Ram Duware Jo Mare #7

What is this life? A cascade;
its water is sheer intoxication.
Between the two banks of pleasure and pain
it keeps moving in its own sweet way.

When did it burst from the heart of the mountain?
From which fold did it descend?
Over which ghats did it flow,
then stretch itself across the plain?

In the cascade there is motion, there is youth;
it goes on, always going on.
It has only one pursuit: to move—
singing in its own glad abandon.

It fights the rocks of hindrance,
swings into the forest trees.
It climbs over boulders, rising higher,
advancing, drunk with the wine of youth.

Waves rise and fall;
the boatman regrets upon the shore.
Yet youth presses forward still—
the cascade keeps advancing.

In the cascade, motion is life:
the day this flow is arrested,
on that day the human being dies,
counting the hours of the world's ill-luck.

The cascade says: “Keep moving!
Do not look back over your shoulder.”
Youth says: “Keep moving!
Do not fret about what will come.”

To move, only to move—
life keeps on moving.
To die is to stop—
that is what the cascade, as it pours, declares.

One morning someone asked Gautam Buddha—a monk, a seeker, a truth-aspirant: What should I do? And the answer Buddha gave was utterly sudden, unexpected. Buddha said: “Charaiveti, charaiveti! Keep moving, keep moving! Do not stop, do not turn back to look. Take no anxiety for the ahead. Step by step, moment by moment, move on. Because motion is life. Dynamism is life. And just as a river, running from the mountains, one day reaches the ocean simply by moving, so too, if you keep moving, you will surely reach the Paramatma.”

The river has no maps, no guides, no pundits and priests, no rituals and rites—yet it reaches the ocean. No matter how much it gets lost, how many loops it makes in the mountains, it arrives. Who brings it to the ocean? Its indomitable motion! Charaiveti, charaiveti. It does not worry, does not calculate: how lost I have become, how much time has passed, how much more time will be needed. It carries no such restlessness. It is tipsy, blissful, each moment infused with delight. It does not grow heavy with the burden that the ocean has not yet been found. Even that unease cannot weigh upon its heart. It will be found—there is such deep trust, such faith, that arrival is inevitable. Just as a seed, in supreme trust, breaks open knowing a flower must be, so the river flows in supreme trust that it shall indeed meet the sea.

That trust is what I call theism—not belief in a God, not worship in temple, mosque, gurudwara. It is that supreme trust that if I just keep moving, then one day the destination will come of itself. Where there is motion, destination is inevitable. People move making targets—and thus they go astray.

Who will make the target? You will. In your ignorance you will, in your stupor you will, in your sleep you will, in your dream you will. What will the target be? Only an extension of your dream. In your target, you will be reflected. Your target will not match Existence; it will match you. And if you knew, what then the need of a target? You know nothing; and in this unknowing you set a target—this to attain, that to attain—and thus you will wander.

Advance without a target! Flow onward! Remain in motion! Only remember this much: do not get stuck anywhere. Wander as much as you like; but do not be stuck! Let no shore, no bank become an attachment. However beautiful the shore, hum a song as you pass by. Do not stay, do not stop, do not mistake any halting place for the goal! Offer thanks to the bank—its beautiful trees, the birdsong, the lovely season—but offering thanks, move on. Let no attachment arise, no clinging, let nothing become a chain, no infatuation a bond; and if you go on—toward the Unknown, the goalless, the Unfamiliar—then surely, one day, you will reach the ocean.

Give rivers maps, and be sure they will never reach the ocean. The maps will entangle them; their entanglement will be enough to confuse them. And maps have entangled man. Hindu maps, Muslim maps, Christian maps, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh—how many maps there are! Three hundred religions in the world—three hundred maps. And at least three thousand sects among them—maps within maps. In these three thousand maps, man is lost. Where to go? Until a decision is reached about which map is right, which guide is right, whom to follow, whose hand to hold, till then a man thinks: Where I am, that is fine—at least it is familiar land.

Man has become a stagnant pond. And the moment man becomes a pond, something begins to rot inside. His soul starts dying. The moment man becomes a pond, it becomes a grave. Then there is a mausoleum, and in life there is stench and slime. No lotus blooms then. No fragrance arises. No song, no music. Who dances? The running river dances; the lakes do not dance. Though the lake is safe, guarded on all sides by banks; the river is unsafe. Each day it enters new uncertainty, breaks fresh rocks, discovers new paths, fashions new courses—and moves upon them. The lake dies in its security; and the river, in its insecurity, one day reaches the ocean.

There are goals where no guide ever passes,
and yet my very erring brought me even there.

There are such destinations where guides are of no use. Those who reach are they who do not bother about scriptures and doctrines; who do not bind themselves with codes of conduct. Those who bind themselves to codes, to petty notions of character and rule and decorum—such people do not arrive there.

Observe: we called Rama an avatar, yet not a purna-avatar, not complete. What lacks in Rama that we could not call him complete? Maryada—restraint. He is maryada purushottama—the supreme exemplar of decorum. That is the lack. Perhaps you never thought this way—that by virtue of restraint, by excessive restraint, he became limited. He remained partial. Krishna we called purna-avatar—complete. A wanderer without a map! Krishna has no bondage, no maryada; he is amaryada—beyond bounds. No map, no fixed conduct, no rites or rules—he is a free current: dance, flute. And moment to moment the flute plays, and the rapture of rasa is enacted.

To call Krishna a purna-avatar is a wonder no other people on earth could do. The world has honored its virtuous men, but honored them for their restraint. We are the only people on this earth who gave the highest honor to Krishna, called him complete—because of his amaryada. Another name for amaryada is liberation. Another name for amaryada is: no bank, no shore—become the ocean.

Rama is the Ganga. Supreme purity—but not the ocean. Krishna is the ocean itself.

To seek wholeness, to seek the ocean—that is to seek Paramatma.

These aphorisms are very lovely. Try to understand them.

“Now I am merged into the station of experience.”

Maluk says: Now I have merged into experience. He did not use the word Paramatma. He did not say: I have merged into God. He said: I have merged into experience. Because if you use the word God, duality arises—distance, the “I” and “Thou.” And Paramatma is not a person. If Paramatma were a person, how could you merge into him? And even if you did, the merging would be momentary, soon to be broken—you would have to separate again.

This is our experience of love too. With those you love, in certain moments you dissolve into each other—only certain moments! Then distance, great distance arises, perhaps greater than before. For a moment you draw near, you sink into each other, then you spring apart, again and again; this is the lover’s pain. He longs to drown and not return—but return he must.

As when you dive into water; you may wish never to return, but soon there will be struggle, breath will choke, life will be in danger. Even if you do not wish, you will come out. How long can you stay under? Not even that long do lovers stay in each other. The struggle begins: first the struggle to attain, to dissolve; then to escape, to be far, to be free, to be oneself.

Had Paramatma been a person, restlessness would arise there too; we would flee that too. Paramatma is not a person. Paramatma is the name of that supreme experience where the “I” is dissolved. Not “Thou and I”—only the “I” disappears, evaporates, becomes vapor—no “I” is found. And since the “I” is not, how can a “Thou” be found? Where neither “I” nor “Thou” remains—what is there? That Maluk calls experience—Anubhav. Simply an experiencing—of existence, of one’s own suchness, of one’s wholeness. Because it is one’s own experience, there is then no way to slip from it—even if one wanted to. Immersed is immersed.

Ramakrishna says, like a doll made of salt sent to sound the depth of the sea: the moment it enters, it begins to dissolve, to melt. How will it take the measure? Very soon it will be lost in the ocean. It will not return. Such is that experience. He calls it a pad—a station of being: Now I am merged into the station of experience.

Now I am absorbed into that supreme experience—what some have called Paramatma, because it is the supreme form of the Atman; what some have called Nirvana, because there the ego is utterly extinguished, as a lamp is snuffed; what some call Moksha, because there all bonds fall away—the bonds of I and Thou, of body, mind, heart, thought and feeling; all boundaries fall—boundless consciousness remains. What some have called Kaivalya, because there only consciousness remains—mere experience remains, nothing else. Not even the one who experiences remains; not even the object of experience remains; only the sweetness between the two remains. Experience alone remains—not the experiencer, not the experienced.

Understand this a little. In our ordinary life there is always a triad. Whenever knowledge happens there are three: knower, knowing and known. In love there are three: lover, beloved and love. In seeing, three: seer, seen and seeing. Our whole life is bound to this triplicity.

But there is one moment of the supreme experience where the knower is not, the known is not—only a continuous rain of knowing remains. The seer is not, the seen is not—only sight remains, pure. Where banks vanish, the river is free of banks—that is the ocean. When banks are no more, the river becomes the ocean.

There is such a love where the lover is not, the beloved is not; only a wondrous, all-dissolving love remains—love that drowns both lover and beloved into itself.

For this, what word is sweeter than experience?

Now I am merged into the station of experience.

I do not understand the meanings of the songs, yet I sing along.
I sing along with you.
Wearing anklets of light, star-like I sparkle—
I sing along with you.

I may not grasp the sense—but I know the trembling of the links.
I recognize the fire that rises with the notes.
With the thirst for fullness, as a river goes to meet the sea—
I feel that very longing in your melody.

Leaping the boundary of emptiness, I move to gain the whole.
I was a stranger—the rhythm of the wind called me.
And in my blossoming heart the koel’s ache awakened;
Throwing off the veil and my restlessness, I arose to join the song.

I am a comely, love-sweet shade—I go beside you,
I sing along with you.

Like a flute bathing between spellbound lips, I am washed;
I run with you through the alleys of life.
I dissolve like a wave into your lilting strain.
This empty absorption of life—the nectar seems endless,
as if a statue’s god has risen from beneath the stone.

What murmur of freedom does the skittish wind of life carry?
What ocean of honey does my throat drink today?

This light of bliss burns to ash the mind’s confusions;
the weight of song’s cadence has adorned my bracelets.
Languid in the descent, in the ascent I touch the sky—
I sing along with you.

Trembling like a flickering, quicksilver arati of light,
I listened long, wordless, to your sound.
You made not the slightest demand that I sing;
yet it felt I could not remain still for even a moment.
Compelled by inspiration, this body moved in cadence.

I left the temple; the worship remained incomplete.
A great, mad eagerness—it could not bear the distance.
There it was silent worship; here every atom is vocal.
There was speechless acceptance; now resonant devotion fulfilled.

Thrilled to the brim, like a bird, bathed in joy, I surrender.
I sing along with you.

I sway, a tender link in your song.
I forget all coy modesties of the heart’s secrecy.
For a while I forget your rebukes too—
were you ever much with me that I could hide from you?

What was mute opened wide; what was deprived blossomed.
What was hoarded since birth, spilled in cries.
What was blocked in the impasse of faithful surrender,
became full and overflowing—the summer river now in flood.

Like a lamp’s wick, eyes closed and fused in love’s ache—
I sing along with you.

I wriggle like a springing vine in the breeze of spring.
Light finds form through me—creation gains new abounding life.
This same music fills the clouds of the sky to completion.
Bathed in that note, the autumn night turns pure white.
This is the vernal raga of stars that soothes the heat of the way.

It gathers nature in the thrill of movement,
weaving scent into the small body of the bud.
This nameless song—I still do not know its meaning,
but it colors every face in the palm of every wind.

I braid myself into its bewildering trills,
image yielding to reflection, I go to meet the clay of song—
I sing along with you.

I do not understand the meanings of the songs, yet I sing along.
I sing along with you.
Wearing anklets of light, star-like I sparkle—
I sing along with you.

There is a moment of Samadhi, of resolution, of being gathered in; a sacred instant of absorption, of single-pointedness, of heart-rapture—when you do not remain. A song surely rises—not your song, His song. And how to call it “His”? Say only this: a song rises—a song of Existence. A fragrance not mine, not yours—of the Whole, of the Undivided. To that Undivided fragrance we have given many lovely names.

Maluk’s name is: Anubhav—experience.

Now I am merged into the station of experience.

All gods have been forgotten—
I have sold myself into the hands of the Un-Going.

I have sold myself into the hands of that whose movement cannot be traced, about whom no prediction can be made—where this sea will carry me, where this journey ends—impossible to say. Paramatma is not only unknown, He is unknowable. However much we know, we do not really know. We can sing, but meaning eludes. We can hum the tune, be drunk—yet there is no explanation, no definition. Explanations and definitions are made by those who have not known.

A strange paradox! Those pundits who are most skilled at defining God are those who have not known. Not knowing, defining is easy. Those who have known find words too small, the experience too vast. Experience cannot be contained in words. Hence a senseless riddle: the ignorant explain, the knowing remain without explanation.

Whenever anyone asked Buddha whether God is or not, he would evade. All his life he evaded. Some thought perhaps he did not know, hence he evaded—he was a non-believer. Hindus still hold that Buddha is an atheist. They say: whenever asked, why did he not answer—if God is, say yes; if not, say no. At least Charvaka is better—he says there is not. But Buddha keeps silent. This Hindu reading is wrong—partisan. Because of such interpretations Hindus uprooted Buddha from here—could not tolerate their own most beautiful flower. Not only Hindus—the story is global.

Among the Jews, the finest flower—Jesus—was crucified by the Jews. Among the Greeks, the most exquisite lotus—Socrates—was given hemlock by the Greeks. And in India, the highest peak of Hindu consciousness—Mt. Gaurishankar—was Gautam Buddha; and he was thrown out. For a thousand years no one remained to even take his name. And the new Buddhists—what Buddhists are they? Mere political maneuvers.

Dr. Ambedkar toyed all his life with becoming Christian, becoming Muslim—one thing was certain: not to remain Hindu. In the end he decided to become Buddhist. But what did Ambedkar know of meditation, of Samadhi? He was a jurist, a logician, a pundit—capable of defeating the Brahmins; call him a maha-Brahmin—yet what has that to do with Buddhahood, with Buddha? It was a political move.

For thousands of years no one in India carried Buddha’s name; and now those who do have no real concern with Buddha—they are utterly false Buddhists. If Ambedkar had become Christian, all of them would have become Christian. If he had become Muslim, so would they. They have no concern—only the arithmetic of political advantage.

What happened? Why did we forget Buddha so? Our explanations devoured him. We did not understand his silence. Buddha’s silence is the silence of a theist—of the supreme theist. He did not speak because he knew: “No” cannot be said because God is; “Yes” cannot be said because “Yes” sets a boundary. “Yes” is a small word. He can be said only in silence.

What misfortune that even Hindus could not understand—those who are the oldest people on earth, who possess the treasure of the Upanishads. The Upanishads say: He who says “I know,” know—he does not know. He who says “I do not know”—be near him, live with him, learn from him—he knows.

Those who carry such an astonishing treasure as the Upanishads could not recognize Buddha. They do not recognize even the Upanishads—why would they recognize Buddha!

We cling so hard to our darkness that when light comes we close our eyes. We are enamored of the dark.

Buddha’s lifelong silence is a symbol: Do not ask. This is not a question. It is the over-question. Regarding Paramatma, silence alone is the answer. Be silent. Become silent. As I am silent, so you become silent. Buddha says: As I do not answer, you too do not answer. Seek in silence. And only in silence will you find him.

What is found in silence can only be spoken in silence. Buddha answered everything else, only regarding Paramatma he did not answer. That alone is the supreme experience—absolutely beyond words.

“I have sold myself into the hands of the Un-Going.”

Maluk says: What world I have entered! No near-far, no this-shore or that. No boundary, no word can reveal. So drowned, so absorbed, so intoxicated! The wine of wine climbs and never descends; the intoxication of Paramatma, once it rises, does not recede. And he who has drunk that wine, he alone is the most pure upon this earth. His very swaying cuts new paths; by his wandering, roads are made.

There are such holy drunkards that if they touch even the fire of hell, it blossoms into a spring; embers, touched by their hands, become flowers.

In this supreme state, in this ecstasy—who will remember dear Ganeshji? Who will remember Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh? And in India there are thirty-three crores of gods—who will enter this panchayat, this wrangling? He who has realized the Supreme—everything else is dissolved; all gods and goddesses melt away. This spread of deities is our madness in expansion. How many religions does the earth need? If science is one, religion too can only be one. If Truth is one, religion can only be one. How Hindu, how Muslim, how Jain, how Buddhist? Yes, languages can differ, mediums of expression can differ; naturally Buddha will speak Pali, Mahavira Prakrit, Mohammed Arabic, Jesus Aramaic, Lao-tzu Chinese; naturally! Symbols will differ, poetry will differ, the fingers will be different—but the moon they point to is one. See the moon—do not chew upon the fingers. And people are chewing fingers. Thirty-three crores of fingers—these are being worshiped. Toys for children—useful for children.

When India was not free, primers said: “G” is for Ganesh. For the letter “G,” what better symbol could there be! The child will surely remember Ganesh—he will giggle seeing him; the trunk of the elephant, the big belly, laddus in hand, the mouse as a mount! What an idea—surely knew that one day there would be a petrol shortage! Arrangements made in advance. Probably never moved an inch sitting on the mouse—even the mouse may have been rubber, or dead long ago; the mouse must have achieved liberation by now!

But even that is gone. After freedom, “G” is no longer for Ganesh; “G” is for gadha—the donkey. Because the donkey is secular. Ganesh carries a smell of religion, and the Indian Constitution is secular.

To teach a child, you must use some symbol—Ganesh or donkey. In the realm of religion we are all children—symbols are needed. These thirty-three crores are mere symbols, makeshifts. Perhaps you cannot yet grasp the Supreme, cannot raise such high eyes, cannot gather such courage; your maturity is not yet enough, your ripeness not yet; so be it—if not the sun itself, a ray; if not the sun’s ray, even a lamp’s flame is fine; for in that small flame is the sun’s light. But one who has seen the sun—will he go about lighting lamps?

By day you snuff the lamp—do you not? With morning, you put it out. So too, one who has known Paramatma snuffs all gods and goddesses—these are lamps; fine for the night. And those who are fully confident that morning is close may not even light the lamp—they wait for the dawn. That needs courage. I would want my sannyasin to have that much courage—why entangle in trifles? To tangle is easy; to untangle, hard. To grasp is easy; to let go is hard.

You do not only hold things—things also hold you.

I used to walk with a friend. He had the habit that whenever a temple came, he would quickly bow his head. I told him one day: I get tired with you—again and again bowing! And in this country, is there any shortage of temples? Two or three houses, then a temple; a few more houses, another temple. If not a temple, under a tree sit Shiva, Ganesh, goddess—who knows what all!

So I too have to stand with him. I said: I will be a partner to your sin—why did you stand? And what is this habit! If you go to one or two temples, do what you like, bow as many times as you like—but all day! He said: I do not enjoy it either, but childhood habit; father caught me. Father is gone, the habit remains. If you say so, alright—it troubles me too all day. And father frightened me: whatever god or goddess—worship all. He took me home; he had a little shrine with countless images—whatever came to hand. In this land, there is no dearth of icons; any round stone becomes Shiva—smear sandalwood, place flowers, and worship begins. He said: Even if I hurry, an hour goes in the morning. At least sprinkle water and offer a flower to all! And fear remains: if one or two are missed, someone will be offended—who knows what will happen! Life is trouble enough already; we cannot afford to offend any! I said: Why not prune a few? He said: Whom to remove? Whoever I remove will be offended. But if you say it is right, I will try: from tomorrow, no bowing at every temple; you are right—one worship in the morning is enough.

Next day we went out. The first temple came. I said: Be alert! He walked by carefully. Ten, fifteen steps past the temple, he said: Forgive me—I feel very uneasy, and very afraid; and this morning a cat crossed my path! Let me go and bow; if something happens, you will be responsible!

Seeing his restlessness, I took pity.

To catch is easy; to let go becomes very hard. And we are holding so many gods and goddesses! Therefore the brave do not hold at all. They say: If we must hold, we will hold only One. One must suffice. Why drops—why not the whole ocean? They may not light even a lamp in the night’s darkness; they will wait for Paramatma.

A hundred dark nights—yet your smile is more beautiful.
Compared to the face’s glow, the veil of modesty is a flimsy garment.
Your smile is more beautiful.

I saw the world and found nothing; I saw you and found all.
Compared to the glory of worldly knowledge, the recognition of the Beloved is more beautiful.
Your smile is more beautiful.

When clouds thunder and the papihas and koels call in gardens,
yet in a thorn-bush the bulbul’s song is more beautiful.
Your smile is more beautiful.

The world is an endless ocean; man a tiny boat.
Against the high waves of the sea, the playful boat is more beautiful.
Your smile is more beautiful.

The deity of the temple is silent, but the god of the heart speaks sweetly.
Compared to temples, mosques, churches—the Lord of the heart is more beautiful.
Your smile is more beautiful.

Cool water is lovely, but the thirst of the thirsty is unique;
Compared to water running in sands, the startled doe is more beautiful.
Your smile is more beautiful.

Flowers, birds, butterflies are beautiful; clouds are beautiful, nature is beautiful;
but the remembrance of the beauty seated in the eyes is more beautiful.
Your smile is more beautiful.

Install that One within. To obtain that One is to obtain all.

Why bind yourself to the small when the Vast is ready to be yours? When all can be yours, why cling to toys? Many are lost in toys—so lost there is no measure.

If a Ramleela is being enacted, people get caught in the play. The wise say the whole world is a play; the unwise take even plays as reality. Some street tough becomes Rama—and people touch his feet, offer flowers. They know who he is, they know well enough; yet because he wears Rama’s costume and crown and the procession moves, they wave arati, shower petals, touch his feet. You take even drama as truth; you take stone statues as truth; you take man-made doctrines as truth; you take man-written scriptures as truth. If you get satisfied so easily, you will be denied Paramatma. If you want him, courage will be needed—

Forget all the gods; sell yourself into the hands of the Un-Going.

The first step is dei-deva…

The first lesson: gods and goddesses—countless gods and goddesses.

The first step is dei-deva; the second is rule and conduct.

Then the second: observe rules, shape conduct, take vows, fast—Ekadashi comes, or Paryushan, or the month of Ramzan!

The first step is dei-deva… worship Ganeshji, Shivji. Offer flowers to stone, bow your head. Toys made by your own hands—worship them! What blindness! Yet as a primer it is fine, says Malukdas. The second lesson: a little more important—rules and vows, a little restraint, order; bind life somewhat, give it arrangement. But this remains outer; it cannot arise from within you. It is like telling small children to do this, and they do it.

A small child kept sucking his thumb. His mother tried to scare him—children only obey fear. And those whose religion stands on fear—know they are children. She threatened, beat him, but he would not listen. So she said: Listen—if you keep sucking your thumb, your belly will become very big! He was scared his belly might become huge. Next day a pregnant neighbor came; the child burst into laughter: I know exactly what mischief you have done! The mother was embarrassed. He said: Suck your thumb—suck more! I will never suck again. Now there is proof too.

Even if the child obeys, his obedience has no understanding—only fear, or greed. We give rewards or threats to children. Hence heaven and hell are for children. They have no actual existence. There is no hell anywhere, no heaven; but how else to deal with children—frighten them about hell: such and such torments!

A politician died—miserly beyond measure. He told his wife: Do not waste my clothes on the pyre. When all is burning, why spoil the clothes? This is my will—send me naked. The wife said: What will people say? He said: When I am dead, what do I care? All my life people said many things; I did not care, now am I to care? He wrote: Do not waste money on clothes. I know where I am going—it will be so hot there that clothing will not be needed. And these Gandhi khadi clothes will be impossible there; if fine muslin, it might pass. I am sure where I am going—having reached Delhi, hell is certain! There one burns in flames; where is coolness to wear khadi? Do not worry!

She too, being the wife of a miser, gathered courage and sent him naked, though people murmured: What renunciation! What tapas! People are astonishing—what they infer! After three nights, the wife was asleep when someone knocked. She opened in a fright—her husband’s ghost stood there. He said: Bring out my woolens! She asked: What happened? He said: All the politicians have arrived—they have air-conditioned hell! I am freezing. Khadi will not do; bring woolens!

Your hell too is imagination; your heaven too. For children—to frighten them. But does life ever get transformed by fear?

A child is mad for ice cream. The doctor tells the father: His teeth will rot; his stomach will fail. The father frightened him: Too much ice cream and you will go blind. The boy looked at his bespectacled father: Alright—then let me eat at least as much as made you need glasses! At worst, I will need spectacles. The father realized too late he wore glasses.

People will find tricks. From fear, they will find ways. And you offered heaven’s temptations—this pleasure and that, rewards. It is childish language—fit for children, not for the mature. Therefore call it the second step.

In the third step the whole world is bound…

What is the third? Hypocrisy—where the whole world is bound. People do one thing and are something else; show one thing and are something else. Even when worshiping deities, do not assume they are worshiping deities—inner purposes are other.

Lakshmi is worshiped at Diwali—even gamblers do it. Do they have any concern with religion? They understood long ago: to please Vishnu, go to Lakshmi! To please the husband, please the wife. Therefore people do not go to the ministers, but to their wives—bearing sweets and fruits. Serve the wife—enough; then all will be well.

The craving is for wealth—and you call this a religious land! In no other country is money worshiped. Here people place coins and worship them on Diwali—this is a religious country! Can there be anything more degraded than the worship of money? Use money, yes—but worship! Money is a means, not an end. How mad—to wave arati to rupees, to coins! Now even coins are scarce, so people place bundles of notes. Paper coins, paper worship, paper man!

In the third step the world is bound by hypocrisy. People keep rules and conduct—and find tricks to evade them. They keep fasts—and find devices around them.

I was a guest in a Jain home. During Paryushan, green vegetables are forbidden. Yet how clever people are: they eat bananas. I said: What are you doing? They said: This is not green—it is yellow. They took “green” to mean the color! They dry vegetables before Paryushan, then sprinkle water and cook. When you dry vegetables, what are you removing but water? Why the fuss—first evaporate water, then add water. The earlier water was more pure—natural. But tricks!

Muslims do not eat by day in Ramzan; but at night they eat with abandon—to make up for the day. Day fast, night feast. What is the purpose? Whom are you deceiving?

Jains do not drink water at night in Paryushan; so before sunset they drink to the brim—and then must rise many times at night.

I was at Sohan’s house when some Jain nuns had come to see me. They must have drunk heavy water; at night they have to urinate often. A Jain nun cannot use a modern toilet—no scripture rule for it, for Mahavira did not know such toilets would be invented. Mahavira rightly ruled: never defecate in water—because the pond is for drinking and bathing; if you defecate in it, filth spreads. It was a hygiene rule. But for modern toilets—a little well with water—how will a Jain nun comply? So they urinated in plates and threw it on the road! The guard was astonished. In the morning he told me: Strange women—carrying full plates all night; when I went near, a stink—urine! What happened to them?

Such disturbances arise—because of hypocrisy. Live simply; do not impose alien rules. Otherwise you will seek ways to escape. At the front door you are one person; at the back door, another.

In the third step the world is bound; the fourth is the boundless.

And the fourth is the real—sahajta, naturalness—opposite to hypocrisy. There, no gods and goddesses—for their worship is hypocrisy, stone worship is hypocrisy. No “rules and conduct” either; if you impose from above, you will find inner ways to keep the old habit. With one hand you drop, with the other you hold.

The third step binds the world—hypocrisy. The fourth is Aparampara—the boundless, the measureless; sahajta—naturalness. But this naturalness is possible only when one has merged into the station of experience. Then Paramatma lives in you. Then you are as simple as animals and birds, trees and rivers, mountains and moon and stars. You impose nothing upon yourself; you live only what unfolds from your consciousness. Your awareness becomes a mirror. What reflects in that mirror is your scripture. And all existence becomes the expanse of the Beloved, of Paramatma. You do not act by calculation, cleverness, cunning, scholarship. Your behavior is stainless.

He who lives in this fourth enters the true temple of Paramatma.

In the palace of void is our palace; Nirgun has spread the couch.

He enters the palace of shunya. There the attributeless Himself spreads the couch. Paramatma Himself dissolves you into Himself, opens His door; all existence becomes unveiled for you.

Yesterday the cupbearer scattered pearls,
weighed me against gold.
Hearing life’s aim opens not,
he opened the tavern’s door for me.

Paramatma Himself opens the Sharaabkhana—the house of wine. Ecstasy showers. A night-and-day current of bliss begins to flow. Amrit begins to well up.

Disciple and Master converse by gestures—great ease is gained.

Then nothing remains to be said. The Master signals: See! The disciple signals back: Do you see? Now there is san—gesture. Eye speaks to eye. No tongue is needed. Conversation happens in glances.

One says: Let us go on pilgrimage. Another points to the temple.
Having seen the Supreme Light, O sants, nothing else appears.

People say: go to tirthas; some say the temple, some say Kaba, some Kashi. But Malukdas says:

Having seen the Supreme Light, O sants, nothing else appears.

Kaba or Kashi—what now? Quran or Gita—what now? Where to come, where to go? Having seen the Supreme Light, that same light shines everywhere.

The doubt of coming and going is cut; Yama’s noose is severed.

He who has seen that Supreme Light—there is no death for him—the circle of birth and death ends. No returning to the world—because the world is a school; the fourth lesson, once learned—

the fourth is the boundless.

If the Aparampara is realized—the infinite, the inexpressible, the Un-Going—then there is no return. The matter is finished. When a student passes, he does not return to the same class.

Says Maluk: knowing this, I made a friend of the Imperishable.

Maluk says: I did not make other friendships—why make friends with temples, mosques, pundits, priests, mantras, tantras, pilgrimages? I did not form these friendships. I befriended the One Imperishable. And who befriends Him, obtains all.

I stood waiting that you might call me.
The earth does not speak,
nor does the sky.
The world, on seeing me,
does not open its tongue;
nowhere a place where
I am not counted a stranger.
Where have I not roamed,
searching mind and heart?
Where is the man who lives
without the hope of someone?
I stood waiting that you might call me—
I stood waiting that you might call me!

The ocean of darkness could not be crossed by the boat of sight;
loaded with ruined dreams, filled with sorrowful memory.
No bank of land appeared,
no edge of dawn arrived;
the night of separation neither cut nor lessened.
Where is the man for whom
the lack of love did not ache?
I stood waiting that you might caress me—
I stood waiting that you might call me!

I have planted hope in the desert for spring;
from the fiery noon I hope for the breeze of spring.
The mirage of the wasteland
seems to me ambrosial;
from embers I have hoped
for frost.
Where is the man without
a thorn of error lodged?
I stood waiting—
that you might correct my errors!
I stood waiting that you might call me!

Call and caress me; caress and make me whole.
If you must make a friendship, make it with the One. If you must call, call Him alone. If you must wait, then wait only for His call. Stand, remain steadfast, keep calling. As at one hundred degrees water turns to vapor, so at one hundred degrees prayer is fulfilled.

O Friend of the poor, Lord of the lowly, cast your glance upon me.

Keep saying: Look upon me. For how long will you not raise your eyes toward me? Keep calling, keep knocking upon his door.

O Friend of the poor, Lord of the lowly, cast your glance upon me.

Look at me too. Granted, the world is vast, you have much to behold—but I shall stand here; I shall wait.

I stood waiting that you might call me!
Call and caress me—caress and make me whole!

Be obstinate—be steadfast!

If you had seen my moist face!
If you had seen this face of compassion!
I built a bridge of flowers from the floods of longing’s rain;
I made cups of petals and served the poison of sorrow.
Sorrowful joy,
joyous sorrow—
who would ask, if only you
bestowed the country of fire and water upon me!
If you had seen my moist face!
If you had seen this face of compassion!

On sapphire scales of eyes I weighed pearls of love;
since long I have been trading with death, this naive life.
Moments of delusion,
moments of peace—
were boons to me, had you
asked and exhausted all my tenderness.
If you had seen my moist face!
If you had seen this face of compassion!

Feet walked, life walked, eyelids moved, pulsation went on;
yet my horizon keeps receding into dimness.
Limp limbs,
spirit benumbed—
I would applaud defeat, if only you
would smile and grant me many garlands.
If you had seen my moist face!
If you had seen this face of compassion!

Into these tears—God knows what wine—has dissolved.
The world reels, drinking; the stellar garland whirls.
My longing is that you,
becoming dense night,
lift the tunnel-veil and
count the streaks of tears.
If you had seen my moist face!
If you had seen this face of compassion!

The slack, tired anklets of my weary feet—this plaintive tinkle
recites a history of separation—had you ever heard it sweetly.
Place swift feet on this immobile heart!
Grant liberation, losing yourself,
uttering the message of Nirvana.
If you had seen my moist face!
If you had seen this face of compassion!

Keep calling. Turn your thirst into prayer. The Guest does come—surely comes. But he arrives only when your call becomes total—not half-hearted; when your whole life is in it. And do not parcel this call: a little to Ganeshji, a little to Shiva, a little to Mahesh. Do not distribute it. Intensify it—give it urgency, give it fire, give it one-pointedness. Call only the One. The One will suffice. By attaining the One, all is attained.

O Friend of the poor, Lord of the lowly, cast your glance upon me.

I have neither brother nor friend, no kin, no family;
there is no such friend by whom I might sit.

It is not that there were no brothers or kin or family; but this “having” is no having—mere delusion. Relationships are only words.

I have no golden staff,
no silver coins;
not a shell of money in my pouch
to offer you anything.

At your door I stand—nothing to give, emptiness to receive. My whole heart is a void—come and fill it wholly; and I have nothing to give. This humility is surrender.

The religious man carries ego. He says: So many fasts I have kept; so many vows; so many merits earned; so many pilgrimages; so many prayers; so many recitations of Vishnu’s thousand names—he carries a strut. He is saying: I have a golden staff, silver coins—I will buy you. Paramatma cannot be bought. Yes—you can sell yourself into his hands; you cannot buy Him.

Malukdas speaks true—simple words, but deep, very deep:

I have no golden staff, no silver coins,
not a shell in my pouch to offer you anything.

Therefore, I have no capacity to give you anything. Only this: I spread my bowl—come and shower. I rely on your compassion, not on my deeds. I have no trust in my virtues—only in your forgiveness.

Understand this distinction well. He who says: I am so virtuous—will never attain Paramatma. He who says: What virtues of mine! Only vices—only sins, mistakes and mistakes, thorns and thorns; flowers do not bloom within me; will bloom only if you descend; even to seat you I have not a place worthy of you—where shall I bring it from?

I have no golden staff, no silver coins.
Yet I call: Come. Only love, only prayer, only a call.

I have no fields, no garden, no business, no trade,
no such rich man from whom I could ask for anything.

Says Malukdas: Renounce hope in others. No one will help. No pundit can take you there, no priest, no donation, no religion.

Says Malukdas: Renounce all other hopes;
having found the Lord of wealth, whose shelter else to seek?

If you must seek shelter, why seek small-time moneylenders? Seek His shelter—the One’s feet.

If there is insight in mind and heart,
darkness gives the flavor of light.
On life’s path, every stumble
bestows the art of living.

If you have the capacity to see—vision in mind, in heart; if you can cut the veils of the eyes, polish your seeing, make the eye into a mirror—

If there is insight in mind and heart,
darkness gives the flavor of light.

—then darkness becomes light. Without the capacity to see—even light is darkness; morning is evening; life is death. And with the capacity—

If there is insight in mind and heart,
darkness gives the flavor of light.

—rays of light break even from night; from death, the vision of nectar. Even poison is no poison, if you can see—

On life’s path, every stumble
bestows the art of living.

—stumbles cease to be stumbles; they teach you the style of living. Every stumble becomes fortune; every stone becomes a step; every thorn becomes a flower; the enemy looks like a friend; the ill day like the auspicious; in misfortune, fortune is seen.

Therefore the essential thing is one: the art of seeing. How will it come? What are the obstructions that make you unable to see?

The first obstruction is your ego—that you take yourself to be something. Whether you are prime minister, president, rich, learned, ascetic, mahatma—the reason is secondary. As long as you take yourself to be something, there is a veil over your eyes. Paramatma is naked, manifest—it is your eyes that are veiled. You yourself wear a mask, a burqa; and that burqa is ego.

Ego is the first obstacle. It must be removed if the eyes are to see. Therefore, leave the identifications by which ego stands. I do not say abandon wealth; abandon only identification. Understand it as a trust—not yours. All land is of Gopal. It is His.

A Sufi fakir had twin sons. He loved them dearly. He had gone to the mosque; two bulls fighting on the road trampled the boys to death.

He returned. His wife fed him as usual, said nothing of the boys—waved the fan, served food. He asked again and again: The boys are not seen; they used to sit by me at meals. She said: Eat; then I will tell you about the boys. No tear in her eye, no sign on her face that a calamity had happened, because if she told him, he would be unable to eat.

After he had eaten, he asked: Tell me now—where are my boys? I don’t hear them in the house; have they gone to play? She said: Come—I will show you in the other room. She had covered their bodies with a sheet; she uncovered them.

The fakir was stunned. Tears sprang to his eyes: What is this? She said: Wait. He who had given has taken back. Why be distressed? You know a friend left his jewels with us before going on pilgrimage—now comes the message he will return and take them back. Shall we sit and cry? The fakir laughed: I thought you were an ordinary housewife; you have gone beyond me—you have seen further. Truly, you speak right: it was His trust; He has taken it back. What was ours?

So I tell you: whether wealth, status, prestige—do not run away from life. If you run, where will you run? All will arrive where you do. I am not in favor of flight. For if you go, what then? If all go to the Himalayas, what will you do? There too you will have to lay M. G. Road. When all reach there, shops will open; Manik Babu will open a jaggery shop; jaggery will bring flies; then all the rest. When jaggery arrives, what remains? Soon jaggery becomes dung.

Imagine: all become sannyasins and flee. Flee where? Wherever you go, a town will spring up. The same town repeats.

Kant, the great German thinker, said something important about ethics: Only that rule is moral which, if all follow it, creates no disturbance. I agree. Hence old-style sannyas is immoral—because if all follow it, life collapses. No one left to feed the sannyasi; those on the Ganga at Gangotri, those in Rishikesh—chanting malas—would have to run back to town and open shops. Who will feed them?

Consider: all Jains become monks—what a difficulty. A single Jain monk requires vast arrangement.

A Digambara monk can take food only from Jains. And Jains are few—thirty lakhs in a country of sixty crores. Thousands of villages have no Jains—who will feed him? So kitchens travel with him.

You ask: Why kitchens, plural? Because he cannot eat from one house—lest one bear the whole burden. How clever! He takes a little from two or four houses—so one kitchen does not suffice.

The rule had a point in Mahavira’s time: one village impoverished by thousands of monks; Bihar is poor, always was. What a mistake that Buddha and Mahavira chose Bihar! My friends invited me there; I said: no—the mistake of Buddha and Mahavira I will not repeat. Bihar starves already—famines, floods—and on top of that, Buddha and Mahavira with thousands of sannyasins. Wherever Mahavira stayed, famine!

This rule was right: do not take from one house; take little from several—share the burden. But see what has happened: now with a Digambara monk travel ten or twelve kitchens—meaning ten-twelve women, their husbands, servants. Where a monk stays and there are no Jains, these kitchens cook in ten or twelve places. Tents along the road, fires lit—one man’s food cooked twelve times… so that too much food need not be cooked!

There is no end to human foolishness. I agree with Kant: such a rule is immoral which, if all follow, creates disorder. Hence lying is immoral; if all lie, chaos. Imagine all decide to lie. Someone asks you the time; you say five. He immediately understands it is either four or six—never five. Someone asks your destination; you say the river—he knows you are going to the station. If all lie, upheaval. It is only because most tell truth that the few liars get by; even the liar tells truth in nine matters, then lies in the tenth—so he can pass.

One man borrowed a bowl from a neighbor. Next morning he returned two bowls. The neighbor said: You took one. He replied: It gave birth in the night. The neighbor thought: Bowls giving birth? But two bowls—who refuses? Another day he borrowed a cauldron and returned two. The neighbor thought: This is a wonder. Later he borrowed many vessels, gold and silver too. Next day he did not come. The neighbor sent a man. He said: They all died. The neighbor said: Bowls die? The borrower replied: If bowls can have babies, can they not also die? If you were to object, you should have objected at the birth; now it is too late!

Thus the liar first builds with truth, then inserts a lie.

More people are honest, hence dishonesty works; more are not thieves, hence theft is possible. If all were liars and thieves, lying and theft would die of themselves.

If this is so, then escapist sannyas too is immoral. Though Kant did not mention it—he had no experience of it.

I do not tell you to run. Remain where you are. But understand everything as trust; do not betray the trust. He has given—enjoy, live, use; do not be bound. If one day He takes, do not weep, do not beat your chest. He gave—thank you. He took—thank you. He gave to use; He took perhaps with some purpose. If you have eyes to see—

On life’s path, every stumble
bestows the art of living.
If there is insight in mind and heart,
darkness gives the flavor of light.

Only vision is needed. The greatest veil is ego. Whatever causes that veil—break the identification. Say “mine,” and trouble begins. Say “my wealth”—ego forms. Say “my knowledge,” “my religion,” “my book”—and trouble multiplies.

Say not “mine.” Nothing is mine; all is His. From His compassion He has gifted us our little existence, that for a while we may savor His Being. He has invited us into His garden to smell His flowers. Do not pluck His flowers. If you pluck them, you will kill them; they will be neither His nor yours. Let flowers remain upon their trees.

Do not identify. The original meaning of sannyas is this: be owner of nothing. Live; use what comes to your hand; use it fully, joyously—but be not the owner. The Owner is He alone. Whoever else claims ownership is irreligious.

Having found the Lord of wealth, whose shelter else to seek?

He alone is the Dhani, the Master of all wealth—the Lord of lords. Having attained Him, whose shelter now? Therefore he says:

Now I am merged into the station of experience;
all gods forgotten, and sold into the hands of the Un-Going.

Now that I am sold into the hands of One, now that I am friends with the Supreme Dhani, now that I am bathed in Him—whom shall I worship, whom adore? Shall I go to Kashi or Kaba? Wherever I am, He is present; with eyes closed, inside; with eyes open, outside. Whomever I behold—He is there: in the stone, too; in the moon and stars, too. The day all existence appears permeated by Paramatma—know that day that heaven has descended, Moksha has descended, Nirvana has descended. For the first time your life will taste bliss. That day your life will become a celebration, a festival. But before that, remember the condition—

He who dies at Rama’s door—

—first, kill the ego at His doorstep. Then all is yours—the grandeur and fragrance of existence.

Enough for today.