly is filled thus, nor the thirsty’s thirst quenched. You wish to resolve life’s realities with mere ritual?

Rituals and rites are delusion—this is the world’s noose.
In this the whole world is trapped.

Bound in the net of maya and brooded over—what can a blind man know?

See—two kinds of “blind” I spoke of!

Bound in the net of maya and brooded over—
he is stuck in the net of illusion;
what can a blind man know?

This world is a vast ocean of becoming—seeing it I was startled.
Says Maluk the madman: If you have gone into his refuge—what fear now?

Malukdas says: Seeing how great this ocean is, I was awe-struck! How will we cross? With paper boats, and tempests and gales…

This world is a vast ocean of becoming—seeing it I was startled.
If you have gone into his refuge—what fear now?
Says Maluk the madman.
The moment you enter his refuge, the boat is found; the farther shore is found. In his refuge even mid-stream becomes shore. Without his refuge, you will drown even near the shore. Drowning then is your fate.

They tell me: life is God’s gift;
what punishment is for the one whose gift this is, O Saqi?
A smile is great wealth, I too admit—
but it is a sweet name for tears, O Saqi.
As a child I cried in stubbornness; youth cries the heart out;
there was no rest then, O Saqi, nor is there rest now, O Saqi.

Look closely at this life: never rest, never ease—not even for a moment. Yet you do not startle? Only restlessness, only thorns, pricks everywhere; the path full of bristles—you could drown any moment—yet you do not startle? You do not remember him? Do not call his boat? Do not take his hand?

Malukdas is a madman. Without this madness, the work does not happen. A madman means a moth—have you seen the moth dance and die upon the flame? So too is the bhakta’s life. Dancing upon the light of the Lord, the devotee ends himself—and from that very ending the music of life arises, the song arises.

Pearls drip from your singing,
dew shines in your eyes.
In the note of your flute
someone hides and weeps.
Those rosy eyes,
someone is washing with tears.
In your song, stars
wink and shimmer;
lotuses, as if in a lake,
rise and sink again.
Like moonlight at the cremation ground
you mourn with tenderness.
Pearls drip from your singing,
dew shines in your eyes.

Bathe in seven colors
has come a pain from somewhere;
a sadness, or some sorrow,
has spread into the realm of dawn.
Such a twinge of pain
as if the life-breaths tremble;
as if a ray bursts forth,
flowers bloom in the dark.
As if in pitch-black night
the raga of light is playing.
Pearls drip from your singing,
dew shines in your eyes.

Become moths! Become mad!
Such a twinge of pain
as if the life-breaths tremble;
as if a ray bursts forth,
flowers bloom in the dark.
As if in pitch-black night
the raga of light is playing.
Pearls drip from your singing,
dew shines in your eyes.

In your eyes, too, the light of Buddhas can shine. You are worthy; by birth it is your right. If you lose it, you are responsible. Prepare to claim this right. In each of your notes, song will happen; your every breath will become music. Be joined to Paramatma! But madness is needed. Why? Shopkeepers cannot do this—such a great stake they cannot risk. This is the work of gamblers.

Therefore I always say: my sannyasin must have the capacity of a gambler, courage. To stake the ego is no small game. It is the greatest game—beyond it there is none. For the day, the moment you gather the courage to say “I am not,” to know “I am not,” to experience “I am not,” to die willingly—this is sannyas. And in that death the flower of Samadhi blossoms. Your eyes too will fill with light—the light of the Buddhas. Your feet too will be upon lotuses—the lotuses of the Buddhas. In your life-breath a raga will arise—the raga that sets the three worlds aquiver with bliss and light. Such vast treasure is yours. And how, in such little delusions, you are wasting life! From the mind remove so many delusions.

Now awake! The hour to awaken has come. The hour has long come—but only when you awake is it truly dawn. As long as you sleep, it is night. Your waking is dawn; your sleeping is the world.

Enough for today.