Sabai Sayane Ek Mat #1

There are eyes, yet nothing is seen. The eyes are even open, and still nothing is seen. Some deep darkness hides within. There is awareness, it feels as if things are understood, and yet no revolution happens in life. The sickness is deep; the understanding is not that deep. We even make effort, lift our feet and take a couple of steps toward the temple of the Divine, but the temple does not seem to come near. The feet go in the wrong direction. Even when they rise, they reach nowhere.
Perhaps nothing can be done by oneself. If the darkness is dense, if there is unconsciousness within, wherever we walk, wherever we go, there we will find the same darkness, there we will meet the same unconsciousness. By our effort the temple of Paramatma will not come close.
There are two kinds of religions in the world. One system holds that by a person’s resolve—sankalp—the Divine comes near.
The second system holds that only by surrender—samarpan—does He come near. Because resolve will be made by one who is full of ignorance. Resolve will arise out of ignorance. How then will one reach knowing? Your striving too begins out of the dark night. If that striving is born in darkness, how will its end be full of light? Whatever you do, you will do; the shadow of ego—ahankar—will fall upon it. Your deed cannot be free of your shadow.
Therefore the second system says: we can only leave ourselves in His hands. Doing is not our question; let Him do. We can surrender. Resolve is beyond our capacity. Only Paramatma can resolve. We are asleep; let us leave ourselves at His feet—this much is enough.
And to leave ourselves at His feet, there is no need to go searching for those feet; only the feeling of leaving at His feet is enough. This feeling even the most helpless can manage. This feeling even the most ignorant mind can manage. However deep the stupor, even if one cannot walk, one can at least fall. Even if a journey cannot be made, helpless prayer and calling can still happen. If there is no strength to rise, no strength to move, then still the eyes can fill with tears.
So there is one path that assumes you will arrive by your strength. On that path perhaps one person in a million reaches—consider him an exception. It is not the rule. Upon that path thousands walk, and maybe some one reaches. That too perhaps by accident. Even he perhaps arrives by groping and fumbling. Perhaps he too did not arrive by his labor; seeing the extremity of his labor, the compassion of the Divine descends upon him. Perhaps he too does not arrive by resolve, but seeing the power of his resolve, his rising and falling, his every attempt to move, his search, the compassion of the Infinite showers upon him; therefore he too arrives.
But the other path—the saints have called it the path of bhakti—on that path whoever walks, arrives. Because to walk upon it is not really to walk; it is to fall. For the bhakta the goal is not far; where the devotee falls, there is the goal. Where he bows his head, there is the temple.
Understand this well, and Dadu will be easy to understand.
The man of resolve first seeks the feet of the Divine, then bows. First he will find those feet, then he will surrender. The one filled with surrender, the bhakta, bows his head; and the moment the head is bowed, there he finds His feet. He collapses, his eyes fill with tears. He weeps, he cries, he calls; the agony of separation surrounds him. And where the song of his longing is born, there Paramatma becomes manifest.
It is your choice—walk as you will. But Dadu is a follower of the second path. If you want to understand him, there is one word—samarpan. Understand that rightly, and Dadu will be understood.
Therefore Dadu says: Sabai sayane ekamat—
All the wise are of one accord.
That one accord is surrender. And whoever has known, has said the same. Sometimes it has even happened that those who walked by resolve in the end said just this: they walked by resolve, but they arrived by surrender.
This is what happened with Buddha. He had kshatriya blood; surrender is not easy for a kshatriya. Resolve is easy for a kshatriya. He can fight, he can perish; he does not know how to bend. To break is simple; to bow is very difficult. All training and conditioning of a kshatriya—more so of a prince—is toward struggle. It cannot be toward surrender; it will only be toward struggle.
So for six years Buddha undertook tireless austerity. Whatever is prescribed in the scriptures, he fulfilled it all—and a little more. More than what was said, he exceeded it. Lest he miss somewhere, lest the journey remain incomplete. His gurus were exhausted. The very masters to whom Buddha went said, “We can say nothing more to you now. Whatever we asked you to do, you have done more than necessary. To find such a disciple is rare.”
Ordinarily gurus do not face difficulty, because disciples rarely do what the guru says. If they do, they do less than asked. So a convenience remains for the guru to say, “You did not do it. If you have not attained, do not conclude the method is wrong; since you did not practice, you are at fault.”
It was not easy to say this to Buddha. What he was told, he fulfilled to the last grain—and beyond. The masters folded their hands, “We have nothing further.”
And Buddha would not be satisfied cheaply. He set no value on small attainments. He wanted to know the Divine alone. And not to know Him as if He stands far and we stand far. He wanted to know Him as his own innermost. Only then is knowing truly knowing. To see with the eyes—who knows, it might be a dream; the eye too takes dreams as real. To hear the voice with the ears—who knows, it might be a dream; for in dreams too we hear. No, that is not real knowing; that would only make the Divine another part of maya.
Knowing must be as the innermost Self. Not outside; even an inch of distance will not do. To know as one’s own nature—only then will knowing be trustworthy. That which hides behind the eyes and is the seer—knowing must be as the seer, not as the seen; as the drashta, not as the drishya.
The masters grew tired; they folded their hands: “Go on your own path; we can say no more.”
Experiences of kundalini awakening happened. Buddha said, “What will come of this? If an electrical chain rises along the spine, what of it? When the body must be left, why keep account of kundalinis awakened in the body? Lights appear? And seeing these lights, what then? These are children’s toys. Seeing a light does not make me light. This too is all play of the mind. Idols of God may have arisen—but I do not want idols. I do not want form and shape; I do not want name and form. I want to know that supreme ocean whose end is none, whose beginning is none.”
The masters were exhausted. Finally Buddha wandered alone. He had done many experiments by believing; now he began to experiment by thinking—but the journey of resolve continued. Six years without wasting a single moment, each moment used—yet he reached nowhere. He grew weary, utterly exhausted. He was disheartened, helpless. Such a deep despair seized him: he had renounced kingdom and world—futile. Now this sadhana, tapas, yoga—futile—these too were dropped. That day renunciation was complete.
That night he rested. It was the first night in his life that he rested. Only when nothing is left to do can one truly rest. And in rest, bhakti is born. He had never imagined, not even thought, that what could not be attained through labor might be attained in rest. That night he simply slept. With nothing left to be done, not a single dream arose. For dreams are only the unfulfilled remnants of your acts. What was left undone by day tries to be completed in dream. The palaces you wanted to build and could not—those get built in dreams. The heap of wealth you wanted to gather and could not—the mind consoles itself in dream.
No dream, no wave of thought. In the morning when sleep broke, the last star was setting. Buddha watched that last star sink—and attained supreme knowing.
Later, when people asked Buddha, “How did you attain?” Buddha said, “Hard to say. As long as I tried to attain, I did not. I attained only when despair became absolute, when I became helpless.”
The bhakta says: to become helpless is the way to gain His support. When your helplessness reaches such a point that you know nothing whatsoever can happen by your doing…
Remember, this has to be known—not spoken. You can say, “I am utterly disheartened,” but within you know your ego is still alive. You have not lost faith in yourself. The prop of ego still continues. You know, “I have not tried everything yet; if I do a little more, I will get it.” While faith in yourself remains, surrender cannot happen.
But when you truly know—when this knowing pierces like an arrow, passing through the heart—then you will fall; that very falling is surrender. Then streams of tears will flow from your eyes. Those streams are prayer, worship. All else you do is deception. You went to the temple and offered flowers, but no tears fell—worship did not happen. If you did not weep—prayer did not happen. Prayer is not of words; it is of tears. Tears—because in them your despair is revealed. In those very tears you will say, “I am not enough. Without You nothing will be. I fall. And I do not know the way to Your feet either—I fall right here where I stand. There is no way to go. I have wandered everywhere and Your temple appears nowhere. Now I fall.”
And the day you fall like this—like letting go of an empty bag; remember, if one lets go an empty bag, even the bag does not decide to fall. An empty bag makes no resolve—“now I will fall.” As long as you decide, “I will fall,” your falling will be incomplete. You will remain. The fall will be a pretense. Where the ‘I’ is not and all support of the bag has slipped, no grip remains—the bag drops. In that instant, right there, are the feet of Paramatma. Right there, the spire of His temple will appear.
Sabai sayane ekamat!
On this matter, Dadu says: whoever has known has said this—“You will not attain by your effort; it comes by His grace.”
By every grain I am Your offender; by every particle, a thief.
Moment to moment I am Your sinner; forgive these faults of mine.
By every grain I am Your offender; by every particle, a thief.
Dadu says, “Nothing is mine. I come empty-handed; I go empty-handed—and in the few moments in between, what a web of ‘mine’ I spread—my house, my land, my sons, my wife, my wealth, position, prestige.” The web spreads. Whenever you say of any thing, “Mine”…—“By every grain I am Your offender”—then, says Dadu, you have committed a crime. All is His. You have called it yours? “By every particle, a thief.” You have become a thief.
When you bring someone else’s thing and claim it as yours, you are a thief. When you lay claim to what is another’s—“It is mine”—you are a thief. Dadu says, whenever you claimed “mine,” that very moment you became a thief. Because here nothing is yours. Even you are not yours.
From where do you come? You did not bring yourself. You do not keep yourself alive. You will not take yourself away. Not even your breath is under your power or right. It goes on. If it stops, it stops. If breath stops, you will not take even one more breath. And if you had not been born—where would you complain? To whom would you go to say, “Why was I not born?” If you were not born, you would not be; who would complain? You are born, you live, and then you disappear.
A wave rises in the ocean, dances, sways, attempts to touch the sky, begins to fall, and merges again in the ocean. The wave is ocean itself. There is nothing in the wave that is not in the ocean. Not a speck in the wave that is not of the ocean. The wave is a state of the ocean. In you, there is nothing of you.
Kabir has said: Nothing of mine is in me. Even I am not mine. Therefore any claim is futile.
By every grain I am Your offender; by every particle, a thief.
And whatever is with me is stolen. The theft is erased only on the day your sense of “mine” is erased. What the law calls a thief is nothing. What dharma calls a thief is very deep. The law calls you a thief because you took another’s thing. Dharma calls you both thieves—because that too was not his, from whom you stole. He too had claimed; he too was a thief. You claim; you too are a thief.
In the vision of dharma, the worldly man is a thief. Whether he stole or not is not the question. Whether he snatched another’s or not is not the question. The very claim—“It is mine”—is theft.
Therefore the wise have given great emphasis to the vow of achourya—non-stealing. Mahavira, Patanjali, Buddha have all stressed non-stealing. But whether Mahavira’s followers understand its meaning is doubtful. For they think achourya simply means “Do not take another’s thing”—and the vow is complete. Achourya means what Dadu is saying.
As long as you claim “mine,” you are a thief. The day the claim falls so completely that you do not even claim, “Even I am mine,” the very sense of “mine-ness” has vanished—on that very instant achourya appears. All accumulation is theft. The very feeling of possession is theft. In the one who possesses lies all theft.
Perhaps you have noticed: whenever you say “mine,” the ‘I’ gains movement, gains strength. The larger the expansion of ‘mine’, the stronger the ‘I’. Surely an emperor’s ego is larger than a beggar’s—because the emperor’s ‘I’ has many supports. What does a beggar have as support? A broken begging bowl, a tattered blanket—this is his entire kingdom. The ‘I’ has the same limits. The boundary of ‘mine’ is the boundary of ‘I’. As your ‘mine’ expands, so your ‘I’ grows. Hence our madness that objects must increase.
Few think clearly: why is man so mad to increase possessions? There must be a deeper reason. No one has passion for things as things; but without the increase of things the ‘I’ has no ease to grow. The larger the land, the larger the throne of ‘I’ in its midst. The greater the wealth, the higher the throne of ‘I’. No one loves wealth for wealth’s sake.
The Upanishads have said: No one loves wealth for wealth; one loves wealth for the sake of ‘I’. No one loves wives for the sake of wives; one loves them for the sake of ‘I’. In the depths there is one longing only—that I be something.
If the whole sense of ‘mine’ be snatched away, will the ‘I’ remain? The crutch removed, the ‘I’ will limp and fall right there.
If renunciation had any meaning, it was only this: remove those props that strengthen the ‘I’, that feed it, nourish it. When the props are removed, the ‘I’ falls.
But the ‘I’ is very skillful. It makes even renunciation its crutch. It says, “I have renounced so much!” Then the ‘I’ is not lame; it has found new supports. “I had lakhs of rupees—that was one crutch. Now I have kicked away lakhs; now I have a new crutch—stronger than the old—that I have renounced lakhs.” Whether you indulge or renounce, you feed the ‘I’. Whether you grasp wealth or drop it, the ‘I’ is built. And the ‘I’ is the real disease, the great disease. As long as the ‘I’ is, you are a thief.
Among the Jews there is a saying: only God has the right to say ‘I’, no one else.
It seems right. For He whose is all, only He should have the right to say ‘I’. Nothing is ours. If you see clearly that nothing is mine, then Dadu’s words will be clear:
By every grain I am Your offender—
Wherever I claimed, there I committed offense. Wherever I said “mine,” even if I said “mine” of a sesame-seed, there I sinned.
By every grain I am Your offender; by every particle, a thief.
And whatever is with me—all is stolen. All is Yours, and I go on claiming it as mine.
Moment to moment I am Your sinner—forgive these faults of mine.
Moment to moment, nothing else am I doing—sinning, committing offense.
Do not take from this “sin” that you also do some virtue—some sin, some virtue. No; as long as the doer is ‘I’, all is sin. If you give charity—it is sin; if you steal—it is sin. If you kill someone—it is sin; if you give medicine—it is sin. For punya, merit, happens only where you are not. It manifests in your absence. Punya means the advent of the Divine. When you step out of the way, and within you the Divine manifests—that instant is punya. All punya belongs to the Divine; all sin to man. Man cannot do punya at all.
Understand this a little. Because the so-called religions instruct you: “Abandon sin, do virtue.” But those who know say: “You will only do sin; you cannot do virtue. For in your very being lies the great sin. You will do it—you will strengthen the ‘I’.”
You will build a temple; but installing God in it is secondary. The real thing is the stone with your name upon the gate. The temple you build for that stone of your name. The image too has to be placed—without an image, who will come? The image is also a support for that stone. Do not think you built a temple for God and then put your nameplate; you built a temple for yourself and placed God’s image there—only decoration. The temple is for your ego.
The day this begins to be seen, you will also understand that as long as I remain, virtue cannot be. Whatever I do, the shadow of sin will fall upon it. Since I have done it, since I am condensed there, sin will spread everywhere.
Moment to moment I am Your sinner; forgive these faults of mine.
Forgive my crimes, my vices, my defects. The bhakta can do nothing else but ask for forgiveness—except asking for forgiveness, he can do nothing.
This is the difference. A bhakta is not a sadhaka. The bhakta says, “Even if I practice, it will become sin. If I sit to meditate, pride will arise that I am a meditator. If I give charity, my ego will be adorned and polished by it; those ornaments will be for my ego. I can only ask for forgiveness—there is no other way. I am helpless.”
Sadhaka means: one who is still engaged in means, who says, “I will do something. I sinned—never mind; I will do virtue to erase sin. I did wrong—no worry; I will do good. I stole—I will give charity.”
But the doer is present equally in both. Outwardly differences appear: black clothes replaced by white robes—but the inner soot does not wash. The world may praise you; you may gain respect, none will insult you. But inside? Inside, the state is worse than before. At least earlier there was some pain; you sensed the thorn—that you were doing wrong. Now inner stiffness has increased—that you are doing good. Now flowers bloom, all thorns vanish. Even the possibility of revolution inside is gone.
Hence sometimes even a wicked man attains God; the virtuous attain with difficulty. The wicked reach; the good find it hard. The good believes that if God needs to be met, He should come Himself; the good imagines he is doing God a favor by so many virtuous acts.
Sometimes sinners arrive, but not the meritorious. For how will you do virtue? Whatever you do will be sin.
Understand sin’s definition: whatever arises from ego is sin.
Sin is not about result; sin is about source.
People say an act is sin if its result is bad: you killed someone—because he died, it is sin. You served a sick man and he was saved—therefore virtue. If the outcome of your act is bad, it is sin; if good, it is virtue. This is an ordinary moral definition. Law, courts function upon it.
Dharma’s definition is much deeper. Dharma says: result is secondary. For sometimes you intend evil and the result turns good; and sometimes you intend good and the result turns bad. You gave medicine with goodwill and the patient died. And once, you hurled a stone in anger, it struck a man’s skull—he had a mental disorder, the blow cured it. Sometimes outcomes turn good.
Therefore the outcome is secondary—what is the source? From where does the act arise? Sin arises from ego; punya arises from egolessness. Sin you do; punya the Divine does.
What then is the way to do punya? Only one: let Him do—do not remain the doer. Leave yourself in His hands. Wherever He takes you…
The whole of Krishna’s Gita is to explain this one little thing. Arjuna is entangled in moral definitions. He says, “These are mine. If I kill them, I will incur sin. So many will die—what good will a kingdom be? Who will be happy seeing it? I will set my throne in the cremation ground.”
He says, “These are mine.” Therefore he fears killing. If they were not his, Arjuna would have no concern. If among them were no dear ones, no Bheeshma, no Drona, no kith and kin, Arjuna would not hesitate; he would cut them like grass. “These are mine”—his ego is related to them.
And this is true: if all who are your own die, then even if you win the kingdom, whom will you show it to—bushes, trees? When a man is honored, he wants family and friends to know. If you go to some far corner of Africa and they worship you there, still your heart will long that the people of Poona should know. For there, what is the use of worship? It is when those who have always known you, the near and dear, worship you, that the ego takes some delight. If you go to the forest and flowers shower from the sky and gods worship you, you will not be much delighted—because only trees, shrubs, wild animals will see; there will be no people. At least let people see—though strangers, yet human, of your kind.
Arjuna says, “They are mine; therefore I fear killing—sin will be incurred.” And Krishna is explaining only this: the very thought of ‘mine’ is sin. Abandon the thought of ‘mine’, become only a nimitta—an instrument. Do not remain the doer—let Paramatma act. Then whatever He wants will be done. Do not come in between. Then whatever happens is virtue.
Because Arjuna could become a nimitta, Vyasa called Kurukshetra dharmakshetra—the field of dharma. The war became a dharma-yuddha; for it was not Arjuna who fought; the Divine fought through Arjuna. Arjuna became only a peg. The Divine hung Himself upon that peg. Arjuna became nobody; he did not become an obstacle. He became a flute; His notes began to ring through him, His song descended through him.
Moment to moment I am Your sinner; forgive these faults of mine.
Moment to moment I have sinned; by every grain I have offended; by every particle I have stolen—and I see no resort except that You forgive. Nothing is in my power to counter it. Whatever I do will only add to it.
In this hour bhakti is born. Bhakti is a very unique flower. To be a sadhaka is ordinary, a part of ego. To be a bhakta is extraordinary—there is no revolution greater.
Guilty am I, Your offender—where could I flee?
Where can I run? Where would I go by running? Whatever I do, there is no escape. Wherever I go, there is no escape—for I will remain I. If I go to the Himalayas, I remain I. Wherever I am, there sin will continue; there offense will continue. It is contained in my very being.
The bhakta does not flee by leaving the world. He says, “Where would I go by fleeing?” Hence the traditions of bhakti are not renunciatory or escapist. They do not teach flight. The bhakta says, “Where would I flee? From whom would I flee? If sin were due to another, fleeing would help. Sin is due to my own self.”
So even if you sit alone in a forest, you will think the same thoughts you do here. Perhaps the chance to do will not arise—you will do in dreams. But the current will continue. The uninterrupted chain will keep flowing. The marketplace will go on. You may sit in solitude; the crowd will be present. You will do exactly within what you do here. If you are angry here, you will be angry there. Perhaps there will be no people to be angry at; a crow will drop its droppings from a tree upon your head and anger will arise. Circumstance of some kind will be there. If you are taken over by circumstance—anger arises, sorrow arises—the circumstance will not vanish on the Himalayas. If any revolution is to happen, it must be of the mind-state. A revolution of circumstance is of no use.
Guilty am I, Your offender—where could I flee?
Dadu too must have fled at first. A man tries everything. If it could happen by oneself, good. When it does not, when it is found to be impossible, when it is grasped that it is not in the law of one’s nature—only then arises the insight: “Where could I flee?” He must have fled—Kashi to Kaaba; done pilgrimages; peeped into temple and mosque; entered scriptures; lived in solitary caves; abandoned sin and done virtue; given charity instead of stealing; replaced abuse with prayer. But he would have found: nothing changes. From the very heart whence abuse arose, from that very heart prayer is now arising—so how can there be a basic difference in prayer?
In the Vedas are prayers that disturb the mind. The Vedas are very honest scriptures—they have portrayed man as he is. And that is good; the right picture of man is needed. So there are such prayers that we can hardly call prayer. A farmer prays: “O Lord, O Indra, if rain falls, let it fall on my field—not on my enemy’s.” This is prayer! “Let my cow’s teats give double milk; let the neighbor’s teats dry up.” This is prayer! The Vedas are very honest—they collected such too. Because man’s heart needs cleansing. The heart is such: from that very heart abuse issues, from that very heart prayer.
Dadu must have prayed—and found that in quality prayer did not differ from abuse. The words changed, more elegant and refined, but the base remained the same.
Guilty am I, Your offender—where could I flee?
This is the moment of a great revolution—when you grasp, “Where could I flee?” Where would I go? No shelter, no escape, no protection. I will have to fall. I will have to let go of identity. The one who keeps fleeing to save himself—that too is ego. Its last attempt: “I will find some device—dress myself in the robes of virtue, the garments of prayer, the ornaments of worship. The world is bad, evil happens; I will hide in the temple and not step outside.”
But remember, as long as you flee, you will not be transformed. To flee means you are trying to avoid transformation—somehow to remain as you are, only change circumstances. This is what everyone is doing. Ask a poor man—he says, “I am unhappy because I have no wealth. I am seeking wealth—once I have it, I will be happy.”
Ask the rich man—he says, “Wealth I have, but I am not happy. I seek position. What will wealth alone do? Until I become President or Prime Minister, nothing will be done by wealth. I will even spend all of it on elections—but I must become Prime Minister. Once I am, there will be happiness only.”
Ask Prime Ministers, Presidents—no happiness is seen. Whoever is wherever he is, is unhappy. In the hope that elsewhere there will be happiness, man does not look at the root of sorrow—he does not see that the manner of my being contains the sorrow. If I become a Prime Minister, I will be unhappy as a Prime Minister.
The poor man is unhappy in his hut; the rich man is unhappy in his palace. The unhappiness does not change. The poor is unhappy in a poor way; the rich is unhappy in a rich way. But there is no difference in sorrow. Because sorrow is unrelated to outer situation; sorrow arises from the prick of ego—and that is within.
Where could I flee?
Then such a moment comes when one feels the whole world is sorrow—and one runs from the world. But he still does not drop the ego; he drops the world. First he dropped poverty and caught wealth; now he drops the world and catches sannyas. But even now the journey is outside. The hour has not come to understand—“Where could I flee?”
When it is understood that nowhere can I go by fleeing, that there is no way to flee, that I am utterly without means, helpless—
Dadu dekha sodhi sab—
“I have seen, I have examined all.”
—tum bin kahin na samahin—
“There is nowhere to find rest except in You.” Nowhere else can there be release. Only in You is there samadhi. Only You are the place to merge; nowhere else will we fit.
Dadu dekha sodhi sab—
Do not be hasty. If you hurry, you will not be ripe. There is the fall of a ripe fruit—no hurt to the tree, no one hears, the ripe fruit drops silently. And there is the fall of an unripe fruit—throw a stone, strike with a stick; even then the unripe fruit resists, tries to hold, not yet ripe, you try to bring it down. Even if you bring it down, it is unripe, of no worth; you might ripen it somehow in heat, but it will have no taste, no fragrance; it has not arrived at its natural fruition.
Do not hurry. If even Dadu had to examine and see all, do not try to be more clever than Dadu. When one goes through all experiences, a ripeness, a maturity comes. Then you fall like a ripe fruit.
Dadu dekha sodhi sab—
Then not even the slightest line remains within—“Perhaps had I stayed a little longer on the tree, joy would have come; perhaps had I stayed through this monsoon, joy would have come; perhaps a gust of wind was about to come, a shower of joy was about to be—and I dropped too soon.” If even a faint line of hope remains, even if you fall, that fall will not be surrender. And without surrender, the feet of the Divine are not found.
Understand this well. I repeat: Only that surrender which arises from your maturity reveals the feet of Paramatma. If you fall unripe, you will have neither taste nor fragrance—nor will the feet of the Divine be revealed to you.
Many come to me and say, “We have left everything, yet God has not been found.”
There must have been a mistake in your leaving. The mistake was before the leaving. You must have left after hearing Dadu—because Dadu says all is futile. But that is Dadu’s matured experience—not yours. You heard Dadu, the idea appealed, you left. The idea appealed; it was not your experience. There was no fragrance, no taste; you were unripe. Better you had stayed on the tree; waited, had patience.
Each person has to pass through all experiences. Here there is no shortcut, no path to reach quickly. The Divine does not trust shortcuts. The sooner the event, the more unripe you remain.
As if some child were forcefully made an adult by machine—you know what a mess it would be. Pump air into him, enlarge the body—he would remain a child within, but look adult. Worse trouble—if he were a child, we would pardon him; now we will not. He looks like a man, bearded and mustached, and plays with toys—we will laugh; we will call him mad. If he were small, playing with toys was right; there was alignment, the math was straight. Now the child remains within; the outer is aged; he will be in great unease.
I have seen many like this—took sannyas and sat in a hut in the forest. The mind was still in the bazaar. The mind still a child; toys were needed for some days more. He had not examined all—yet the greed for the Divine seized him. That too is greed, not understanding. There are only two ways one goes toward God: either life’s experience has sent him, ripened him, matured him—the tree of the world drops off by itself; not “left,” but “let go.” The fruit falls. Or one moves out of greed—“The saints say there is great bliss, supreme bliss, the Divine”—greed arises; he flees from the market, the world, and goes in search of God.
The Divine runs away from such a man and avoids him—because he is not yet qualified. His golden vessel has not been prepared, and he has gone in search of nectar. First prepare the golden vessel; only then will nectar be held. Without worthiness, there is no possibility of the descent of nectar.
Dadu dekha sodhi sab—
Dadu didn’t say this by reading some scripture, nor by reading other saints. Kabir says: not a matter of writing and reading, a matter of seeing. Not learned by reading and writing—seen! A thing of seeing with one’s own eyes.
Dadu dekha sodhi sab—
He saw all with his own eyes; knew with his own life.
Tum bin kahin na samahin—
And within himself this knowing arose. Not a borrowed statement of scriptures. From his own being this sound arose: “Without You, nowhere will I fit. Wherever I run—where can I go? There is no place to flee. Only You are the refuge. Only in You is falling, disappearing possible. Apart from You nothing can satisfy; apart from You no bliss; apart from You no peace; apart from You no wealth, no position. You are the essence of all.”
Tum bin kahin na samahin.
Nowhere else is there any possibility of resting. The wave can only dissolve back in the ocean—where else can it dissolve? However much it rises toward the sky, it cannot merge in the sky. It may play a while with the winds, flirt with them; it cannot merge in the winds. The final destination of the wave is the ocean; because where we come from, there alone we can be received again. Only the source can accept us again; elsewhere we cannot merge.
Where you have come from, there you will return. The rest of the journey may be long or short, but nowhere along it can you merge. And until you dissolve, what worth has bliss? Until you merge so totally that you have no awareness of yourself—what Samadhi then? What ecstasy? Impossible. Forget yourself—so utterly that you do not even know “I am.” Only the ocean remains; the wave disappears.
Tum bin kahin na samahin.
From beginning to end, having come and gone, we have done no virtue.
From the start until today, no punya has been done by us. If you still harbor that a bit of virtue you have done, you cannot yet be a bhakta.
From beginning to end—until today—
—we have done no virtuous deed. Punya has not happened—only sin upon sin.
Do not take this to mean that Dadu must have been a great sinner. It means: you think many virtues have been done by you—this itself is the beginning of virtue: the recognition of sin. The recognition of sin is the birth of virtue. And the day you see that nothing right could happen from you—because you yourself were not right, how could a right thing arise? The act comes from the actor. You were crooked; whatever came from you was crooked. You were in darkness; what arose from you was filled with darkness. You were unconscious; what came from you increased unconsciousness and samsara—it did not lessen it.
A man drunk on wine walks the road—whatever he does will be wrong.
I have heard: once Akbar was out riding an elephant and a drunk, standing upon the roof of his hut, began to curse him.
Everyone wants to curse emperors—envy grows. To hide those curses we praise emperors, lest anyone suspect the curses inside. Whoever has more wealth or power naturally arouses deep envy in those who have not. Lest that envy be seen, lest you be caught, people overcompensate—praise and flatter. If you probe the hearts of those who sing odes to emperors, you will not find a grain of praise—only curses. To hide those wounds, ornaments of praise are fashioned.
This one had drunk. He was not aware what he was doing. His heart spoke plainly. The greatest danger of wine is that you are not in clear awareness; you forget what to say; what is inside comes out. People know well: when someone drinks he cannot deceive; he becomes honest and truthful—in the sense that whatever is inside comes out; there is no one to cover it. He cursed with full heart. Akbar had him seized and brought. He was kept in jail overnight. In the morning he was brought to court. Akbar said, “What insolence! Why such curses?”
He said, “I did not curse. I was drunk. I always sing your praises.” He began to sing his hymns of praise, songs he had written. “If I was drunk, I cannot be held responsible.”
Akbar too understood—if drunk, how can a man be responsible? That which is done in unconsciousness is forgivable. And see now: in awareness he praises. Akbar pardoned him.
Dadu says: no virtuous deed have I done. Whatever happened until now was wrong. There was no awareness. How could I do virtue? Who would do it? Even if I did, it would be sin. Touch gold—and it turns to dust. I myself was wrong; there was no way anything right could be done by me.
When this is seen, humility is born. Then one sees one’s reality. Then one does not have to bend; there is no question of bending—you cannot stand stiff any longer. Then it is not a matter of bending. That is why I said: like the empty bag—on the day vision dawns, the bag is released and falls.
From beginning to end, having come and gone, we have done no virtue.
Deluded by maya, attachment, pride and envy, my mind has tasted only these.
Only the taste of these things have we savored until now—of maya, moh, mada, matsara. Of Yours there is no taste yet.
The mind has given its taste to these alone. Because as long as ego remains, only maya, attachment, pride, envy can be related—these are its family. Ego is the center; maya, moh, matsara are the circumference.
Dadu is a prisoner; You are the Lord who frees prisoners.
Do not keep me bound now, my merciful Beloved.
Dadu says, “I am lodged in Your prison. I am a prisoner, a sinner, a culprit. You are the forgiver. I have done nothing but sin; therefore I have no right to ask forgiveness.”
Keep this in mind. If you ask forgiveness as a right, it goes wrong. If you say, “Forgive me because I deserve forgiveness,” it is wrong. Forgiveness can happen only when you say, “I am not worthy of forgiveness, but You are forgiveness itself.”
Understand this distinction well. In a court, if you ask for pardon, you must prove you are pardon-worthy—that the law has erred, you were wrongly caught. But in the court of the Divine, if you attempt to show that you are pardon-worthy, your ego is still striving. You will say, “See how many fasts I have kept, how many worships I have performed, how many crores of mantras I have chanted, the Gayatri recited, the Gita read—and still I am not pardoned?”
Omar Khayyam writes: the village mullah tells me that if you keep drinking wine, God will not forgive you. And I think within: Will God forgive me only when I become worthy of forgiveness, or will He forgive me because He is forgiveness itself?
Omar is right. You will not be forgiven because you were worthy; you will be forgiven because you accepted your unworthiness. The day you accept your unworthiness, the Divine begins to flow toward you. He is forgiving; forgiveness is His nature. As water flows toward a hollow, so forgiveness flows. If you sit like a mountain, water will not flow to you. Not that water is against you; but you stand as a barrier. Become a hollow, a valley—the same water that never flowed toward you will begin to flow.
Paramatma is forgiving. But if you are egoistic, you are like a mountain; forgiveness cannot flow toward you. If you sense, “I am not even worthy of forgiveness; my hands are full of sins, my life full of offenses; from the beginning until now only wrong has happened; I was unconscious, asleep; there was no way to be right”—you have become a hollow, you are humble; forgiveness will begin to flow.
A great dispute rages among scholars and theologians—Is the Divine forgiving, or just? An ancient dispute. The bhakta says: forgiving. The sadhaka says: just. Between bhakta and sadhaka a fundamental gap always remains.
The sadhaka says: just. The one who does right will be rewarded; the one who does wrong will be punished. Justice means right receives right result, wrong receives wrong result. Forgiving means even the wrong may be pardoned. This is intolerable to the sadhaka. He says, “Then what of our asanas, headstands, fasts? All in vain? You kept drinking and got forgiven? Unbearable.” The sadhaka’s ego cannot accept it.
Hence the true class of sadhakas denied even God. Why accept God? If He is just, justice is enough—no need of God. Law is enough.
Understand it this way: if God gives punishment to the sinner and reward to the virtuous, what need is there of God if He cannot differ? If law stands above God, what need of God? Law is enough.
Therefore the Jains—the purest class of sadhakas—do not accept God. They say: to accept God means someone stands above law, who can alter it, act against it. If God Himself made law, He can amend and improve it; therefore God is dangerous. The Jains say: do not accept God—accept only niyam, dharma. Dharma means law. The world runs by law, not by God—because in God arises the possibility of forgiveness; He may feel compassion. If compassion is impossible, God is redundant, there is no need of His being.
The Jains are the pure class of sadhakas, travelers of resolve. Therefore in Jain dharma there is no place for prayer or worship—place is for vows and austerity. Purify yourself. To the degree you are purified, to that degree you will gain happiness. Straight arithmetic. Hence Jain scriptures have no poetry.
People ask me: you speak on Kabir, on Dadu, on Krishna, on Lao Tzu—why not on the Jain scriptures—Kundakunda, Umasvati? I do not tell them—they would be hurt—but reading Umasvati or Kundakunda is like reading a book of mathematics. No poetry at all. Where there is no poetry, how to speak? However clean and neat a math book, it is flavorless—only logic; no life-breath, no heartbeat.
Dadu says:
Dadu is a prisoner; You are the Lord who frees prisoners.
I am a prisoner, lying in Your jail; I am a sinner, a culprit, a thief by every particle. Now I do not trust that I will be released by my virtues—that is not the question. I have done no virtues. From beginning until now nothing comes to mind of any good done. I have not that much awareness. Now only one trust remains: You are the Lord who frees, You are great compassion itself. I rely on Your compassion, not on my deeds.
Do not keep me bound now, my merciful Beloved.
There is no need to keep me any longer. I accept I am a sinner. No need to show me more. I have seen. I have seen the journey of ego. I have tasted the fruit of ego. No need to keep me prisoner anymore. Now You can forgive. I do not ask forgiveness on the basis of any worthiness—I have dropped all claims. What remains? What obstacle now? I am ready to be a hollow.
Do not keep me bound now…
Why keep me bound now? The matter is finished; there is no struggle left. From my side, I am only fit to be a prisoner—that is not the question. Now it is Your forgiveness that is the issue.
This is the difference of the bhakta’s vision. The bhakta is not a claimant. The sadhaka is a claimant. The bhakta only prays. He says, “If grace comes as prasad, fine. If it comes, I will give thanks; if it does not, I cannot complain.” The sadhaka—if it comes, he will not thank, because it came by his virtue; if it does not, he will complain. The bhakta has no complaint; he is a complaintless heart. If grace does not come, he knows there was no cause for it. It is clear—there was no worthiness. If it comes, he dances with wonder and gratitude—that which should not have happened has happened; prasad has been received.
Day by day give new bhakti; day by day a new Name.
Day by day give new love—I am blessed to be offered.
Day by day give new bhakti! Give fresh devotion each day. That too I cannot do. If I do it, it will be old.
Understand this—subtle, delicate. If I do it, it will be old, stale—for I am old and stale.
Nothing is staler than ego. Why? Because ego is the sum of your past. Whatever you have been, whatever you have done, known, gained—that sum is your ego. Ego means past. Ego means the heap of what has gone—rubbish. Ego is never fresh. It is always stale. Ego is always dead; never alive. You are alive—but you have draped the corpse of ego over your life. Life is hidden; the corpse has spread.
If someone asks you “Who are you?”, from where will you bring your answer? From the past. “I am so-and-so’s son, from such-and-such family; of royal lineage; so educated, a doctor, an engineer, a professor.” All belongs to the past. If someone asks you “Who are you here and now?”, you will have no answer. If you do not look back, you will be utterly empty.
You are new. Ego is old, decrepit. Ego is a ruin.
Therefore Dadu says:
Day by day give new bhakti.
Give new devotion each day, for I will make it old.
All religious people have made devotion old. Yesterday you rang the bell before God, lit incense and lamp, offered flowers; today you do the same. Is there anything new? Even a speck new? If not, it is dead. You are repeating, dragging staleness along. When prayer becomes stale and worship becomes ritual, it is futile.
In the life of Ramakrishna there is a mention. A shudra woman, Rani Rasmani, had built a temple. Because she was shudra, no Brahmin was ready to worship there. Though Rasmani herself never entered the temple, lest it be defiled—that is the mark of a Brahmin: one who sees himself as shudra is Brahmin; one who sees himself as Brahmin is shudra.
Rasmani never went near the temple—within or even too close—she would circle outside. She built the great temple of Dakshineswar, yet no pujari could be found. Being shudra, she herself could not do puja. Should the temple remain without worship? She was distressed, in pain. She cried, shouted, “Send some priest!”
Someone informed her of a Brahmin boy named Gadadhar—his mind is a little off; perhaps he will agree. In a world this “sensible,” perhaps only those “off” may be a little sensible. Gadadhar later became Ramakrishna.
He was asked. He said, “Fine, I will come.” Not once did he say, “Being Brahmin how can I go to a shudra’s temple?” “We pray here; we will pray there.” Family and friends tried to stop him, promised other jobs: “Are you going to lose your dharma for a job?” Gadadhar said, “It is not a question of job; how can God remain without worship? We will do it.”
But news reached Rasmani: he will do worship, but he is not initiated in the traditional method; he has never performed temple ritual; the way he worships at home is strange—sometimes he worships, sometimes not; sometimes he worships all day; sometimes he forgets for months. More trouble: it is reported that while worshiping he tastes the offerings first, and only then offers to God. If there is sweetmeat, he tastes it. Rasmani said, “Let him come—at least someone is willing.”
He came—and these “troubles” began. Sometimes worship happened, sometimes the doors were shut; sometimes days passed without bell or lamp; and sometimes, from morning, prayer went on and Ramakrishna danced for twelve hours.
Finally Rasmani said, “How will this do?” The temple trustees called a meeting: “What kind of worship is this? In what scripture is it written?”
Ramakrishna said, “What has worship to do with scripture? Worship is of love. If the heart is not in it, doing it is wrong. And He will recognize it is being done without heart. I do not worship for you. I cannot deceive Him. If the feeling does not arise, if bhava does not surge, I will not shed false tears—that would be a greater sin than not worshiping at all—deceiving God. When the feeling arises, I accumulate it—two or three weeks I finish in one day. But without bhava I will not worship.”
They said, “You seem to have no set rules—where you begin, where you end.”
Ramakrishna said, “As He makes me do, I do. I do not impose my method upon Him. This is not ritual—it is worship. It is love. Each day according to the inner state, so it happens. Sometimes first flowers, sometimes first arati; sometimes dancing, sometimes sitting silent; sometimes I ring the bell, sometimes not. As the descent happens within, as He makes me do, I do. I am not the doer.”
They said, “Let that go—but this is a sin: you taste first yourself and only then offer to God! Nowhere in the world is this heard. First offer to God, then accept the prasad. You offer first to yourself, and give prasad to God.”
Ramakrishna said, “That I can never do. I will do as I do. When my mother cooked for me, she always tasted first and then gave me—so she would know whether it is fit to give. Sometimes the sugar is too much—I do not like it—then I do not offer. Sometimes there is no sugar—I do not like it—how will it please God? What my mother could not do for me, how shall I not do for God?”
The bhakti that rises from such love is new each day. It can have no ritual, no fixed form. Has love ever been cast into a mold? Is there a scripture for worship? A method for prayer? It is the heart’s spontaneous supplication, a wave of bhava.
Therefore Dadu says a very sweet thing: day by day give new bhakti.
Give new devotion—because if I do it, I will make it old. Ego will make a skeleton out of it. Ego is mechanical; it creates a routine—go to the temple, bow, prostrate, ring the bell, offer flowers, chant the mantra, return home—a procedure, a duty—not love. Love finds new ways day by day—it is ever fresh.
Day by day give new bhakti…
Only You can give it. For we are dead. Whatever we do will grow stale.
Day by day a new Name.
And give a new Name each day. What is the use of one old Name every day? All Names are Yours—why chant only one? Chanting “Ram Ram” every day will grow stale. Sometimes “Allah” we will chant too. You suggest it—for if we chant, it will come from the past: born in a Hindu home, “Ram Ram” will go on; born in a Muslim home, “Allah Allah”; born Christian, “Jesus Jesus”; born Jain, “Namokar.” But that ties to the past. All Names are Yours because You have no Name. All forms are Yours because You are formless. In all shapes You alone, the shapeless.
So give fresh glimpses day by day; a new Name day by day; show a new image of Yourself every day—lest worship grow stale. Stale is futile. Let it be like the breath—fresh each moment; like the morning dew—always new; like the sunrise anew; like the night’s stars—again bright. So may it be each moment—present-born, not born of the past.
Day by day give new bhakti; day by day a new Name.
Day by day give new love—I am blessed to be offered.
All I can do is this—be offered up to You. More is not in my hands.
Day by day give new love—
Fill me each day with new love. Pour me out, fill me again. Fill me each day with love, so that in prayer I can pour myself out and be offered to You. I know only this—to be offered. Whatever You give, I will lay at Your feet.
Sai, give true contentment; feeling, bhakti, and trust.
Give steadfastness, patience, and truth—this Dadu, Your servant, asks.
Sai is the fakirs’ name for the Divine—meaning master, owner. Master! Until you know the Divine as the master, you are a thief. The day you know the Divine as master, the matter is finished—thievery is gone. Now you too are His.
Hence fakirs call themselves das—servants: Dadu Das, Kabir Das, Sundar Das—all are servants. The servant says: I am Yours. Nothing is mine; even I am Yours.
Sai, give true contentment…
Give sat santosh. Worth attending to. What you call contentment is false—it is consolation, not contentment.
You have no wealth; you say, “What is there in wealth!”—that is consolation. If someone offers you wealth now, you will forget you said moments ago, “What is there in wealth!” You will say, “Bring it.” If he reminds you, you will say, “I erred, forgive me.”
You are in the same state as Aesop’s fox. She saw bunches of grapes hanging. She leapt—but the leap fell short; she could not reach. She looked around lest anyone had seen—ego is hurt that you could not get it. Seeing no one, she began to strut. But a rabbit was hidden—rabbits are always hiding, watching. From behind a bush he said, “Auntie, what happened? The grapes out of reach?” The fox said, “No, not out of reach—sour. Let them ripen, then we will see.”
The grapes you cannot reach are sour—this is consolation. The position you cannot obtain is worthless—two pennies. The wealth you could not acquire—what substance is there? This is how the poor save themselves—otherwise life would be difficult. Consolation becomes a shield.
This is why in poor nations consolation thrives. In this country of ours—called religious, which it is not—there is no contentment, only consolation. People are so reduced that the only defense is: “What is in the world!”
An English writer, George Mikes, wrote his memoirs: he came to Delhi. At the station a Sikh caught his hand, quickly read his palm, and began to tell his future. Mikes said, “I have no interest.” But the man went on, not letting go his hand. Out of politeness Mikes listened. Then the Sikh said, “Whether or not you are interested, I have made a prediction—two rupees fee.” Mikes paid to end the hassle; but the Sikh still did not let go—having received two rupees he started to speak further. Mikes said, “Please don’t speak more; otherwise your fee will be due again.” The Sikh said, “Worldly man! You are mad for two rupees?” And went on speaking, “Materialist!”—while going on speaking. And then at the end said, “That will be two rupees more.”
Who is the materialist here?
The East calls the West materialist. But you will not find people more materialist than in the East. The hold of money among Indians you will not find anywhere. The reason? If there were contentment, it would be different. There is no contentment—only consolation. You have no big house—you say, “What is in big houses? The joy of a hut—where is it in mansions?” Yet you strive fully to enlarge the house.
Years ago I was taken to a Jain monk. He is a great muni with thousands of disciples. He read me his song in Gujarati. Its meaning: “You remain seated upon your thrones; I am blissful in my dust. Your positions, your palaces are futile to me. Your jewels are pebbles to me. Your empire is a dream. Sit upon your golden throne; I am blissful in my dust.” The heads of those gathered began nodding in praise.
I told the muni, “If you are blissful in your dust, this song should be written by an emperor—not by you. But no emperor writes, ‘Remain blissful in your dust—I am blissful on my throne.’ None write, ‘Enjoy your pebbles—I am blissful in my jewels.’ No emperor has written such a song—why do you write? There must be some hidden longing for the golden throne. There is some taste in jewels. You are not blissful in dust; there is envy. In the dust there is consolation, not contentment.” This is hard to see, for it goes against ego. Those nodding heads—do not think their nodding proves the poem true; it only says, “We agree—this is our condition too. We too lie in the dust, and we too consider the throne worthless. You are our voice.”
In poor lands, renunciation becomes a great virtue—because all the poor draw consolation from it.
Dadu does not ask for consolation. He says: Sai, give sat santosh—
Give such contentment, true contentment, which is not consolation. That I may be delighted in what I have. That what I do not have not even arise in my mind—not even as opposition, for comparison is curiosity. Sat santosh is a unique state—the state in which you rejoice in what is.
If you are in dust, you rejoice in dust. But you do not compare dust with a throne. If truly you rejoice in dust, you will feel compassion for those on thrones—poor fellow, he is trapped on a throne. You will not be angry. You will not insult by comparison. You will say, “I am so blissful in the dust; this poor fellow knows nothing of the bliss of dust.”
If you have lost, you will find there is such peace in losing that the winners will envy you. But if you envy the winners, if you feel like condemning them, you have not found sat santosh in your losing. You have not understood. The grapes are sour; the leap was small.
Sai, give sat santosh—
Dadu too must have tried consolation; it is of no use. It does not dissolve desires—only hides them. It does not end the disease—it only covers it. Give true contentment.
What is true contentment? It is ahobhava—wonder and gratitude. To be at all is so immense—what more to ask? The breath moves—such a great event—what to ask for more? The eyes see flowers, stars in the sky—what else remains to see? The ears hear birdsong, the wind’s voice resounding through trees—what music remains? Let there be the feeling that what is happening now is the ultimate. Let no comparison remain—comparison must not arise. Take this as the criterion: if comparison arises, you are not in contentment. Contentment is incomparable; consolation is comparison.
The so-called holy men teach you: do not envy. I once heard a monk’s discourse; he said, “Do not envy, it will bring sorrow. Do not look at who is ahead of you; always look at who is behind. That will give contentment.”
You understand his meaning? You have ten thousand rupees. Do not look at him who has ten lakhs—looking there will bring pain, your consolation will break—“I have only ten thousand and you have ten lakhs!” Balance will be lost, run will be born, hatred and jealousy. No—look behind you, he who has not even ten thousand—he is a beggar. Then you will feel relief—“Never mind, I have ten thousand; he has not even ten.” That means: if you are one-eyed, look upon the blind; do not look at him with two eyes. If you are lame, look at him whose both legs are broken.
But whether you look ahead or behind, consolation always contains comparison. Looking at those who have less brings relief; looking at those who have more brings restlessness. Whether you look or not, how will you forget there are many who have more? When you look back and gain relief that you have ten thousand and someone has not even ten—this relief already contains that envy; how will you forget that many in this world have far more than you? In this relief restlessness is hidden. You may blind yourself—that is all—but you will not awaken.
Dadu says: Sai, give sat santosh.
Do not give the contentment of comparison—that you enjoy one eye because another is blind. No; that is not contentment. Give true contentment—that I may enjoy what is without any measurement. As if I were alone.
And there is no one like you. You are alone. All comparison is futile. As soon as you measure with another, you create ego. Look behind—you get soothing ego; look ahead—you get restless ego. In comparison ego is born. Do not measure. As you are, let ahobhava arise toward the Divine. What you have received is not much by comparison to another—it is infinite by your unworthiness.
Understand this difference—by comparison it is not much; by your unworthiness, it is immeasurable. What you have received—you had no qualification, no cause. You could not have complained, and yet it has been given. He has poured and filled you.
Sai, give sat santosh—
If you want false contentment, look ahead and behind. If you want true contentment, look above—to the Divine.
—feeling, bhakti, trust.
Give bhava. You have many thoughts. The bhakta asks for feeling. Give bhakti, give love. Give vishvas—trust. With thought comes doubt; with doubt, struggle—they are links in a chain. With feeling comes devotion; with devotion, trust—they are links in a chain. The head knows doubt; the heart knows trust. The head fights, struggles, resolves. The heart surrenders, trusts.
—feeling, bhakti, trust.
You may think: feeling must be asked—it is beyond our control. Open your heart and wait. If His clouds come, you will be filled with feeling, devotion, and trust. If they do not, you will have to wait. You are a desert—call His clouds.
Sai, give sat santosh; feeling, bhakti, trust.
Give steadfastness and patience and truth—this Dadu, Your servant, asks.
Give sidq—courage to be wholly offered to You. Give saburi—the capacity to wait. Patience—because nothing is in my hands. When You give, You give—when that ‘when’ will come, who can say? Today, tomorrow, the day after, in this birth, in the next, after countless births—nothing can be said. If it were in my hands, I would hurry. So the bhakta says, “Give sidq—that I may lay all of myself upon You, hold nothing back. I do not trust myself—not to hold back something ‘just in case.’”
Muhammad died. His life is the life of a bhakta. His rule: each evening, whatever remains in the house is given away. In the morning they would pray again—if it is His will, He will give. So each sunset all money, goods, grain, rice—whatever there was—was distributed. “There is no need for it at night; in the morning we will ask again; He who gave this morning will give tomorrow.”
At the end, Muhammad was ill. His wife worried. “Everything must be given at sunset—but what if we need medicine at night, have to call the physician?” Muhammad was close to death. She kept back five dinars, five coins. Everything else was distributed; five were saved. It is said at midnight Muhammad tossed and turned; then called his wife: “Listen, something has happened today that has never happened in this house—you have kept something back. We always gave all. At the moment of death will you make me a non-believer? I cannot die—my breath is stuck. It feels like something remains in the house.”
The wife wept: “Forgive me. Fearing medicine might be needed, the physician called, I kept five dinars.”
Muhammad said, “I will not be able to die. And if I died today, what answer would I give before God? That I kept a little back—so much distrust. He who gives every morning—what, He cannot give at midnight? For Him, is there a difference between day and night? Quickly call someone—give those five coins in charity.”
She opened the door—there stood a beggar. Midnight. She too could hardly believe. She asked, “What do you want?” “A great need—five coins.”
Muhammad laughed: “See—the One who sends a man at midnight to ask for five coins—He can also send to give them. Give them.”
As soon as the coins were given, Muhammad covered himself and breathed his last.
Give sidq and saburi and truth…
Make me wholly offered to You—holding nothing back. For I do not trust myself. I might tuck a bit away, “What if needed?” We do even surrender half-heartedly. Half-surrender is no surrender. As a half-vow is no vow, so half-surrender is none. Surrender either is complete, or it is not.
Sidq—let being-offered be total. Saburi—give patience, the capacity to wait endlessly; lest my patience break, lest I again start trying and return to the prop of ego.
Give sidq and saburi and truth…
Give the capacity for true offering, true patience—for false patience is possible. You can sit with eyes closed, peeking now and again: “Has He come yet?”—then close them again. Whom are you deceiving?
People come to me. I say, “Do not hurry into meditation. It will happen when it happens. Do your best, and keep waiting.”
They say, after a few days, “Ten days we have been meditating—not that there is any hurry—but nothing has happened yet.”
“No hurry—and yet nothing has happened!” They do not know what they say. If there is no hurry, how does “nothing has happened yet” arise? And ten days—is that anything? “We meditated an hour a day for ten days; You have not come yet?” You are trying to push hurry upon God: “We sat with eyes closed for an hour, and You yet not come? Injustice!”
Give sidq and saburi and truth—this Dadu, Your servant, asks.
And I am only a beggar, a servant—I can only ask. I have nothing to give.
But what Dadu asks is worth asking. You too go and ask from the Divine—but what you ask is petty: the wife’s health, a child, a job, a lawsuit. You too ask—but your petty asks show you have nothing to do with the Divine; you want to employ Him for your purposes: “Win my case, heal my wife, give me a child.” You want to be master and make Him your servant. All your prayers are attempts to use Him.
If you will ask, ask as Dadu asks. He asks only this: “Give patience, give contentment. Give me the courage to be wholly offered without holding back. Give feeling, devotion, trust.” Dadu says, “Give me all those factors amid which Your descent becomes possible.”
These are the pillars of the temple—bhakti, feeling, trust, patience, surrender, steadiness. Build the temple—so only then can we invite You. Just now, how to invite? Even the temple is not ready, nor Your throne.
The final prayer is the prayer to obtain the Divine. The last prayer is to be absorbed into the Divine. If you must ask, ask only for God. And if you must give anything to God, give your whole self—hold nothing back. These two are two faces of one coin—the day you give yourself totally, that day you will receive Him totally. Giving is the way of receiving; when the drop dissolves into the ocean, it becomes the ocean.
Enough for today.