Sahaj Yog #6

More enchanting, more honey-sweet than songs already heard is the unheard song;
Lovelier than all that eyes have seen is the unseen friend of the heart!
The less the mind is in love with the unseen,
The more the fire in one’s life-breath has waned!
Mind holds greater power than body; prana is stronger than the flesh;
Vaster than earth is the sky, greater than the known is the Unknown!
The less of the uncharted sky there is in one’s life-breath,
The less meaningful becomes his dwelling upon the earth!
In the unreachable cavern’s heart a smokeless lamp is aflame;
Blessed are those eyes that can kiss its cresting flame!
The more loveless the eyes are toward light,
The more wretched they become—broken, stained, a shattered mirror!
That five-tiered vessel flows on—ceaseless, unbroken;
Its task: to run from the unknowable peak to the unknowable ocean!
The boat keeps drifting on, the sky become the sail of prana;
The farther the Ordainer is from the eyes, the nearer He is to the heart!

The search called Dharma is the search for the Unknown: the quest for what has not yet been known, for what has not yet been recognized. The yearning to meet That with whom no meeting has yet occurred—this very longing is Dharma. What has been known is the world; what has not yet been known, that alone is Paramatma.
And Paramatma is not only unknown, He is unknowable. Even as you know Him, something remains ever to be known—such is His nature. The more deeply one sinks, the more doors open into yet deeper depths.
More enchanting, more honey-sweet than songs already heard is the unheard song;
Lovelier than all that eyes have seen is the unseen friend of the heart!
The world is that which the eyes can see; Paramatma is that which the eyes cannot see. And to behold Him, the eyes must be closed. To see the world, the eyes need opening; to see Paramatma, the eyes need closing.
The whole art of religion is the art of closing the eyes. And only with eyes closed does He become visible—for He abides in your innermost core.
The less the mind is in love with the unseen,
The more the fire in one’s life-breath has waned!
He is not truly alive who has not been called by the Unknown, whose life-breath does not throb with a longing—to overleap the summits of the Unknowable, to launch one’s boat upon the seas of the Unknown. He whose mind holds no aspiration, who has settled on a little cottage upon the shore—houses of safety, houses of convenience—who has abandoned the pilgrimage on the path of Truth—such a man is not alive; at best he merely bears the name of life. There is no fire within; only spent ashes. The religious man flames forth; there is a fire within him—and each day the flame grows denser, the urgency rises. Then a blaze arises in him, smokeless.
When does smoke arise? When the wood is wet. When the wood is utterly dry, there is no smoke. Smoke does not come from fire, as people commonly imagine; it comes from the moisture hidden in the wood—from wetness, not from flame. The more fire there is in you, the less smoke there will be in your life. But now there is smoke upon smoke, and the fire is nowhere to be seen. Lust has soaked you through; let meditation dry you out.
The word tapascharya is dear. It has been distorted—fallen into wrong hands and distorted; otherwise the word is very lovely. Tap means to dry, to make dry. Tapascharya means: let all inner dampness depart; become like a thoroughly dry log. Then the flame that ignites will be smokeless. Then your vision will be clear. The farthest of the far will become visible; veils will lift even from the face of the most hidden.
Mind holds greater power than body; prana is stronger than the flesh;
Vaster than earth is the sky, greater than the known is the Unknown!
The less of the uncharted sky there is in one’s life-breath,
The less meaningful becomes his dwelling upon the earth!
You will live on earth in vain if you remain unacquainted with the sky. If you revolve only within the known, you are an oil-press bullock. To revolve within the known is to move in a circle. Only the journey into the Unknown—moment to moment—can bring you near to That which is eternal. Then the boredom of your life will vanish.
Look at people—how bored they are! As if bearing mountains upon their chest. No sparkle of life in the eyes, no heartbeat of life in the heart—no song wells up, no sign of bliss appears. They live—what else to do? It’s compulsion. They live because death has not yet come. Living, they wait for death. Such living is like living on ashes. And if the taste of ash has spread upon your tongue, there is no surprise—for this living is not living at all; it is a counterfeit of life. Until the sky calls you…
Let your roots sink into the earth, but raise your branches into the sky. Abide in what is known—and yet keep searching for the Unknown. This is what I mean when I say: be a householder and a sannyasin too. Householder means earth. Sannyasin means sky. And just as earth and sky are together, so within you both are happening together—whether you know it or not. Your body belongs to earth, its roots in the soil. Your Atman belongs to the sky. An unparalleled meeting is happening in you. You are the horizon where earth and sky meet. But you have forgotten the sky; you have become nothing but earth—only clay, all earthen; you know nothing of the conscious, the luminous.
In the unreachable cavern’s heart, where a smokeless lamp is ablaze,
Meaningful are those eyes that can kiss the lamp’s flame!
One has to kiss the light—to embrace the light. From that embrace, meaning is born, poetry takes birth, and anklets are tied upon your feet. “Tying the anklets, Mira danced!” You too will dance. One must dance. If you go without dancing, you came in vain and left in vain. The opportunity was missed.
That unreachable cavern is not far—it is none other than the cave of your own heart. There a lamp is lit—without wick and without oil! There is no smoke there, only pure flame.
Meaningful are those eyes that can kiss the lamp’s flame!
The more loveless the eyes are toward light,
The more wretched they become—broken, stained, a shattered mirror!
If your eyes have lost their luster, it is because the love for light has not awakened in you. The touch of light has not happened within. Live in darkness, and your eyes will grow blind. This is how people’s eyes have become. Those to whom only matter is visible and not Paramatma—such cannot truly be called “eyes.” Matter is visible to the camera’s eye as well; there is no glory in that. The camera can capture that image. Let there be some difference between your eyes and a camera’s. Only one difference is meaningful, dignified: begin to see That which is hidden within matter, concealed behind it. Otherwise your eyes will remain sad, your heart broken; the strings of your vina will never be tuned; the anahata’s resonance will never arise within you.
And everything is present within you. You are the seed of Paramatma. But for now you are a seed, a possibility. Possibilities must be made real. As yet, you are a dream, not truth.
What is at the root of the tree,
Is in the fruit and blossom on the bough.
Tell me, that small in-form—what is it?
—The seed!
It plays hide-and-seek
With the dust-grains of the earth,
Learns ascent and descent
From the flute-song of the sky!
Form small, yet shadow vast;
The tree’s whole body stands—
But that shade-giving—what is it?
—The seed!
The most truly real, supremely lucid—
Subtle dream!
The smaller the seed,
The greater the banyan!
Fearless of the underground dark,
Its coral crest is seen above—
That silent essence-letter—what is it?
—The seed!
Learn from the seed, for you too are a seed. And you are the most precious seed upon the earth, for from you alone the flower of Paramatma can bloom. That golden lotus will blossom only in your lake. A great responsibility is upon you. If you die without knowing Paramatma, you have not fulfilled your responsibility. You die like a seed—never bursting open, never sprouting; neither flowering nor fruiting. Contentment belongs only to the one who flowers, who bears fruit.
Have you seen—when a tree is laden with flowers and fruit, what a shade of contentment surrounds it, what a mood of joy, of deep fulfillment!
Shall man die barren? Most do. Those who were meant to become, die without becoming. Learn from the seed. The seed can become a tree; yet if it does not find the right soil, it will not happen. It will remain like a pebble—dead. One must seek soil—and then dissolve into it, efface oneself. Only when the seed dies, does it become a tree.
Seek that ground—where you can die, where you can be effaced. Seek that soil—where you can surrender yourself. Where you bow down and the ego melts—that is where the sprouting will begin within you—and that sprouting is true life! From that sprouting you become twice-born; you give yourself a second birth. Before that, none is dvija. The first birth is from mother and father; the second you must give yourself, to yourself.
Roots grip the earth only if
They are rooted in the sky.
Sky-dwelling prana abides
In every single breath.
The body’s life is a hundred springs;
The life of prana—without end!
Here the rim of the horizon—beyond the rim,
The boundless expanse!
Earthen bonds keep loosening—
As the conscious bonds embrace!
Who sowed the seed—who knows—
In the lap of the vast ether?
New harvests rise day by day
On the plowed fields of earth!
Birth upon birth are cut asunder
By trust in the Unseen!
The earth’s smile is momentary;
Her tears—unceasing;
Reflected in the mind’s eyes—
Anxious within, the world distraught!
Only he has truly lived
In earth’s long history
Who did not live as others live.
A lovely saying!—
Only he has truly lived
In earth’s long history!
What you call living is utterly futile. Those who live like that have not lived at all.
Only he has truly lived
In earth’s long history!
You have mistaken the race for wealth, position, prestige for life? Ask the knowers, ask the awakened. They will say: those who lived like that did not live at all. Then who lived? The one who died to the outer and awakened to the inner—that one lived. The one who did not live at the circumference but at the center—he lived.
He alone lived who lived in the inner Self. One who lives in the inner Self moves in the outer like a lotus upon water. It is not that he does not live outwardly—he rises, sits, walks, moves about—he does all that is to be done; but now there is no attachment, no insistence, no clutching. Now he lives untouched. Now no dust of the outer can soil his mirror. “As I received it, spotless, so I have kept this sheet; with great care I have worn it.” He lives—and yet the sheet does not get soiled. He lays it down as pristine as it was.
This is your possibility. Fulfill it. Accept this challenge. Merely going to temples and mosques will not make you religious. If you accept this challenge, you will become religious.
Saraha’s aphorisms are exquisitely dear; let each word sink deep within.
आइ ण अंत ण मज्झ णउ णउ भव णउ णि ब्वाण।
एहु सो परम महासुख णउ पर णउ अप्पाण।।
“The natural, empty state—Samadhi—has neither beginning, nor end, nor middle; there is neither birth there nor nirvana. It is an otherworldly, supreme bliss. There, the sense of ‘other’ does not remain, nor of ‘one’s own.’”
Samadhi is the golden flower. Until you know Samadhi, do not halt your effort. Until you know Samadhi, stake your life; keep moving, keep rowing your boat—carry it to Samadhi’s shore. One who departs without knowing Samadhi—his comings and goings have been in vain. He suffered for nothing; he ate the dust of endless roads, without ever reaching the goal.
One who lives in problems will never know Samadhi. Samadhi means the ultimate solution.
Saraha calls Samadhi: the natural empty state—sahaja shunya. Sahaja means: arising from your own nature, erupting from within you. Asahaja means: imposed from above. Your present personality is imposed from above; it is inauthentic. It did not arise from within you; society draped it over you. One born in a Hindu home is a Hindu; parents have clothed him in a garment. Born in a Hindu home, he reads the Vedas, worships the Gita. The same child, born in a Jaina home, would never care for the Gita or Veda, would never step into a Hindu temple. He would go to a Jaina temple, worship Mahavira. His parents would have put different garments upon him.
What you are now, you have borrowed; you are not cash. Artificial. Others have colored you; you have not yet known your own color. Others have fixed masks upon your face, and standing before mirrors, looking at those masks, you think that is your face. It is not. Your face and Paramatma’s face are not different. Your face is the one you brought at birth—without name, without form; neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Buddhist; neither Shudra nor Brahmin—just pure being! That is sahaja.
That form—or that formlessness—is still present within you. However many garments have been forced upon you, your nature abides within them. If you awaken in your nakedness even now, you will know what is your innateness. But you have identified yourself with the garments. You have gripped the clothes. You say, “These clothes are me!” There the mistake was made, there the miss happened.
You have taken your name to be yourself. Did you bring a name with you? None brings a name. You have taken your language to be yourself. Did you bring a language? None brings a language. None brings a religion, none a country. These things are taught. You have been made to repeat them like parrots. You have become parrots. And you strut with great pride, because you remember the Vedas, because you have the Quran by heart. Look at your arrogance! And you have not the slightest awareness that when you came, you had neither Quran nor Veda. You were—like a blank page. And when you were a blank page, you were linked with Paramatma. Since your page has been pulped, you have been linked to society. Since then you have fallen out of connection with yourself and become bound with the crowd—becoming a fragment of the mob, losing your soul.
Sahaja means what is your very nature; what you need not learn from another but must discover within. Peel the layers, go down layer by layer, until you reach where the “witness” is found. Understand this word, then you will grasp the foundation-stone of sahaja-yoga.
Two things are happening within you. One is the witness—who only sees, the pure seer; never anything other than witnessing. The other is your body, your mind, your samskaras, your thoughts. All these pass before the witness. But you do not merely see them; you make color and affection with them; you build attachment with them. A gloomy cloud passes across your mind, as a cloud passes across the sky. Seeing a cloud pass across the sky, you do not say, “I am a cloud!” If you did, people would call you mad. But this you are doing in a deeper sense—this very madness! To the eyes of the knowers, you are mad indeed. A cloud of sadness passed across your mind; a moment ago there was sunshine, no cloud; a moment ago you were smiling, delighted. Then a neighbor said something—just the ring of two words—and a gloomy cloud gathered within you! Or someone looked at you with a glance you did not like; or the man who bows every day did not bow today—a shadow fell across your mind—a dark cloud gathered. Just now the sun had risen. Just now there was light; now it is dark. And you say, “I am sad.”
You are in error. You are not this sad cloud; nor were you the sunshine. You were not the shadow. The former mistake was to say, “I am happy, I am joy, I am bliss”—and now, “I am sorrow.” Another while and anger will come; another while and love will arise.
Hour by hour, many things pass along the track of your mind. It is a great thoroughfare! Traffic runs day and night. With each traveler you become identified—and never recall that you are other than all of them. Sorrow and happiness come and go. You neither come nor go. You have no coming, no going. Sorrow and joy are guests who tarry awhile in your house and depart. You are the host. You are the householder; they are guests. Do not become one with any of them. The moment you identify, error happens.
This very becoming identified with states of mind is samsara. The breaking of this identity is the birth of the witness. That is Samadhi.
Just watch. If sorrow comes, watch—and keep knowing: “I am the watcher, not the sorrow.” You will be startled. Bring this small experiment into life. It is a key. It opens the door of nectar. Sorrow arises—keep watching. Remain alert, because the old habit is ancient—lifetimes old—of quickly becoming sad. Say, “I am the seer; I am only a mirror. A shadow of sorrow is forming—fine. The mirror is not saddened by shadows. When the shadow is gone, the mirror is empty again.” You are only the mirror, the seer, the mere witness. And then, suddenly you will be amazed: the cloud of sorrow is there—and you are not sorrowful! The cloud is there; you are here—between the two an infinite sky! An unbridgeable gap, never to be filled, never to be joined. Gloom may be—but you are not gloomy; you only observe.
Then happiness will come—now do not become happy. Because one somehow tries to watch sorrow—no one wants to be sorrowful; but pleasure—quickly it is embraced, quickly it is wrapped. Do the same with pleasure. It too is a cloud. A guest that comes and goes. If you run after each guest, life will shatter—it already has. Let happiness come—watch it.
If you can watch both pleasure and pain, the state that arises within you is called sahaja, sakshi, Samadhi. At first, it will come for a moment—but if even for a moment it comes, it has arrived. At first only a glimpse of witnessing will flash—but that much is enough. Taste it once—and you will be astonished at the extraordinary nectar that flows in that instant! How a shower of amrita descends! Neither sorrow nor joy—Saraha calls that state “mahāsukh”—supreme bliss. Neither sorrow nor joy! Be careful—do not be deceived by the word “mahāsukh.” Words must be used. Some call that state ananda—but again the same mistake arises, you think “ananda” means an enormous heap of pleasures. Saraha says “mahāsukh”—do not be misled. This supreme bliss has nothing to do with your pleasure. It is only when both pleasure and pain have departed that mahāsukh is experienced.
Buddha’s word is more fitting—he uses shanti: the supreme peace. All becomes empty. A stainless state—nothing rises, nothing falls; nothing comes, nothing goes. A deep hush. A unique peace. But within it is supreme bliss—and so Saraha speaks truly: the natural empty state… When you know this state, you will see: it has no beginning, no end; it never starts and never finishes. And, naturally, that which has neither beginning nor end has no middle. It is eternal. This is Sanatana. This is the Sanatana Dharma. “Hindu dharma” is not Sanatana Dharma—this sahaja, shunya, Samadhi is Sanatana Dharma! There is neither birth there nor nirvana. There none is ever born, none ever dies. There is no time—what birth, what death! It is an otherworldly mahāsukh.
It is otherworldly—first note this. It has no relation to any pleasures you have known in this world. Between worldly pleasures and this mahāsukh there is no relation of degree—there is a difference of kind. It is of an altogether different order. For it, there are no words; so worldly words must be pressed into service—with a proviso: “otherworldly, supreme bliss,” lest you forget.
The pleasures you have known are sensory—of taste, of sound, of form. They have come from outside. Dawn came, a beautiful sun arose, your eyes were enraptured, and delight came within—but it came from without. It is not sahaja. It was not born within. It is foreign, of a different kind. You ate, you tasted, it was pleasant—again from outside.
That mahāsukh does not come from without—it manifests within. Its ignition is inner. That music sounds within; that flavor rises within; that form condenses within. It does not come through the senses—it is supersensory, otherworldly, and boundless. It does not come bit by bit; when it comes, the whole sky seems to break upon you. There, the sense of other and of one’s own vanish—no “you,” no “I.” All are gone. Who is you, who is I?
The whole game of “I–thou” is outer. Outside you are separate, I am separate. Within, we are one. Not only we humans—tree and beast and bird are one there. And not only contemporaries—the ones before us and those who will come after—all are one there. There is only One: the ocean. All waves are His—rising and falling in Him. The waves that rose before rose in Him; those rising now rise in Him; those to come will rise in Him. The ocean is one. One who has known the ocean of mahāsukh is emancipated.
Remember: mahāsukh is a state where there is neither pleasure nor pain, for pleasure is an excitement, and pain too. There, no excitation.
“I know not why it was necessary that both should go together—
Where sorrow departed, there joy too took leave.”
The day your sorrow goes, the pleasure you have known will also depart.
“I know not why it was necessary that both should go together—
Where sorrow departed, there joy too took leave.”
Only then is mahāsukh born. Then you attain a unique experience you have always been seeking. Even if you did not know exactly what you sought, the search was for this. We search for this—even unknowingly—because sometime, in some moment, we have known it. In the mother’s womb the child drinks its nectar, abides in its nature; the moment it is born, “becoming-other” begins. We start teaching and training him; we begin superimposing. For nine months he was steeped in a bliss.
The small child in the mother’s belly—his senses give him nothing: his eyes have not opened, he sees no forms; he eats not, he tastes nothing. All his senses are asleep, closed. Like a bud with petals shut. But within the bud, fragrance is! The sap flows within. There is a stream of bliss. Birth happens—and we begin to teach, to make him something-or-other. We begin writing upon his blank page.
And we too are compelled—some writing must be done. I do not say do not write. Some writing must be done. Language must be taught, else how will he speak? But with language, the silence is lost. And yet language must be taught—an unavoidable evil; otherwise he will remain mute. How will life’s business proceed? How will he earn his bread? Something must be done. How will he talk to people? So language must be taught. But as language fills him, the inner emptiness is lost. The bargain is costly, but it must be made.
If only parents, society, family could keep this in mind: while language is taught, in some corner let the child be taught to save a space of emptiness—then the work is done. Teach language—and also help him to retain a memory: Do not ever forget your inner shunya. In twenty-four hours, at least for one hour, be empty; twenty-three hours language—one hour emptiness. And children learn emptiness faster than anyone else—because they are still in emptiness. It is an obstacle for learning language. Since they are still in shunya, if we can protect a little of their shunya, we will do more good to them than all our education can do.
Then do not teach what can be left un-taught. As I said, language must be taught; but there is no need to teach him to be a Hindu, nor to be a Muslim. Such instruction is useless. Yes, we should teach him the search for Paramatma. Tell him: seek Paramatma. What is seen is not all; there is also the Unseen; the Unknown too—seek That. And if parents truly love their child, at times they will take him to a mosque, at times to a gurudwara, sometimes to a church, sometimes to a temple—who knows where your meeting may happen! Search everywhere. All doors are His. Do not be narrow. Do not insist “only in the temple we will seek,” or “only in the mosque.”
If parents truly love their children, they will keep open for them the doors of all temples. They will say: read the Vedas a little, read the Quran a little, the Gita, the Dhammapada—who knows from which window a ray will descend! Who knows in what way your tuning will happen—sitting in a gurudwara or a church; listening to Nanak’s song or Kabir’s; hearing Muhammad’s words or Mahavira’s! Do not make him Hindu, do not make him Muslim. Give him the urge for Dharma—but do not impose. Do not say “God is”—for then you are imposing theism upon him. Say only this: There is something Unknown—seek it. And when by your seeking it is found, only then place your trust—before that, not even faith.
Give the child strength for seeking—courage, adventure; do not stop until you know. But believe only when you know. Do not believe on loan. Understand the difference? Give not doctrine—give search. Give thirst. Then another kind of world can be born—if children’s hearts are kept open and we do not forcibly impose religions upon them or cram them with religious notions, but hold their hand for a while and then let go, and say: now walk on your own feet—now seek. If anywhere you meet a true lover of Paramatma, bow down. Whether he be Hindu or Muslim or Christian—no matter; black or white—no matter; woman or man—no matter. If ever, anywhere, you find a beloved of the Divine, know: this is the soil—let your seed fall here; end here; take new birth here.
The search goes on because we knew it before birth. And then we are cut off from it, flung away.
“Amid crowds of grief and pain, I seek for joy;
In the dark I seek the light.”
However great the suffering, even in its excess we seek only bliss—that very mahāsukh.
“Amid crowds of grief and pain, I seek for joy;
In the dark I seek the light.”
The search is for that alone. Those who search knowingly will find soon. Those who search without knowing may wander for lifetimes and not find. To make the search conscious—that is initiation. To become wakeful toward the search—that, rightly, filled with awareness—that is sannyas.
“That shunya-state is such that it has no beginning, no end, no middle; no birth there, no nirvana.”
Why should a wave care to go to the far shore of the ocean?
Every wave is water—wave small or great.
The jiva hides within himself a treasury of Brahman-bliss;
Why should not the inner-man of all sing together in ecstasy?
The throat released from the pitcher—each moment a new link in the song!
Here, life rehearses for there;
Even if by imitation, the jiva enacts the dance anew each day—
Each passing moment brings nearer the moment of nectar!
He endures sorrow by knowledge—seeing pleasure as impermanent;
In worship of the divine he turns stones into living awareness.
As you turn here, there a shower of blossoms descends!
The jiva dwells forever in the temple of bliss, in constant worship;
The sweet smile of the god-image offers divine welcome;
At the door of the temple of attainment, fulfillment has been standing long on guard!
How long Paramatma has been waiting upon our path! Not far is the matter—our nature bears Him within! Why should a wave care to go to the far shore of the ocean? A wave has nowhere to go—this shore or that. Every wave is water—wave small or great. The ocean is present in every wave; recognize this, remember it.
The jiva hides within himself a treasury of Brahman-bliss!
Why should not the inner-man of all sing together in ecstasy?
The throat released from the pitcher, each moment becomes a new link of song!
Why should a wave care to go to the far shore of the ocean?
Every wave is water—wave small or great!
It makes no difference whether the wave be small or big—the same ocean swells within every wave. Nowhere to go—Brahman-bliss abides within you. Turn within a little—and a revolution happens.
Turn this way—and from that side flowers begin to shower.
Each passing moment then brings nearer the moment of nectar.
At the door of the temple of attainment, fulfillment has stood long on guard!
Just look within! What you seek is there—and has been there from the timeless past! What you seek abides within you. Therefore Saraha calls it sahaja-yoga. It is not outside; it is within. It is not to be attained in the future; it is available now.
“What gain in wearing out your feet in vain?
If you are truly enamored of the wilderness—bring it forth in your home.”
People run about needlessly—one hurries to Kaba, another to Kashi, another to Kailash. A futile bustle.
“What gain in wearing out your feet in vain?
If you are truly enamored of the wilderness—bring it forth in your home.”
If there is even a little courage, if there is genuine longing, taste, love for Paramatma—then create the inner emptiness here and now. Everything will happen—Kaba, Kashi, Kailash—everything will take place there, within.
There, no birth, no nirvana. There—otherworldly, mahāsukh. No one alien there, no one one’s own; no “I,” no “Thou.”
“Keep no awareness of anyone—in the sanctuary of Love;
Rather, forget even God—in the prostration before the One beyond need.”
There, not to speak of forgetting “mine” and “thine,” even the awareness of God dissolves. Who can keep account in such emptiness! That is why Saraha does not use the word “God”—for in that supreme state even such a distinction does not remain: who is devotee, who Bhagavan!
“Keep no awareness of anyone—in the sanctuary of Love.
Rather, forget even God—in the prostration before the One beyond need.” In Love’s absorption the devotee becomes God, God becomes the devotee. In Love’s absorption there is neither worshipper nor worshipped. There is shunya. There, the music of shunya resounds—no player, no instrument. An otherworldly moment indeed.
घोरान्धारे चंदमणि जिम उज्जोअ करेइ।
परम महासुह एक्कु खणे दुरि आसेस हरेइ।।
“As the moon-gem lights up the densest darkness, just so this wondrous mahāsukh, in a single instant, destroys the entire hoard of evil tendencies.”
Keep this in mind—for your priests have taught you otherwise. They say: karma accumulated over lifetimes requires lifetimes to dissolve; nothing will happen quickly. Saraha says: in a single instant the happening happens—as darkness of a thousand years disappears the moment a lamp is lit. Will the darkness say, “I am a thousand years old; I cannot be chased away so quickly. Burn lamps for a thousand years, then I will go”? Light the lamp—and darkness is gone! Darkness has not even the time to protest. Whether the darkness is a thousand years old or ten million—it makes no difference. Darkness has no layers that thickened through the ages. Whether the darkness be a moment old or from beginningless time—it is the same before light.
So with that moment of revolution. In whom the light of sahaja dawns, the experience of shunya—his entire karma is cut in a single instant. “We did”—this thought itself is false. We dreamt we did. As at night, you dream—you became a thief; you stole, you killed; or you became a monk and performed great austerities. When you awaken in the morning you laugh—neither were you a thief nor a saint. You can be none of these—you are only a witness. All your deeds are illusions; all your acts are dramas—nothing more; mere roles. Whether you play Rama in the Ramlila or Ravana—it makes no difference. On the stage it plays; behind the curtain neither Ravana is Ravana, nor Rama Rama. Before the audience, the play is on—hence it is called lila—play.
Lila means: just play. Do not give it more value, more meaning. If the saint’s dream or the sinner’s dream—dream is dream. The day you awaken, the end comes the same day. When you awaken, all dreams end.
“I am the doer”—this is the dream; “I am the witness”—this is awakening.
Saraha says: as the moon-gem lights the dense dark, so this mahāsukh in a moment destroys all vice. Had vice been real, it could not be destroyed in a moment; time would be required. If wounds are real, they take time to heal. But if the wound is an illusion—then the moment the illusion is seen through, it is healed in that instant. If the snake were truly on the path, it would take time to drive it away or to kill it; but if it was only a rope mis-seen in the dark—then at the lamp’s lighting, it ends immediately. It never was; hence it ends at once. What is unreal alone can end in an instant. What is real cannot end in an instant; it will take as long as it has lasted. If the disease is real, treatment is needed; if it is false, even a fakir’s ash will cure it—because the illness is false, a false remedy will do.
Once a man slightly mad was brought to me. His madness was small, but troublesome. He had the notion that a fly had entered inside him as he slept with his mouth open. The fly, he said, kept buzzing within—now in the head, now in the belly, now the hand, now the foot. In all else he was normal, but this one hassle—he would clutch his stomach in the midst of work: “In the belly!” Or hold his head—“Now in the head!” Doctors examined him, saying: even if a fly went in, it would die; how can it go roaming about? There are no tunnels from head to belly. But he would not agree: “Should I trust you or my experience? It buzzes, clearly I hear it. I feel it moving, sliding.”
They said, “It’s your delusion.” But by saying “delusion,” does delusion end? His wife was worn out. They brought him to me. I said, “A tricky case—yet let’s try.” I asked, “Where is it now?” He said, “In my head.” I put my hand on his head and said, “I too can hear the buzzing.” He rejoiced, touched my feet: “You are the first person with some sense. Stop paying those doctors and vaidyas.” He told his wife, “See! I told you there’s a fly. Now listen!” The wife was terrified that I had endorsed his madness. I signaled her not to worry. I told him, “Lie down, let the fly roam everywhere; I will see from where to draw it out.” I covered his eyes with a towel. “Lie quietly and keep noticing where it is; when I ask, tell me—now here, now here.” He was happy for the first time—someone accepted him; his mind calmed. I ran about the house to catch a fly. Somehow I trapped one, put it in a bottle, and sat down. “Now where?” I asked. “Right now at the throat.” I said, “Open your mouth and blow out hard.” He blew. “Caught!” I lifted the cloth: “See, the fly!” “Give me the bottle,” he said, “I’ll show all those rascals!” A living fly—she will move, won’t she? But the inner fly was gone. He went to show the doctors. They too were at a loss; only the wife knew. I told her, “Never disclose the secret—if you tell, the inner fly will return.” She keeps silent, however much he boasts. She knows the truth—no fly was ever there; none was ever taken out—only an illusion.
Illusions break in a moment. You have not created any real world—you have only thought it. That is why I do not tell you to run to jungles, to abandon house and home. That would be to exchange one dream for another: from the market’s dream to the cave’s. What would change? You convinced the dream-thief to become a dream-saint—what difference? Before, you were a robber; now a muni. But witnessing was not before, nor is it now. Understand the difference. Only the witness has taken the path to Paramatma. And to be a witness, you need not go to the forest. You can be a witness anywhere—in the market or the jungle, in a hut or a palace. If witnessing is the aim, what does it matter? Why insist on palace or hut? Let palace be if there is palace, or hut if there is hut. The work is of another order.
But your so-called saints tell you: leave palaces, live in huts—as if huts are true and palaces false! They say: eat not twice, eat once—as if eating twice is dream and once is truth! They say: leave wife and children—yet gather disciples; as if wife and children are dreams and disciples are not! And the fun is, these disciples are someone’s wives and husbands. Strange! Someone’s being a wife is dream, but someone becoming a disciple is not.
If all relations are dreams, then awaken where you are—why run about? No coming or going.
Do not seek the forest—seek witnessing, seek shunya. It is within you; for it, the Himalaya is not required.
“This hopelessness, this unbelief—these are but gleams of faith and hope.
Cross these darknesses—and you will find the light of certainty.
Though the sea of heart be all ash—within this ash is the essence;
When the people of heart will seek, a whole world of sparks will be found buried.”
Within this ash an ember lies hidden. Do not lose heart, do not fall into despair. Within you all is hidden. Within these very dreams the truth is buried. Crossing these very darknesses, the light of trust will be found. Break this blindness—and the eyes of faith will open.
“Light the lamp of beauty—for the darkness is great.
Lift the veil from the face—for the darkness is deep.”
The darkness is vast. If you lift the veil from your face, there will be light. The dark is dense—but if the lamp of love is lit, there will be light. Light the lamp of beauty—the beauty hidden within you—let it be revealed. That is the moon-gem. The love pressed within you—that is the ember. You are sitting wrapped up and covered—remove it!
“What reason calls ‘wine,’
Pour that light—for the darkness is great.”
One must drink the ecstasy. Drinking that ecstasy is what bhajan is, kirtan is, dhyana is. Without ecstasy, all is only ritual. Saraha is a great enemy of ritual—as all who have known are and always will be. You can embrace someone without love. Actors do it on the stage. You too can. Then embrace is ritual. But if love is within and you embrace, it is another matter—then not bones to bones alone, soul comes near to soul. Yet outwardly both look the same: one embracing without love, another with love—the spectator sees them alike; even a photograph shows no difference.
That is the hitch. Mira danced—and so does the priest you hire for a hundred rupees a month; he too dances in your temple. Mira waved the arati—but in her arati, the lamps of the soul were ablaze. Your hired priest too waves arati—if you are watching, he waves a little longer; if you are not, he blows through it quickly, he has other temples to attend.
Where have prayers ever been with hirelings! You too pray like that. The day there is something to gain—see how you call upon God! When there is nothing to gain—you finish quickly.
Someone asked a small child, “Do you pray before sleeping?” “Yes,” he said. “And in the morning?” “No.” “How so? Did your mother teach you only at night, not in the morning?” “Mother taught both,” he said, “but at night I get scared, so I pray. In the morning I fear no one—so why pray?”
The small child speaks what the grown-ups conceal. These are big children. When trouble comes, they go to temple—into Hanuman’s temple—“I will offer a coconut; I will do this, do that.” Do not be sure that if the trouble passes, they will remember their promise.
It is told, Mulla Nasruddin was returning from the Hajj. The ship began to sink—an old tale. Great storm; all sat down for their last prayer. Mulla too. “Lord,” he cried, “if you save me, I will give away everything—even that nine-lakh mansion I built—I will distribute it to the poor!” Others were shocked—for the nine-lakh mansion was Mulla’s obsession. They doubted—but in such a tight spot, one even tries to bribe God. The ship was saved by chance. Now Mulla was worried. People said, “Mulla, we all heard—and you’re returning from Hajj—mind your promise.” He was in a fix—half wishing the ship had sunk. “Let me reach shore first,” he said. On shore he kept postponing. The whole village gathered, “This is too much.” They were jealous too—the nine-lakh mansion burned their chests. “Either donate it, or accept that you are a sinner—promising God and reneging.” But Mulla was shrewd: “I will donate. Tomorrow we auction the mansion, and whatever money comes, we will distribute to the poor.” Next day the auction. A surprise—the mansion was shown along with a cat tied before it. People asked, “What is this cat?” “Both will be sold together,” he said. “The cat’s price—nine lakhs; the mansion—one rupee.” Buyers thought, “What do we care which item carries the price? We get a nine-lakh mansion, and a one-rupee cat.” They bought. Mulla pocketed the nine lakhs and donated the one rupee.
See the trickery—the dishonesty! If a chance comes, man will cheat even God. God must have slapped his forehead: “Bravo! We never thought you would invent such a device!”
A mother gave her son two quarters: “Offer one at Hanuman’s temple, keep one for yourself.” He went, tossing the coins. One slipped, slid into the drain. “Hanumanji—yours you take care of. I cannot go into the drain. You are all-pervading, all-knowing, all-powerful—go get yours; I’ll keep mine.”
When distressed, we remember God—but even then our cunning remains.
The dark is deep; ritual will not dispel it; a living ecstasy is needed.
“What reason calls ‘wine’—
Pour that light—the darkness is great.”
Drink this light from these words. They are the utterances of the intoxicated—of the mad in love.
जब्बे मण अत्थमण जाइ तणु तुट्टइ बन्धण।
तब्बे समरस सहजे वज्जइ णउ सुछ ण बम्हण।।
“The very moment this mind sets, or dissolves, bonds break. In that even-taste, sahaja state, all distinctions disappear—neither Shudra nor Brahmin.”
Where the mind sets or dissolves—that is Samadhi.
What is mind? The sum of what others have given you. What you truly are is Samadhi. Your Samadhi has been buried under the rubbish given by others. Bid this mind farewell. Whatever you think—that is mind. Whatever you cogitate—that is mind. But that which witnesses even mind—that neither thinks nor cogitates—only sees. A thought arises within—good or bad—arises; you see it arising, taking form, condensing, going, departing. That seer—you are. Thoughts come from outside.
You will be amazed to know: even when you do not read anything or have anything put into your mind, thoughts from outside come by subtle paths. Sometimes you sit quietly and suddenly depression seizes you—with no visible cause. Perhaps a depressed person passed by; his wave entered you. The mind is very sensitive—it catches everything. Sometimes merely nearing someone, you feel good—he said nothing; near him it feels good. Another’s mere presence makes you uneasy; their very sight ruins your day. You know such people—meet them, and for hours your mind is sour. They did not abuse you or insult you—just met! On the road a greeting—and something happens.
Every person broadcasts his thoughts continuously. Before radio, you never suspected waves were passing. Now—turn on a radio, and you know what the madmen in Delhi are doing! Your mind too catches all waves—unknowingly. You are under their influence every moment. You get up, sit down, move—but you are in a sea of waves. Like a fish in water—you are in a sea of thought-waves. And you are not strong yet—not your own master—that you can choose which wave to take and which to refuse. Such mastery belongs only to the witness. You quickly catch anything—any litter drifting in the air, and your head grabs it. Not only do you grab it—you call it “my thought”! You are even ready to fight and die: “My thought! You refuted my idea!”
Thoughts belong to none; they are collective—of the crowd. No thought is original. Never imagine a thought is yours. You are thought-free.
“The very moment this mind sets or dissolves, bonds break.” That is all. Mind binds you; if mind goes, bonds go. Mind is your chain; mind is the prison-wall. When mind moves aside, the open sky is yours—the whole existence is yours.
When no thought remains, naturally the even-taste, sahaja state dawns. One single flavor flows—neither pain nor pleasure. One fragrance only—call it the fragrance of Paramatma, or of truth, or of nirvana—but one. Even-taste—no discord at all. A single tone resounds—the Omkar. Then there is no Brahmin, no Shudra—all distinctions fall. They too are of thought. Told since childhood that you are a Brahmin—you become a Brahmin. Told you are a Shudra—you become a Shudra. Told tales. Yet how much havoc upon such labels!
This is the twentieth century—and in this unfortunate land people are still being burned alive—because of a label “Shudra”! People are denied water at wells—because those wells belong to Brahmins. And this land calls itself religious. What kind of religious land? What kind of democracy? People are burned alive—and the government does not stir! Inhuman—to the core. And the crux: only a label on a man.
You see someone with sandal paste upon his forehead—you bend quickly to touch his feet—even if he be a Shudra. And if a Brahmin comes and says “I am a tanner,” you step aside. You care not for Brahmin or tanner—but only for the label. Labels suffice. On goods, labels are fine—for without labels, goods become difficult to sell. In a medical shop, labels are needed. But on human beings—there is only one Paramatma—none Shudra, none Brahmin. Do not label human beings. Man is not merchandise. Remove the labels. All awakened ones have said this—and yet you do not listen. And with labels, what riots!
“I am only a human—not Hindu, not Muslim;
In my heart’s pain, there is no division of faith.”
One who awakens even a little will say: I am not Muslim, not Hindu—I am only human. It is enough that I am human. In my heart there are no separations, no biases. One not yet human—how can he be religious? One not yet human—how will he raise his eyes to Paramatma? You have turned people into things.
“Be neither Hindu nor fire-worshipping Gabru, nor Muslim.
If you are a man—be humane.
Else you will slide into ruin—
Burn in your own hell.”
Neither Hindu, nor Gabru fire-worshipper, nor Muslim—if you are a man, be humane. This one thing is to be—human. You are not becoming even human—and your divisions of Hindu and Muslim are not letting you become human. Else you will slide into ruin—this earth has become hell. So many bombs, so many nuclear weapons gathered—soon the burning will begin. Now it is time to drop all divisions. Declare this earth a single home. It already is. Technology has made it so small—stop your old nonsense.
Now the situation is such—you can breakfast in New York, lunch in London, and suffer indigestion in Poona… The world is that close. Do not call it big; it has become tiny. In this small house, heaven can descend. But man’s old habits, old stupidities persist—instead of heaven, the earth is turning into hell.
चीअ थिर करि धरहु रे नाइ। आन उपाये पार ण जाइ।
नौवा ही नौका टानअ गुणे। मेलि मेलि सहजे जाउण आणे।।
“O boatman! Steady the mind and carry your boat to the shore of sahaja. Draw it by the rope—there is no other way.”
O boatman!—each person is boatman of the infinite; each life a boat. O boatman—steady the mind! Do only this: let the restlessness, the thought-broil subside. When waves no longer ripple, the mind is no more. Know: “quiet mind” does not exist—quiet mind means no-mind. Quiet mind does not mean mind remains—quiet. Where peace arrives, mind is gone. Mind means unrest.
Thus one who steadies the mind is surprised to find: as mind steadies, mind disappears. Mind was only a name for restlessness; for noise; for the ceaseless stream of thoughts. When all halts—
“O boatman, steady your mind—and carry your boat to the shore of sahaja!” A lovely saying. Carry your boat to the shore of sahaja—and do not become unnatural. This is Saraha’s basic tone, core message: do not become unnatural. Do not lose life’s naturalness.
One stands on his head—that is unnatural. Not sadhana—mere folly. If Paramatma wanted you to stand on your head, He would have made you that way. Another is twisting his body into awkward postures—as if from twisting, harmony will arise! Have you made life a circus? Fine—if you want the circus, learn tumbling. But from this no even-taste will arise. Perhaps the body becomes healthy, perhaps strong; perhaps you live a few years more—what of it? The real question is to know the inner eternal—not longer or shorter living. Life is eternal—recognize that. It is—within the body, and when the body drops, it still is. For this recognition—will you only twist the body?
People have done strange things—some have torn their ears; ear-split sadhus! One stands nude—as if nakedness brings God. Another plucks his hair—thinking hair-plucking leads to God! Another starves and kills his body—whom are you killing? You kill Paramatma within, for He is your within. Some flagellate themselves. Among Christians, some fakirs whip themselves each morning—the more lashes, the greater the saint. Some pluck out their eyes—since through eyes forms are seen; pluck them out! These are upside-down deeds.
Saraha says: head for the shore of sahaja. Keep life natural—do not contort. Contort—and you miss. Paramatma is found in the simple, the natural.
“Carry your boat to the shore of sahaja—draw it by the rope.”
Here, “rope” can mean two things: rope, or guna (virtue). Here it cannot mean rope—rather, virtue. Tie the boat of steady mind to the shore of sahaja with the rope of virtue.
What is “virtue”? To live from your truth. Do not live lies; do not live hypocrisy. Do not live “inside one thing, outside another.” As within, so without. One who lives outside as he is inside—that one is virtuous. And whatever you are within—do not worry—live that without. This is the rope with which you can moor the boat of mind. There is no other way. Do this much—and all else happens.
“Exalt the eye that longs for the vision of Beauty;
Let the glories themselves come seeking your gaze.”
Make your gaze so high that the beauty of Paramatma seeks you. Exalt your vision. Steady the mind. Then the splendors come seeking your eyes. They do come—I bear witness. They come of themselves. Become the vessel—and Paramatma showers, upon you in a thousand thousand flowers.
मोक्ख कि लब्भइ ज्झाण पविट्‌ठो।
किन्तह दीवें किन्तह णिवेज्जं।।
किन्तह किज्जइ मन्तह सेब्वं।।
किन्तह तित्थ तपोवण जाइ।
मोक्ख कि लब्भइ पाणी न्हाइ।।
“Does one attain liberation by practicing dhyana? By showing lamps, offering oblations? By chanting mantras or performing worship? By going on pilgrimages to holy places and forests of austerity? Is liberation attained by bathing in sacred waters?”
A priceless saying. Liberation is not by “doing” meditation—because meditation is not something to do. Dhyana is not a deed; it is witnessing. In meditation one abides; meditation is never done. Dhyana is an understanding, not an act. You cannot “do” meditation—yes, you can be in meditation. It is an inner state where mind is steady.
“O boatman, steady your mind…” Tie it with the rope of virtue to the shore of sahaja. In such a state, meditation flowers by itself. People take meditation to be a doing—and are deluded. They say, “Now we sit to meditate.” Some turn their mala; in between they peep to see if any customer has come to the shop; they shoo the dog away; they signal the children to go to school—and the mala keeps turning! Some keep the mala in the bag while sitting in the shop; the bag-mala keeps moving. This is action. Some chant “Ram-Ram” while doing other tasks; their lips move mechanically. These are doings.
Meditation is not a doing. It is awakening—awareness.
So understand meditation as witnessing—then fine. If you take it as an act—the act is the very knot that binds. Then your “meditation act” will bind you.
“Does one attain liberation by doing meditation?”—stress lies upon “doing.” “By waving lamps, offering food, by mantras—can liberation come?”
You take these as meditation—waving a lamp before God. O fools—see the lamp of God! You show God a lamp! Offerings, mantras. Be silent—be still. Silence is mantra. And the offerings will be poured upon you—flowers will rain.
“Does bathing in holy waters, going to pilgrimages and forests of penance, bring moksha?”
You have made moksha cheap—go and bathe in the Ganges, perform the Hajj! Will moksha be thus? Whatever you do—binds. Punya binds as surely as papa—because deed binds. Wake up from deeds. You have done this all your life, and still you do not awaken.
“Even after so many moths have burned in the flame, they have learned nothing;
Today too the market for the candle is as hot as ever!”
So many burn—and the moths learn nothing; the candle’s bazaar is still hot! So many go and come, burnt out in rituals—and know nothing but futility; yet temples and mosques thrive; Kumbh melas swell with millions—who have not bread, not water; they scrape and go to Kumbh. A poor Muslim saves a lifetime to do Hajj. How many return—what has happened? None asks. A guild of the blind.
परऊ आर ण कीअऊ अत्थि ण दीअऊ दाण।
एहु संसारे कवण फलु वरूच्छडुहु अप्पाण।।
“If you have not helped another, not given charity—what fruit have you gained from coming into this world? Better to dedicate yourself entirely.”
Saraha says: instead of wasting time in pilgrimages, share something; do something for others. Bathe not in the Ganges—bathe in giving—that is the Ganga. If you can do a little for the sake of others—do it. That alone is merit; for what you do for others, Paramatma does for you. If you strew thorns upon others’ paths, you will find your own full of thorns a thousandfold. If you scatter flowers upon others’ roads, yours will be carpeted with blossoms. You receive what you give.
“The station of love, not everyone can comprehend;
It is a station beyond mere manhood.”
Awaken a little love. In love, you rise beyond humanity—for love surpasses even being human. Live a little in love.
“He who scatters thorns upon others’ paths—
That hand itself is surely wounded.”
The hand that scatters thorns is wounded—remember. And one who scatters flowers—his hands carry their fragrance. You become what you do for others. What you do for others becomes the essence of your life.
But remember—first Saraha said: steady the mind; tie the boat to the shore of sahaja with the rope of virtue. Then love will arise. Share it. Sharing that love is true service. Otherwise even service is false if it does not move along the shore of sahaja.
“In the court of love, the depth of the heart is tested;
Here, from garments no estimate of man is made.
Love itself is a faith, O mullah!
The lover needs no other creed.”
One who knows love needs no other religion. Love is his creed.
“Love itself is a faith, O mullah!
The lover needs no other creed.”
Recognize love—recognize all.
“Only love, only love—everywhere you look;
All the world is suffused with love.
Love is the beloved, love is the lover—
Love is obsessed with its own self.
Who reached the goal without love?
Desire is love; the aim is love.
Love is the Sinai’s flash—for love—
At once servant, at once God, is love.”
That alone is. Love is Paramatma—and love is the lover of Paramatma.
“Love is the Sinai’s flash—for love—
At once servant, at once God, is love.”
From dhyana, the flame of love is born. Buddha has said: where Samadhi flowers, the light of prajna spreads and karuna showers. First, experience sahaja, experience shunya—then share whatever you have. Pour out the whole of your soul. The more you pour, the more the soul increases.
“The candle was nothing but a figure of wax—
When fire was set within, life came.”
The candle—nothing but wax; when fire is set within, life awakens. When the fire of love seizes you, your lamp is lit. Then you are not just wax, not just clay—not merely earthen—within you the light of the conscious has arisen. Then you are not only earth—the sky has descended. You are no longer limited; you are wed to the limitless.
Set out to seek Paramatma. Without Him, all seeking is vain—every other search futile.
More enchanting, more honey-sweet than songs already heard is the unheard song;
Lovelier than all that eyes have seen is the unseen friend of the heart!
The less the mind is in love with the unseen,
The more the fire in one’s life-breath has waned!
Mind holds greater power than body; prana is stronger than the flesh;
Vaster than earth is the sky, greater than the known is the Unknown!
The less of the uncharted sky there is in one’s life-breath,
The less meaningful becomes his dwelling upon the earth!
In the unreachable cavern’s heart, a smokeless lamp is ablaze;
Meaningful are those eyes that can kiss the lamp’s flame!
The more loveless the eyes are toward light,
The more wretched they become—broken, stained, a shattered mirror!
That five-tiered vessel flows on—ceaseless, unbroken;
Its task: to run from the unknowable peak to the unknowable ocean!
The boat keeps drifting on, the sky become the sail of prana;
The farther the Ordainer is from the eyes, the nearer He is to the heart!
Enough for today.