Ram Duware Jo Mare #9

One day the trunk too had said,
Root?
A root is only a root;
all her life she has feared life,
and this is her whole history—
face buried in the earth, lying low.
But I rose above the ground,
came out,
moved on,
grew strong—
that is why I am the trunk.
One day the branches too had said,
The trunk?
What is he so trunk-proud about?
Where he was planted, there he stands;
in this progressive world he has not swayed an inch.
He has eaten, grown fat, had his bark stroked;
but we burst from the trunk,
went off in every direction,
rose up,
came down,
became a swing for every wind, rippled and waved—
thus we are called branches.
One day the leaves too had said,
Branch?
What wonder is there in a branch?
Granted, she swayed, she bent, she rocked—
but in a world ruled by sound,
did she ever utter even a single word?
But we sound hara-hara,
we pour a murmurous, heart-filled tone.
Each year we grow anew;
in fall we fall,
with spring’s bursting we flush again.
We take away the heat and curse
of the wayfarer with a pained heart.
One day the flowers too had said,
Leaves?
What have the leaves done?
By strength of numbers they merely covered the branches;
by the branches’ strength alone they frisk about;
by the wind’s strength alone they flutter.
But we opened of ourselves, bloomed, blossomed—
we took on color, took on nectar, took on pollen—
our fame-fragrance spread far and wide.
Bees came and sang our praise,
went mad over us.
Having heard everyone out,
the root could hear—
and the root smiled!
Dharma is the affair of the root. Not of trunks, not of branches, not of leaves, not of flowers, not of fruits—of the root. The root is invisible.
Everything else is visible; only Paramatma is invisible. Everything else has form; only Paramatma is formless. Everything else has shape; Paramatma is shapeless. Just this is why we miss Him.
Everything is seen—the tree’s splendor, branches spread across the sky, the colors of flowers and leaves, fragrance flying on the winds, the bees’ songs, the birds’ chirping. And the roots? They lie buried—in the womb of the earth, in the earth’s darkness. Yet there is the life of all—of the flower, of the leaf, of the fruit. There is the source of life of all. Whoever sought the root—that one alone has known the truth of life.
These are Malukdas’s sutras. How shall we become one with the Invisible? How shall we drown in That whose edge is nowhere to be found? How shall we be absorbed in That whose address is unknown? In what direction shall we walk to find That—having found which, all is found; and without which, whatever be found is not worth two coppers? Maluk’s sayings are plain. Not at all difficult. Not at all complex. But plain and simple only for those who are plain and simple. If you are complex, entangled, torn by inner conflict, filled with doubt, then even the simplest words, entering you, will go crooked and askew. Have you put a straight stick into water? It appears bent. Pull it out—it is straight as ever. In the water it was straight too, yet it seemed bent. It was an appearance.
So is your complex mind. If these words of Maluk fall upon your mind, they will all turn crooked. You will extract meanings from them which are not there; and you will miss the meanings with which they are suffused. These are not words to be heard by mind; these are words to be heard by no-mind—by meditation. All rests on this: how you will listen. What is being said is utterly clear. But if the listener is filled with rubbish and refuse, then, by the time the morning’s fresh breeze—Malaya’s balm—reaches within you, it will have turned foul. Fragrant airs will become stench within you.
Therefore, without cleansing yourself within, the saints cannot be understood.
To understand saints is not a study of the ordinary kind. For other kinds of study you are enough as you are; but, before understanding the saints, there must be a deep inner bathing. That is what I call meditation—the inner bath. Before understanding the saints, an inner hush must descend. Emptiness must surge up.
Only from shunya will you understand.
Have you seen images of Brahma? Brahma is four-faced—Chaturmukha, Chaturanana.
Brahma’s mouths are four—
one thing alone,
yet from all four mouths
Brahma speaks.
Do you know the purport of one thing
spoken from four mouths?
Listen from the first—
it sounds like
Brahma’s own speech;
from the second
it begins to sound
like the listener’s;
hear it from the third
and it seems for all;
and hear it from the fourth
and it seems
it is no one’s speech—
it is only speech itself.
Poets are Brahma;
and poetry is Brahma’s voice—
ever new today,
if you can grasp it,
yet of the ancient track.
Not only Brahma has four mouths; all saints have four mouths. Not that they literally have four mouths, but saints can be understood in four ways. The first way is the common man’s: How shall we understand the words of Buddha, of Mahavira, of Krishna, of Christ, of Mohammed? This is divine speech! Where is our capacity? Do not think such talk is spoken out of humility. It is great cunning. What you do not want to understand—you begin to say, ‘Where is our worthiness?’ You do not wish to understand. For understanding could prove costly. If you understand, you will have to do something. In understanding, who has escaped doing? If you understand, you will change. And you are not ready to change. Better not to understand at all. So we postpone.
We have a very pretty way of postponing. We say: These Upanishadic words are the seers’—the rishis’—words; otherworldly, heavenly. Where are we, earth-dwellers, and where this voice of the heavens? Where is the harmony? Enough that we worship, offer a couple of flowers, bow our heads to the Upanishads, hum the Gita in a hush of awe—understanding is beyond us! Between us and these there yawns an unbridgeable gulf. This is the voice of avatars, of tirthankaras, of prophets. We are ordinary folk, crawling on the ground; these are the sayings of those who wing the sky—apaurusheya! Not human utterance. These Vedic ricas descended from Paramatma Himself—the voice of Brahma. How will we understand? If we can but listen, we are blessed!
See the cunning. It is great cunning. It says, ‘Forgive us—we have other urgent business! For now we have to live: gather wealth, earn position and prestige. How can we allow you entry into our lives just now? How can we let you in?’ We shut the doors—very politely, very culturedly. By saying ‘tirthankara’, by saying ‘avatar’, we push them far away.
Beware of this trick! It is centuries old.
Or else, if we understand rightly, an astonishing mystery happens. It no longer seems that this is Buddha’s voice, Mahavira’s, Kabir’s, Nanak’s, Maluk’s—it seems our own, the voice of our own heart, from our own innermost. As if Maluk spoke exactly what we wanted to say—what we could not say, for which we had no words. We tried to bind it, and it would not bind; Maluk bound it. We would give it words, and it would slip and scatter; he filled it with words. We too wanted to hum, but we did not know how to play the flute. We were left saying ‘tu-tu’; Maluk sang. What we could not do—he did. It is his grace. Then you will feel: your very life-breath spoke.
And when it feels that your very prana has spoken, know that satsang has begun. As long as you say, ‘Bhagavan uvach,’ know—satsang has not yet begun. When it feels like an upwelling from your own depth—then satsang starts. And when it feels, ‘This is the call of my very life-breath; the Sadguru is only a mirror, and in that mirror I have seen my true face; the Sadguru is a veena, and on that veena I have heard my own resonance that lay hidden in my breath’—when your heart-strings themselves, in the form of the Sadguru, have been plucked and set ringing—
then the third understanding also dawns: It is not only mine—it is everyone’s. One who hears the voice of his own within, begins to hear the voice of the world’s within. Then it seems that the birds are singing the same; that in the trees, as the winds sough through, the ricas of the Upanishads are being born; and when streams descend from the mountains—jhar-jhar, mur-mur—their sound is the Vedas’ call. Whether the birds sing at dawn, or clouds thunder in the sky, or lightning crackles—these are Paramatma’s varied expressions. All then is the Srimadbhagavadgita. Every sound then is the Quran.
And when the third arrives, the fourth is not far. Then it appears: neither mine nor thine. No bondage of ‘I’ or ‘you’ can be tied upon it—it is simply Truth. Whose? Truth belongs to no one. We belong to Truth; Truth does not belong to us. The ocean is not the rivers’; the rivers become the ocean’s. Then the fourth starts to be seen. Truth is simply Truth—neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither Christian nor Jain nor Buddhist—unsayable, inexpressible, without qualification. And the day such Truth is seen—know, that day liberation has come near. Only such Truth frees.
As long as you are a Hindu, you will remain bound. A Muslim—you will be shackled. A Christian—you will lie in prison. A Jain—you will be in chains. The day Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist—all these boundaries fall behind and only Truth remains—know, that day the sky is yours—the vast, the infinite. And only in the Infinite is freedom. To that Infinite Maluk points.
Wherever you look—Shyam abides.
Shyam bowers, forests, Yamuna Shyama;
Shyam sky—thunderclouds resound.
Shyam earth, grasses and shrubs are Shyam;
Shyam are the cranes; the harvested sheaves are Shyam;
Shyam the victory-drums that beat in the sky.
Shyam the peacock, and the koel Shyama—
Shyam the soft dance, the cooing song.
Shyam the desire—Shyam the midday sun;
Shyam the eyes, anointed with kohl.
Behold Shyam in Shruti’s letters—
on the lamp’s crest Shyam is adored;
Shyam the lotus, Shyam the lake;
Shyam the wind—beauty resounds with Shyam.
Walk one step at a time! These four mouths of Brahma are for you. Do not stop at the first. Most people in the world are stuck at the first. Whoever moves to the second—satsang begins. Whoever reaches the third—he is immersed in satsang. Whoever arrives at the fourth—he becomes shunya; in satsang he is effaced. For him there is nirvana.
The fourth is the aim. Do not halt before it. Keep moving! Do not be lazy! Do not sink into tamas!
The fate of the sleeper
keeps sleeping;
the fate of the one who sits up
sits up;
the destiny of the one who stands
stands up;
and the one who walks—
his destiny starts walking.
Charaiveti... charaiveti.
A sannyasin is one who goes on walking. Goes on walking, goes on walking—until the last halt arrives. Goes on walking until there remains no place left to go.
Buddha’s monks asked him, “What should we do? You are ready to depart; the last hour has come!” Buddha’s final words were: “Charaiveti… charaiveti.” Keep moving. Do not stop. As long as you can see some way ahead, keep walking. When no path remains at all, understand that the destination has come. And such a moment does come when you dissolve. Not only the path disappears, the traveler disappears too. Not only the way, but the wayfarer is gone. Where both the path and the traveler vanish, there is the goal; there is the Divine. There you are formless, without attributes. There you find the root from which this entire expanse has spread. Finding that, there is liberation, bliss. Finding that, there is nectar.
“Die at the door of Ram!”
Maluk says: Die at the door of Ram! Be effaced at the threshold of the Divine! For that very dying is the beginning of immortality. In that kind of death alone is rebirth—and such a rebirth that there is no death thereafter.

Understand the sutras—
“Maluka is a true master who knows the pain of the other.”
Maluk says: I call only that one a saint who has not only known his own pain but has also known the pain of the other. Here there are people so benumbed they don’t even sense their own pain—let alone another’s.

Do you know your own pain? If only you did, would you remain as you are? Would you not do something? If the house is on fire, and you sit playing cards, spreading out the board for dice or moving the chess pieces—while the house is in flames! If only you could see the house encircled by fire, you would do something to put it out. You don’t even see your pain yet. And if by chance you do, you quickly cover it up—drown it in alcohol, lose it in a cinema hall, with gossip among friends. You keep yourself perpetually busy—entangled from morning till night—so pain doesn’t show up. If pain isn’t seen, you won’t be forced to change. Exhausted, you fall into bed at night—and even there there’s no rest: you are tangled in dreams. That too is your trick. Dreams are your invention. By day you keep yourself entangled in work, and by night there is no repose—because with rest there is fear you might glimpse the wounds within.

Most people in this world are occupied with forgetting their wounds—not removing them. Those who are forgetting their wounds, I call “householders.” Those who set out to remove their wounds, I call “sannyasins.” My definition is only this. I do not call escapists sannyasins; I call awakeners sannyasins—those who have awakened and seen: “The house is on fire! What are we doing? How are we squandering time!”

People are not just wasting time; if you ask them what they are doing, they say, “We are killing time.” One smokes hookah to kill time; one plays cards to kill time; one wastes time in idle chatter. Fools! Time is killing you—and you think you are killing time!

We have, in our languages, a primordial word for time that no other tongue possesses: Kal. And death too we call Kal. The same name for both—not without reason. Time is death. Time is bringing your death closer. That which brings death nearer is time; hence both are called by one name.

Time is consuming you, melting you away—yet the height of stupidity is that people complain time won’t pass; they need entertainment to pass time; they devise endless devices to pass time. Whom are you deceiving? Open your eyes! Time has cut down uncountable millions. Each day someone falls, someone dies—and still you are “killing time”?

First, you need to understand your pain—your deep suffering. Your life is hell right now. But you don’t want to understand. You won’t listen. Even if you meet someone like Maluk, you turn deaf and blind. Jesus kept saying: “If you have eyes, see; if you have ears, hear!” To whom was he speaking? To people just like you—who had eyes and ears like yours. Why then did he keep repeating, “If you have ears, hear; eyes, see”? Because people only look here and there; with ears, they listen to something else. What needs to be seen is not seen; what needs to be heard is not heard. The greatest thing to see is: What is my situation? Where am I, what am I? But it is frightening!

Mulla Nasruddin’s friend Chandulal phoned from Bombay. No rain, no thunder—such a clear line as if someone were speaking from the next room. Chandulal said, “Nasruddin, I’m in great difficulty. I need five thousand rupees. Arrange it immediately.”
Nasruddin said, “What did you say?”
Chandulal: “Can’t you hear? I can hear you perfectly. I need five thousand rupees at once.”
Nasruddin: “I can’t hear a thing; speak louder.”
Chandulal shouted: “I need five thousand rupees!”
Nasruddin: “Brother, I still can’t hear.”
The operator, overhearing both, intervened: “Sir, everything is perfectly audible; why do you keep saying you can’t hear?”
Nasruddin replied: “If you can hear, then you give him the money! I can’t hear!”

We hear only what we want to hear; we see only what we want to see. Our seeing is wrong, our hearing is wrong. We are evading the truths. There is a reason: the first blow of truth is hard. The piled-up pain of lifetimes will explode—embers upon embers, wounds upon wounds, pus upon pus. So you are fleeing from yourself; somewhere there may be an accidental encounter with yourself! You keep running lest you stop and inadvertently meet yourself; and if by chance a mirror-like person appears who reflects your reality, you become his enemy—abuse him, throw stones, give him poison, crucify him.

I understand your difficulty. You say, “Leave us alone. Don’t show us our hell!” And the one who won’t see his own pain—how will he ever see another’s? And the real irony: those who can’t perceive their own pain are told, “Have compassion for others, give charity, serve others!”

People come to me and say: “You teach meditation, but the country is so poor, people suffer so much. Why don’t you tell people to go serve?” I ask them: “You have been saying ‘Serve!’ for five thousand years—has suffering ended? And those who serve—has their own suffering ended?” Service too becomes a device to escape one’s pain.

I know many “servers.” To avoid their own pain, they busy themselves in others’ pain. They keep themselves absorbed. One drowns in alcohol, another, when nothing else occurs, keeps spinning a charkha. Foolishness too has limits! At least chess might sharpen the mind. Spinning the wheel needs no intelligence at all—but it keeps one occupied.

Service too can be such an occupation. No, I cannot ask you yet to know another’s pain—that is further along. First I must speak to you of your own pain. If you truly know your pain, the second happens by itself—I won’t need to tell you. If you can transcend your own pain, only then can you really help another across. Otherwise what will you do? Open schools and hospitals? Fine. But even educated and healthy, the essence remains the same.

There is a story about Jesus not found in the canonical gospels. Many precious stories are missing there, but whatever has true value in this world, someone preserves it. Sufi mystics preserved stories the Christians left out—and they likely left this one out deliberately, for if it remained, some modern sainthoods might not get their prizes.

Jesus entered a village. At the gate he saw a young man running after a prostitute. Jesus recognized him, ran, caught him: “My friend, have you forgotten me? I recognized you.” The youth looked angrily: “I too recognize you—that’s why I’m running away!” Jesus said, “Remember? You were blind, and by a miracle I gave you sight?” The youth snapped: “How could I forget! I’ll remember it all my life, birth after birth! And since I got these eyes, what else can I do with them but run after a harlot? Better I had stayed blind. You landed me in trouble! I’m running so you don’t put me in another!”

Jesus was stunned—to give someone eyes and be blamed for his mischief! He went on and saw a man lying drunk in a gutter, hurling abuses. Jesus recognized him too. He shook him: “Brother, remember me? You were at death’s door; I gave you life. Is this how you use it—drunk in a drain?” The man struck his head: “What else to do? Life is short—eat, drink, be merry! Long I was stuck on the bed, forced to be virtuous. The bed itself made me saintly—no strength to do wrong! Thanks to you I’m healthy and can do wrong again. Now please don’t hound me—let me enjoy my few days!” He called lying in a gutter “peace and happiness”!

Deeply shocked, Jesus left the village. At the outskirts he saw a man preparing a noose. “Brother, stop! Life is precious—why hang yourself?” The man cried: “Enough! You again! I was dead—you raised me from the dead and put me into this mess—bread, livelihood, wife, children, a thousand ordeals! I came to die again—and here you are! Will you ever leave me alone?”

If you give people life, what will they do with it? If you give them health, what will they do? If you give them education, what will they do? They will do only what they are. A sword in a child’s hand, or poison—what will he do?

It won’t happen through service. You must awaken. And through your awakening, your bliss, your gratitude, perhaps you can awaken others. Awakening is no small thing. It is not the name of worldly amenities, nor mere freedom from illness or blindness. Awakening is the experience that the Divine abides within. Then whatever flows from your life is auspicious.

Maluk is right—
“Maluka is the saint who knows the other’s pain.”
He says: I call him a saint who knows the other’s suffering. But what does it mean to know suffering? Malukdas opened no hospitals and no schools. In fact he could never create such disturbances. You know what he said: “The python works no job; the birds do no labor; says servant Maluka, Ram is the giver to all.” He taught only one thing: Surrender in every way to the Divine. Take the plunge! Let your drop merge into the ocean! All pain will dissolve.

“He who knows not the other’s pain is a faithless infidel.”
But remember again and again: only he can know another’s pain who has known his own—and not just known it, but ended it. Only such a one can truly help the other out of pain. Otherwise you become a missionary and gather respect. You may serve beggars—beggary won’t end; you may serve lepers—leprosy won’t end. You will remain entangled; your life will be wasted. No lamp will be lit in you. You will only have found an occupation.

Only the one who has ended his own pain can end another’s. Only the awake can awaken. The sleeping, mumbling in their dreams—will they awaken others? Impossible.

Hence this country did not teach “service” first; it taught satsang—company of truth. It taught sadhana—inner practice. Service is the natural fragrance of sadhana; it comes of itself—like fragrance follows a flower, light follows the sun, darkness recedes before a lamp.

“Wherever the calf wanders, there the cow follows too.
Says Maluk: wherever saints abide, there the Lord goes.”
Maluk shares a secret: as a cow follows her calf, so the Divine follows the saints. Saints do not have to go to the Himalayas to find God; God himself seeks them out wherever they are.

Kabir said: At first I roamed searching for God; as long as I searched, I did not find. The very search was the mistake. In searching you presume several things: that you have lost him—which is false. We have never lost God; how then will we search? And where will you search—somewhere else? If he is, he is here; if not here, then nowhere. If he is, he is now; if not now, then never—in neither past nor future. If not in this life, then not after death; if not on earth, then not in heaven. If he is, he is everywhere. Truly, “God” is just another name for being itself—for existence.

Kabir: I wandered seeking and did not find. Then I saw the error is the very desire to seek—another craving, another ambition. I dropped even that desire as I dropped all others. The day I dropped the seeking, he began to follow me—says Kabir, God trails behind crying, “Kabir! Kabir!”

Hence, “Wherever saints dwell, there the Lord goes.”
Thus we take the presence of a true master to be the place of God’s presence—a tirtha, a living pilgrimage. God is everywhere, but in the master he is awake, aflame, radiant. In you he is smoky, smoldering; in the master he burns like a living ember.

“Let nothing else be, or come to me,
Worldly pleasures, riches—if only
You stay close by.
If the clouds of my sky won’t part—
the moon remains veiled,
If the night won’t be crossed
by even a trace of light,
My lips will still smile upon the path, if
your hand holds mine.
I read not many flavors of literature—
the dull called me dull,
My poetic guesswork stayed unripe—
so be the world’s knowledge;
Let me have full understanding, if only you
will tell the tale.
Let nothing else be, or come to me,
Worldly pleasures, riches—if only
You stay close by.
My lips will still smile upon the path, if
your hand holds mine.”
What is there in this world worth attaining? If the Divine takes your hand, walks with you—everything is with you. Without that, even if the whole world is with you, you are alone—alone in the crowd. Beloved ones, family—yet alone. Do you see your aloneness? Who will go with you? Tomorrow the breath will fly, the bier will be readied—who will go along? Here there is no true companion. All promises here are hollow—devices to keep you entangled, narcotics to keep you asleep.

You are alone—until the Divine is with you, until his hand is in yours. Recognize this aloneness. That recognition is called sannyas: “I am alone.” There is no need to flee to a forest to be alone. You are already alone—right in your home, in the marketplace, in its very midst. If you need a cave to feel alone, your sense of aloneness is not real. If you must leave your wife to know you are alone, you won’t know it anywhere; you should know it beside your wife.

A newly widowed woman went to claim her husband’s insurance. The manager, polite, said, “We are so sorry, madam, that your husband is no more.”
She flared up: “Yes, men are the same everywhere; whenever a woman is about to receive some money, they become ‘very sorry’!”
If your wife cannot remind you of your aloneness, no Himalayan cave will work. If your husband cannot, no temple or mosque will.

A woman was told by an astrologer: “Prepare to be a widow; soon your husband will be murdered.”
She asked: “After that… will I be acquitted?”
What are husband and wife thinking? Look within! Which husband hasn’t thought, “When will I be free?” Which wife hasn’t thought, “What unlucky fate tied me to this man!”

Only in the marketplace can you feel aloneness most intensely. In solitude you might forget; in the bustle, a thousand spears jab you awake from all sides. I don’t say escape—see here, understand here, recognize here. You are alone—and will remain so until the Divine’s hand is in yours.

“Says Maluk: since the moment I took shelter in Hari,
I sleep the deepest sleep of joy, having thrown away the bundle of delusions.”
Maluk says: Seeing there is only aloneness here—no true companion—I took refuge in God. I clung to him; I held his arm. And since then,
“I sleep in blissful slumber, having cast aside the sack of illusions.”
All my confusions fell away. Now I am in deep repose; no turmoil remains. A small secret: the shelter of the Divine—and revolution happens within.

“Am I a drop of water—or the boundless sea?
Myself the shadow, myself the base.
Bound, I am a dream, made small;
Unbound, I am the expanse of the sky.
What longs to merge into a flute-heart,
I am the trembling resonance of that void.
I wander, seeking light in the body,
I’ve heard I am the source of light!
What the night seeks by lighting stars,
I go to meet that very One.
I’ve lived and died a hundred times, yet
Have I crossed the unfathomable?
On a petal’s dew, in the pearl of a bud,
I am the painted world of dreams;
What if I fall today or tomorrow—
A flower, a tiny gift I am.
Am I a drop of water—or the boundless sea?
Myself the shadow, myself the base.
Bound, I am a dream, made small;
Unbound, I am the expanse of the sky.”
Bound to body and mind, you are small. Bound to the Divine, the whole sky is smaller than you.

“Tie truth in your loincloth, then roam forever unafraid.”
Maluk says: Tie this truth to your very waist and walk fearlessly. None can rob you—death itself cannot snatch it.

“Name is the pure wine—stay ever intoxicated,
And count Indra himself a beggar.”
Once the Name of God is in your grasp—then be drunk with it, be blissfully mad with it. Even Indra, king of the gods, will appear a pauper to the one who has found God.

“Trade in religion is the only good bargain; the world’s dealings are trivial.
The market of God’s Name stands with doors flung open.”
Try every other trade—what did you gain? The world’s dealings are hollow, small change. If you want diamonds, there is only one bargain worth making—religion, the inner science. The Divine sits with the shop open, doors wide: “Come!” God is willing to be yours—just spread your begging bowl!

“Let others worry; you don’t sigh.
He whose banker is Ram—what has he to fear?”
Since I found this secret—let others worry; I no longer sigh. My banker is the Divine. Why should I care for petty lenders?

“O Lord of Rama’s court, giver of shelter to the shelterless, make me your own.
Grant me the company of saints, and pay me the wages of devotion.”
Pray only this much: O Lord who makes the unworthy worthy, who turns sinners into saints, the philosopher’s stone that turns iron to gold—make me yours! Let me be yours. Grant me the company of saints. You are invisible—how to touch you, where to see you? At least grant the nearness of the saints, the dust of their feet. I ask no other wages—only that my devotion keeps growing!

Listen to this lovely prayer—tie it in your knot; it sparkles brighter than jewels:
“Grant me the company of saints, and pay me the wages of devotion.”

“Pay me the wages of devotion, ferry me across this ocean of becoming.
Delusion is drowning me—hold my strong arm!”
I ask wages of devotion, says Maluk, because only the boat of devotion can take me across this worldly ocean. Otherwise maya—stupefaction—forces me down; I am drowning in unconsciousness—awaken me!

A story: A school committee sent two members to investigate rumors about a beautiful teacher’s waywardness. One waited sunning in the lawn while the other went inside for an hour. He returned: “All allegations are baseless. She is very virtuous.” The first said, “Then let’s go. But what is this—you’re wearing only your underwear! Go put your trousers on!”
Who is awake here?

Another night Mulla Nasruddin returned home. He pulled out his churidar pants. His wife was shocked—no underwear! “Where did your underwear go?”
Nasruddin: “Ah! Someone must have stolen it!”
In churidars! One needs two people to put them on, four to take them off—and his underwear was stolen unnoticed!

Who is awake? How people live—if you look closely you’ll extract one essence: they move in stupor. No clear sense of who they are, where they’re going, why they’re going, what they’ll do when they arrive. They run helter-skelter. Ask the meaning of life—“No time! Don’t talk nonsense. Talk business!”

As a child, I asked everyone: “What is the meaning of life?” They said, “Grow up; you’ll understand.” When I grew up I asked again: “Now I’m grown—what is life’s meaning?” They said, “You’re impossible! People grow up and stop asking. By then they know—there is no meaning.” Then admit it! When you told me to grow up, it was clear you didn’t know; you were just putting me off.

It is hard to admit “I don’t know.” But a seeker must learn to acknowledge facts. The acceptance of one’s ignorance is the first step toward knowledge.

“Delusion is drowning me—hold my strong arm.”
Delusion drags me by force. Give me awareness! Give me devotion, feeling! Lift my eyes to the sky—let them not remain stuck to the earth!

After a rally, a politician scolded his secretary: “You fool! Why did you write such a long speech? They hooted, threw banana peels, rotten eggs, shoes—what kind of speech was that? So long I couldn’t even finish it!”
The secretary apologized: “Sir, the speech itself wasn’t long. My only mistake—I gave you all four copies: the original and the carbons. You read them all. It’s a wonder you weren’t beaten up!”

Who is awake? People live, talk, walk, do a thousand things—but who is awake? Who pays attention to what they’re doing and why?

Bhakti means awakening, awareness.

“Those who know not the discipline of love, nor victory over the mind,
Who have not beheld the Unknowable—ashes sting their eyes.”
A statement of great value: Those who have not learned the way of love, nor learned to rise beyond mind, have not seen the Invisible One. God is seen by two inseparable means—two sides of one coin: rise above mind and enter love. When mind drops, love flowers.

He whose eyes remain full of mind and thoughts, who never knew the thrill of love, the light of devotion—he has not seen the Divine. God is not seen by mind but by love. Love belongs to the heart, not the head. They who have not known the Divine—their eyes are as if filled with ash; they are blind, though eyes are open; deaf, though ears are open—dead, though alive.

“Sleep will not come at night; the soul trembles in love’s longing.
I know not what my fierce Beloved will do to me.”
When a small stream of love starts to flow toward God, sleep leaves the night; the soul trembles in passionate yearning. Between the worldly man and the saint is an interval of separation. The world has dropped, but God has not yet been grasped. In that moment, your very life quivers. Yesterday’s ground has gone; the new ground hasn’t appeared. In those hours you need a true master to hold your hand and reassure you: “Charaiveti, charaiveti—keep moving, don’t panic. The darker the night, the nearer the dawn.”

“Do not break even a green twig—it pains.
Says Maluk: Know every life as your own.”
Do not hurt anyone. Do not break even a living branch; there too the Divine dwells. One life pervades all. If you give pain here and then pray in the temple there, your prayer will never be fulfilled—it is false.

Ekanath was returning from Kashi with Ganges water to offer at Rameshwaram. In the desert, a donkey lay dying of thirst. Pilgrims skirted by—what concern with a donkey? But Ekanath poured his sacred water into the donkey’s mouth. People said, “What are you doing? This water is for Shiva—offering it to a donkey?” Ekanath said, “You are blind. I need not go to Rameshwaram now; the one for whom I brought the water is here.” He turned back. We remember Ekanath; we don’t know the names of the other pilgrims who “offered” at the temple. Ekanath’s greatest illumination came while giving water to that donkey—because ultimately there is only One. Besides That, there is none.

“Those who suffer in this world—hand their suffering to me,
Give others happiness; hand poverty to Maluk.”
Malukdas says: If you must hand out pain, give it to me—but give others joy. This is the meaning of saying Jesus took the suffering of the world upon himself—a symbol. The cross signifies voluntarily bearing the world’s cross. All who have known the Divine carry others’ pain in some way. Not all are crucified like Jesus. Buddha wasn’t crucified—but his cross was harder; for forty-two years he bore abuse and stones. Jesus’ cross ended in an hour; Buddha’s lasted decades.

Maluk says: If you must give pain, give it to me. Throw your thorns at me, but not at others.

“Maluk, do not argue; let anger flow away.”
These are words to his disciples. Nothing is proved by argument. Who ever proved God by debate? Who disproved him by debate? This is not a matter of disputation but of knowing—experience. Experience doesn’t arise from logic, but from meditation. A blind man arguing about light can go on forever and never experience it. You can talk light endlessly and remain in darkness. Put a lamp there and sit chanting “light, light”—you can die chanting—no flame will appear. The blind can insist there is no light; you cannot prove it to him. His eyes must be healed.

Buddha said: I am a physician, not a philosopher. Nanak too: I give medicine, not mere preaching. This is a matter of cure. You are spiritually ill. You need a remedy. Debate—what will it do? Perhaps a clever debater will silence you, but your heart won’t be transformed. Fear of hell or promise of heaven may make you “believe,” but doubt will run underneath: Who knows? Perhaps it’s all illusion; perhaps those who speak are themselves deluded.

Hence Maluk is right:
“Do not argue; let anger drain away.”
Arguing only fuels anger and ego. People aren’t concerned with truth; they are concerned that their thought be accepted as truth. It’s not “truth,” it’s “my” truth. The entire quarrel is ego’s.

“Accept defeat before the ignorant; let the babbler die babbling.”
Better to accept defeat. If an ignorant person argues, surrender at once. Lao Tzu said: No one can defeat me—because before you can throw me down, I lie down myself. Why make you work? It’s like a father play-wrestling with his child—he lets the child win. Let the ignorant be pleased; where else will he get joy? If you accept defeat silently, you may disturb him; you didn’t meet his expectation. He will spend the night restless: “What happened?”

Keshab Chandra came to argue with Ramakrishna: “There is no God.” Ramakrishna: “Exactly right.” Keshab was startled. He continued: “No heaven, no hell.” Ramakrishna: “Wonderful! What a statement!” He kept embracing him. The crowd was bewildered, Keshab disarmed. “What is this? I came to argue; you agree with everything!” Ramakrishna said: “Your very brilliance, your skill in argument, is proof to me that God is. Without Him, how could you be? I look at a flower and it proves him; you are such a wondrous flower—how not more so? Seeing you, I thank Him: ‘What a man you sent!’” That night Keshab could not sleep. Next morning he returned: “Teach me. You defeated me. My arguments are trash, for they did not give me the joy I saw in your eyes. Joy is the proof.”

“Do not try to enlighten a fool; keep your insight within.
What good to strike a sword on stone?”
Therefore don’t smash your head against fools. Ramakrishna was wise—he didn’t. A “great scholar” can be a great fool too.

“Do not trust the mind and body.
The mind will die; the body turns to ash—
How rely on what kills every body?”
Don’t put your trust in mind or body. The mind is already dead—secondhand, stale thoughts. The body is dust. In this water the ripples of mind rise and fall. To trust these is madness—and nearly everyone does, hence there are so few truly sane on this earth: a Buddha, a Nanak, a Kabir, a Maluk, a Raidas, a Farid—countable on one’s fingers.

Once Morarji Desai, then Prime Minister, visited a mental asylum. He tried calling home; the line wouldn’t connect. He scolded the operator: “Do you know who I am? I am Morarji Desai, the Prime Minister.” The operator replied: “I don’t know who you are, but I know where you are calling from!”

When Winston Churchill lived, there were eight Churchills in England’s asylums; when Nehru lived, at least eighty Nehrus in India’s asylums. Once Nehru himself visited an asylum. A patient had recovered; they waited for Nehru to ceremonially release him. Nehru garlanded him, blessed him, “You are fine now; go home.” The man asked, “But who are you?” Habitually, Nehru said, “I am Jawaharlal Nehru, the Prime Minister.” The patient smiled: “Don’t worry; you’ll get well. I had the same illness. Thanks to the doctors, in three years I learned not to say that again. Even now the urge rises, but I suppress it!”

If you think you are the body or the mind, you are speaking from the asylum. Only in the Divine is there health. “Health” means to be established in oneself.

“Having a handsome body—let none be proud.
Time will devour you—young and old alike.”
Time eats all—so don’t be arrogant.

“Seeing a beautiful body, attachment arises—
If not for the skin’s wrapping, the crows would eat us alive.”
Under the skin is just a lump of flesh. If there were no skin, the crows would eat you alive; and the moment breath departs, they will. Or worms will. Or fire will. What is there to preen about? Until you know the eternal within, all pride is blind—and faith in the false is the worldliness.

“Respect, honor, importance, the love of childhood—
All vanish the moment you say: ‘Give me something.’”
All the world’s relations are superficial. Ask for something, and bonds break. Here friendships are to gain from you, not give to you. All relationships, despite being garlanded with flowers, are tinged with exploitation.

“All die for lordship; none dies for the Lord.
He who dies for the Lord—lordship becomes his servant.”
This is Maluk’s final sutra, the essence of all his words. Everyone wants power, position, prestige, fame—but none wants the Lord. The unique rule of life is: whoever dies for God, the whole world’s lordship bows to him. He who dies for power remains a beggar and dies a beggar—comes empty-handed, goes empty-handed. If you wish to gain, seek the Lord, not lordship. Lordship is the shadow of the Lord. Gain the Lord and lordship follows of itself. But you chase shadows. Can shadows be caught? Even if caught, they are never yours; when the master moves, the shadow goes.

An opium addict one night bought sweets—once upon a time, a seer cost eight annas; he took a full seer. The shopkeeper had no change: “Take eight annas tomorrow.” The addict, though drugged, was shrewd enough to fear the shopkeeper might deny it tomorrow. He carefully noted the shop sign—but thought: he might change the sign too! He made other “arrangements.” Next day he barged in, grabbed the man by the neck: “Shame on you! For half a rupee you changed the shop—changed your trade—changed even your caste! Yesterday you sold sweets; today you’re shaving beards!” The barber was aghast: “What are you saying?” The addict said: “Fool someone else. Look at that buffalo—I made sure to note something that wouldn’t move. The buffalo is sitting in the same spot!” Of course the buffalo had moved; it was a different shop.

You will try to grasp the shadow while the owner keeps moving; the shadow will slip away. Again and again it seems you have caught it—and it escapes. This is the sorrow of the world, its failure, its suffering, its hell. Again and again it feels, “Now I have it”—and it is gone. Why not catch the owner? Catch him, and the shadow is yours.

To catch him you need not go far—just go within. No great intellect is needed; no argument. Only a simple, loving heart—devotion. The owner is already present. Drop the noise in your head; free yourself from its busyness. Become a little quiet, empty, still; take a dive within—and you will find the jewel of jewels—having which, all is had.

Uddalaka’s son Svetaketu returned from the gurukul. Uddalaka asked: “Son, you studied everything—but did you learn that by which all else is known?” Svetaketu: “I studied geography, history, puranas, language, grammar, poetry, everything—but what scripture do you speak of?” Uddalaka: “Go back. You missed the essential: yourself. All this is fine—it serves the world, but the world is four days long. The real truth lies within, the eternal, always useful. Go—learn that. Learn yourself. He who knows himself is the true brahmin. In our family there were true brahmins—not by birth but by realization. We called ourselves brahmins only by knowing Brahman. Go, return as a brahmin—knowing Brahman.”

Brahman hides within you. Seek a little, call a little, moisten your eyes a little, bring heart into your call—and you will be astonished: the Lord of lords has always been within, and you wandered a beggar! The empire of the whole world is yours, for you are a part of the Owner. You are not poor. Tat tvam asi—you are That.

But to be “That,” one condition must be fulfilled: “Die at the door of Ram!”
As you are, you must die; only then can you be what you are meant to be. The drop must disappear to become the ocean; the seed must die to become the tree. Die—and the Divine appears. In your death is your true life.

Enough for today.