Sanch Sanch So Sanch #5

Ram Kishore, love is a rainbow. It contains all the colors—from the lowest to the highest, from kama to Rama. Love is not a one-dimensional event; it is multidimensional. Basically, three dimensions must be understood.

First is the dimension of the body. Bodily love is love in name only—more the illusion of love, less its reality. One percent love, ninety-nine percent chemistry. One percent you, ninety-nine percent unconscious nature. On that plane animals live; on that plane most human beings also live. And those who have known only love’s first plane naturally become love’s enemies. Such enemies have distorted religion. Not knowing love’s heights, knowing only love’s pettiness, they turned against love. They made enmity with love, turned their backs on it, and ran away.

Under the name of religion, so much escapism has occurred. In the name of religion, opposition to life, condemnation of life, disdain for life has so densely covered the human mind that there remains no coherence between what people say, do, and think.

Just yesterday I received a letter. A sannyasin—old-style—wrote that sex is sacred and should not be treated as a plaything. And at the end of the same letter he wrote that sex is filthy, a sin. The same man, in the same letter, in one part writes “sex is sacred,” and in another part writes “sex is sin.” He does not even know what he is saying. If sex is sacred, how will it become sin? And if sex is sin, then how will it be sacred?

The human mind is full of such dilemmas. The reason is that man has never had the opportunity to live love wholly. The energy of blocked love within him rots. The law of energy is: either express it or it will rot. If a river flows, it stays fine; if it stops, filth will arise. Flow keeps it clean; current keeps it pure—stop, and it becomes a dirty pond.

Those who knew love only at the bodily plane—the animal plane—saw the jealousy hidden in love, the envy, the hostility, the hatred, the quarrels; they saw the exploitation of men and women going on in the name of love, and naturally they got frightened. In fear they ran away. But by running away nothing can ever be attained. Those who flee the battlefield we call timid, cowards, deserters; and those who flee the battlefield of life we call sadhus, saints, mahatmas!

This battle of life is the real battle. All other wars are nothing. In the battle of life the decision is made as to who is victorious. Whoever runs from this misses the divine. He who turns his back on life, who becomes averse to life, remember, will never be able to face God. But why did he turn away? The reason is precisely that we fixed love at the level of the body.

There is one advantage in fixing love at the bodily plane: a certain stability. The body is more stable than the mind. It does change—but slowly. Scientists say it takes seven years for the body to change. If a man lives seventy years, the body changes ten times. But so gradually, and in such small daily increments, that most of it seems to remain the same; hence the appearance of continuity.

That is why marriage was invented: so that love would not reach the plane of the mind; it would remain on the plane of the body. Remaining at the bodily plane gives a kind of stability. Therefore, in marriage we worry about everything—except love. We consult astrologers, match horoscopes, examine palm lines; the bridegroom’s parents, relatives, elders; the bride’s parents, relatives, elders—every type of arithmetic is done, accounts calculated—how much wealth, what position, what prestige, what family, what future! One thing alone is put aside: neither do we ask the one who is to be married, nor the one to whom they are being married. Those two are sidelined. That is considered secondary, useless. To bring it in is deemed improper, risky. Because the mind transforms rapidly, changes from moment to moment. So we fixed love upon the body. We named it marriage. And we call marriage sacred.

Marriage is unholy—precisely because it is stuck on the body: it stinks. And the stench of marriage then turns people into fugitives. Those who have left home and hearth did not become detached from the world. How could they have known or recognized the world? Did they become detached from trees, flowers, mountains, rivers, the moon and stars? They became disenchanted with the institution called marriage—its stench. Harassed, they ran away. And these fugitives have become mahatmas and sadhus. Now these fugitives are teaching others to flee.

And the great joke is that these very sadhus and mahatmas call marriage sacred; these very sadhus and mahatmas come to bless marriages. What a conspiracy! Bind people in marriage; then when they are troubled, tormented, unhappy, offer them the path of world-renunciation.

These are two sides of the same coin. Your old marriage and your old sannyas are two limbs of the same disease. Therefore the sadhus and mahatmas will not wish marriage to bid farewell to the world. Because the day marriage departs, your so-called sadhus and renunciates will depart too. What then will remain to make them disenchanted with the world? What is it that frightens them about the world?

Notice: men fled; women did not. The reason is this: a woman’s capacity and endurance are much greater than a man’s. There is no other reason. People ask me, “Why did women not become Buddhas, Mahaviras, Krishnas, Ramas?” Their endurance is greater than men’s. This is a matter of honor, not disgrace. They possess a patience, an immense patience, which men lack. Scientists agree. Women fall ill less than men; men, twice as much as women. Women go insane less than men; men, twice as much. Women commit suicide less; men commit suicide more—twice as much. This ratio of two-to-one applies in every direction.

A woman has a certain equilibrium, a certain patience, a certain grace. It was needed, for she must carry a child for nine months. Which man would agree to carry a child in his belly for nine months! Nor does it end at nine months; then the child must be raised. The child wakes her ten or fifteen times at night; still the mother wakes and goes back to sleep. Wake a man ten or fifteen times and he will become disillusioned with the world. Let a man carry a pregnancy for nine months and he will run at once. He will not be able to bear this hardship. Women live longer than men—by five years. After giving birth to ten, twelve, fifteen children and raising them, still they live five years longer. After bearing all the upheavals of the household and its hassles, still they live five years longer. They age later than men, stay young longer, remain beautiful longer—amid all inconveniences! The reason: nature has given them the capacity to endure.

Therefore women did not flee; they did not turn their backs on life. Naturally, among women such mahatmas and sadhus could not arise as among men. But I consider this a matter of honor, not dishonor. It is a disgrace regarding men that more deserters were born among them. And these men, these mahatmas, these sadhus—look at their pronouncements! All their statements are anti-woman. The scriptures contain nothing but condemnation of women. One thing is evident from this: all these people were tormented by women, frightened of women. Surely they ran away leaving women. Shankaracharya has said:

“What is the one reality? Shiva, the nondual.
What is the highest? Good conduct.
What happiness should be renounced? The pleasure of woman alone.
What is the supreme gift to be given? Fearlessness, always.”

Shankaracharya asks: “What happiness should be renounced?”
Tyajyam sukham kim? striyam eva—
“In every way, the pleasure of woman alone.”

As if, in Shankaracharya’s mind, all happiness has become only the pleasure of woman. And what happiness is there in woman—ask that too! This saying deserves reflection. On the one hand these mahatmas say: what is there in a woman—bones, flesh, marrow, blood, pus...! As if they themselves were filled with gold and silver, diamonds and jewels!

And on the other hand they also say: “What happiness should be renounced?” There, too, they see happiness—right there: bones, flesh, marrow, blood, pus.

“Only the pleasure of woman!”
Where the mind is stuck is obvious in this aphorism. And this aphorism isn’t alone; your scriptures are full of such sayings. Whoever wrote them wrote them after running away from women; not by knowing them, understanding them. So many abuses have been hurled at women; these abuses are proof that the thorn still pricks; the mind is still not free, it is stuck somewhere; even now happiness is seen only in woman.

So the first plane of love is the body. It is bestial. Whoever stops there will, if not today then tomorrow, have to agree with those runaway sadhus and renunciates.

The second plane is the mind. A few people enter the plane of mind. There is danger there. The mind is momentary. Now love—and all the flowers bloom; now the petals have fallen. Now morning—and now evening. The mind cannot be relied upon. It is as if one draws lines upon water.

But the love of the mind is of a higher altitude than the love of the body. The difference is the same as between a rose and the rock lying beside it. The rock is the same in the morning, the same in the evening, and will be the same tomorrow. The rose bloomed in the morning, danced with the winds through the day, chatted a little with the sun, sang a little in the rays, hummed—and by evening the petals had fallen. By evening the flower took leave. Granted, the stone beneath the rosebush is more stable, more permanent. But will you choose to be a stone or a rose?

In the Indian mind, the craving for permanence sits very deep—things must be fixed! The more fixed, the better—even if, in becoming fixed, they turn inert!

Therefore the Indian mind greatly condemns those countries where love has overshadowed marriage. Because where love is of the mind, there will be divorces. Nothing is assured there. But I tell you, the mind’s love is a higher love than the body’s love. It carries some fragrance of flowers. On the bodily plane the matter is flat—like a straight tarred road: no bends, no heights, no depths. More practical—and gross. But the love of the mind is like mountain peaks, like the heights of Gauri Shankar. And where there are the heights of Gauri Shankar, there too will be deep ravines. Without valleys there can be no peaks, and without peaks no valleys.

So those who rise to the plane of mind’s love will have to drop the infatuation with permanence. Then, in their lives, there will be deep experiences of love, peaks of love will rise—and they will also have to endure love’s melancholy. In marriage there is no deep experience of love, nor any melancholy; it is a makeshift world, a shopkeeping. I make no distinction between marriage and the prostitute. A prostitute is like a short-term marriage—as if you took a taxi. And marriage is as if you keep a car at home—private number and taxi number! But in both, it is a matter of money. There is no fundamental difference.

Therefore in countries where there is the institution of marriage, there will also be the institution of prostitution. Our country has lived for centuries in marriage, and alongside, prostitutes have flourished—and in the name of religion too! In India’s temples there were devadasis—there still are. Devadasi is a nice name for prostitute. We are skilled in giving names. We are great craftsmen at hiding ugly realities behind pretty words. Devadasis living in the temple were prostitutes. They served the temple priests and the customers who came to worship.

For who knows how many centuries, in many parts of India, there was this custom: when a young man returned home after his wedding, his wife would spend the first night—the suhaag raat—with the temple deity. What would the poor deity do? He is a stone idol. In the deity’s name the temple priest would enjoy her. He is merely an agent, an instrument of the god, a medium; through him the god enjoys. What frauds! What dishonesty! And what fine names as cover—temple, devadasi, priest, deity! And the game is all the same pettiness.

In countries where love has taken the place of marriage, divorce has become inevitable. And as love and divorce deepen, prostitution will bid farewell. Prostitution is an appendage of marriage. Prostitution means: there is no way to be free of one’s wife, no way to be free of one’s husband; when there is no way, then find a back door.

So men found a door for themselves—set up prostitution. For women there was no question; they were incarcerated on all sides. But in countries where women have begun to be free, like America and England, you will be surprised to know—male prostitutes are available there too. Just as there are female prostitutes, there are male prostitutes. Because women demand the same rights as men—equal rights. Naturally, that is the outcome.

As love grows, melancholy grows too. But Indian sadhus and saints roundly criticize the growing love and divorce in the West—“Look, see what love leads to!” And then they say: better was the arrangement our rishis and munis gave—marriage. Better in the sense that it was stable; better in the sense that it was businesslike, flat; there were no risks; it was safe. But the more life becomes safe, the more it becomes dead.

You ask, Ram Kishore: what is love?

So, first, love at the level of the body, which is animal—and what goes on in the name of marriage is this love. Second, love of the mind, which is more poetic, more human.

But you also ask whether love can ever be destroyed.

At the bodily level, the question of destruction does not arise. There is no love there—what will be destroyed? First the flowers must bloom; only then will they wither. If they are paper flowers, why would they wither? And if they are plastic, withering does not arise at all. Marriage is a plastic flower. Wash it daily—new, fresh. Dust it—and again new, fresh. The same color, the same look, though there is no fragrance; it does not bloom. It can deceive only humans; it cannot deceive a honeybee. No butterfly will be fooled. Only man is foolish enough to be deceived.

Second love will be momentary. But its momentariness is more valuable than the permanence of the first—because from that momentariness you will get a taste of the third love, which is truly total. I call it the love of the soul. One who has not reached the second will not reach the third. Crossing the second step is necessary. Whoever is stuck on the first—their religion will be desertion, escapism. And whoever passes through the second—seeing love’s momentariness, seeing love’s melancholy—and also knowing love’s bliss... The first did not know bliss at all; he knew only melancholy, a flat hollowness—so he ran away. The second has known both, because the second is in the middle—exactly between body and soul; the second has known both—melancholy and bliss. Because of the melancholy he will want to be free of the second; and because of the bliss he will want to take the secret hidden in the second to higher heights. Therefore in his life the search will begin: can there be a spiritual love?

And that very search is the religious search. That love itself becomes prayer. That love becomes the search for God. Because then love is not between person and person; it is between the person and the impersonal. It is between the part and the whole; between the drop and the ocean. The love of two drops has been seen—it breaks and scatters; it has limits. So now the longing arises for a love without limits. The feeling of love toward the infinite arises. In my vision, that feeling is true sannyas. But my sannyas will seem arduous.

Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha, as long as there is mind, there will be pain. You say: “Yesterday, after seeing your ashram, my mind felt great pain.”

Whoever comes here carrying a mind will carry away pain. The mind should be left outside at the door. And “ashram” is said only in jest; in truth this is a tavern, a wine-house. But to trap pundits like you we have put the name “ashram.” If “madhushala” were written right in front, you would never enter for shame. Even if you wanted to, modesty would not let you. A pundit—and then Lajja (modesty)-Shankar! You would have stopped on the way, turned back, gone elsewhere. The name “ashram” is kept so that a few simpletons come merely because it is called an ashram.

Naturally, the mind will feel pain. Because the expectations you brought here will not be fulfilled. You must have expected there would be a temple. There is a temple here, but not the temple of your expectations. And have I taken a contract to fulfill your expectations? Since you cannot fulfill mine, why should I fulfill yours! I keep no expectations of anyone, nor have I taken responsibility to complete anyone’s expectations. I live in my own way. You drown in your modesty, die in it; let me remain intoxicated in my song and dance! Your modesty be blessed to you! Draw your veil. Live in a burqa, lest some “wrong” things come into view.

You did not see any temple. You will not see it. To see the temple here, subtler eyes are required. You must have thought bells would be ringing, idols would be placed, Hanumanji would be seated—then you would instantly prostrate full-length, at once start babbling the Hanuman Chalisa. But no such temple came into view where Ganeshji sits riding a mouse; nor did Shankarji appear. You saw nothing: neither worship nor recitation.

Here worship and recitation are going on continuously, twenty-four hours a day, day and night. But here there is our own worship, our own recitation. Our own style, our own color, our own language, our own way. You came carrying expectations, therefore you will carry away pain. In this I am helpless. What can I do? Do not come with expectations. Come impartial, without bias; if you really look, you will find worship, you will find recitation, you will find a temple too.

And you say, “No contemplation, no reflection.”

Here the effort is precisely to be free of contemplation and reflection. It is from reflection (manan) that the mind is built; that is what gives pain, Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha! And you still want to reflect? Here one is to be free of reflection. Freedom from reflection is what is called meditation. Contemplation and reflection are not meditation. Meditation means the state of no-mind—where there is no reflection, no contemplation, no thought, no alternatives, no fixed notions. There the new realm, the new sky of meditation manifests.

And you say, “No yajna-havan.”

Are people gathered here mad, that they should do yajnas and havans! What do we have to do with lighting fires? The country is starving as it is—now you want to pour ghee into the fire? Throw wheat away? Scatter rice? Have the stupidities not been enough already? You want to include me in your foolishness too? Spare me! Do whatever yajna-havan you wish at your own home.

And you say, “In the morning, in place of Hari-katha, there is cheap condemnation and satire of sadhus, saints, scriptures and puranas.”

Sadhus and saints are not being condemned; loafers are being condemned. You call them sadhus and saints—but why should I accept that! Your sadhus and saints are not sadhus or saints in my eyes. If my sannyasins are not sannyasins in your eyes, why do you expect that, in my eyes, your sadhus and saints will be sadhus and saints? In your sadhus and saints I see no saintliness, no holiness. I see all sorts of pretension, ego, hollowness, bigoted superstition, parroted drivel. Then how shall I praise them? For what reason? Whenever there is something worthy of praise, I certainly praise it—no matter who has said it. I have no hesitation about who said it. But just because you call them sadhus and saints, will that settle anything?

The Jains have consigned your Krishna to hell, because he did not appear to them as a sadhu or a saint. Quite deserving of hell! Their books say so. The man who brought about the Mahabharata war—such terrible violence—made rivers of blood flow, and because of whom India could never stand straight again, its spine broken; after that Mahabharata, India went on becoming poor and weak—if the Jains have put Krishna in hell, it is no surprise. He did not appear a sadhu to the Jains. A man who carried off sixteen thousand women—other men’s married wives—brought them by force: if he does not appear a sadhu to the Jains, what is surprising?

Who is a sadhu? Whom do you call a sadhu? You will have to define a sadhu! You cannot just say “sadhu-saint” and settle the matter!

Mahavira does not appear a sadhu to Hindus. No Hindu scripture discusses Mahavira’s saintliness. To Buddhists, Mahavira does not appear a sadhu. Buddhists have mocked Mahavira in their scriptures, cast much satire. They have their own definition of a sadhu. Jains say Mahavira is trikālajña—knower of the three times. And the Buddhist scriptures say: Oh yes, very omniscient! We have seen him standing begging before a house in which no one has lived for years! Only when he is told does he come to know that there is no one in the house. And these are omniscient—knowing past, present, future! Buddhist texts say: we have seen Mahavira in the dark of dawn step on a dog’s tail; when the dog barked, then he realized—oh, a dog! These omniscient?

So Buddhists do not accept Mahavira as a sadhu. Nor do Jains accept Buddha as a sadhu. For the Jains will call someone a sadhu only when he has renounced all possessions—and among all possessions, clothing too is included. But Buddha wore robes; he kept three robes. That is a lot of possession, quite an encumbrance—the whole world, practically! A man who keeps three robes—how is he yet a sadhu!

So the Jains did not accept Buddha as any sadhu. Do you think the Jains can accept your Rama as an avatar? Or Parashurama as an avatar? Parashurama, who emptied the earth of Kshatriyas eighteen times! Killing and killing and killing! Genghis Khan and Tamerlane and Nadir Shah all seem childish beside him. As much slaughter as Parashurama did, perhaps no man ever did. How can the Jains, who hold nonviolence to be the supreme religion, consider him a sadhu? And you regard him not only a sadhu—you call him an incarnation of God!

The question is: who is a sadhu? What is the definition?

Muhammad had nine wives. Do you think the Jains and Buddhists can accept Muhammad as a sadhu? Nine wives! And a sword in his hand all his life! What sort of sadhu?

Who is the authority for the definition? You simply say that in the morning, instead of Hari-katha, there is cheap condemnation of sadhus, saints, scriptures and puranas! I have my own definition of a sadhu: one who is established in samadhi is a sadhu. I decide neither by clothes, nor by swords, nor by crosses, nor by fasts. I have one touchstone: whoever is established in samadhi—that one is a sadhu. And whatever the one in samadhi speaks—that is scripture.

Now you say there is cheap condemnation of scriptures and puranas! Buddha did not accept the Vedas as scripture, for ninety-nine percent of your Vedas is rubbish—how could he accept them as scripture? The Jains do not accept your Vedas as scripture. Muslims do not accept your Gita as scripture. Nor will Hindus accept the Quran as scripture; nor will they accept the Bible. There are three hundred religions in this world—whose scripture will you accept as scripture, and whose will you not?

I accept as scripture only that which has been uttered by one established in samadhi. And whatever does not seem to be spoken from samadhi, I will criticize it with force. I will tear it to pieces. That alone is Hari-katha. Hari-katha means: to evoke samadhi, to uncover it. Whatever covers samadhi has to be set aside. This trash must be cleared away.

To you it may seem like denunciation, because nothing is being said that fits your biases. Then think it over. You came here looking for contemplation and reflection—do a little contemplation and reflection yourself! Whatever I am saying has some force behind it—the force of my own experience! Think, understand, experiment. And if you have the courage, meditate. Only then will you have a touchstone to test whether what I have said has substance or not. Do not be so quick to blush. Do not give your mind pain so quickly. In such haste nothing will be resolved.

Your scriptures and puranas—yes, sometimes a diamond is found among them; then I lift it to my head. But that does not mean that for the sake of one diamond I should haul around a whole truck filled with junk. We will pick up the diamond; the junk we will set on fire! One needs a discerning eye.

Now what is in your puranas? Fancy concoctions! False tales! Useless talk! Childish! Petty! How can that be called Hari-katha? But you are troubled that in the name of meditation there is hullabaloo. Naturally, to one who does not understand music, music will seem like noise. And to one who does not know ecstasy, dancing and singing will not appear to be meditation.

But here there is a confluence of meditation and ecstasy. Those who are dancing here are not merely dancing; inwardly they are disciplining themselves too. On the outside there is dance, and within there is silence, stillness, emptiness. On the outside there is song, and within there is a deep void, a profound peace. But that will be apparent to you only if you join in. You looked only from the outside and left! Your mind is already filled with pain—now how will you be able to join?

It seems to you that under the label of the new, anything goes. In this country you are saying the wrong thing! Here everything goes under the label of the old. And yes, whatever moves is called a vehicle—but here everything moves under the name of the old. Try to let something move under the name of the new here! You need a strong chest for that—courage is required to set something in motion in the name of the new. In the name of the old there is no difficulty. Under the name of the old, everything goes. Merely invoke the old and it all passes.

Rampravesh Singh Chauhan, there is no harmony anywhere between Tulsidas and what I am saying—no connection, not even a distant kinship.

Tulsidas was taken to a Krishna temple. Yes, he writes, “Know the whole world to be pervaded by Sita-Ram,” but when he was taken into a Krishna temple he did not bow to Krishna’s image. He said, “I am a devotee of Ram. Until you take up the bow and arrows in your hands, I will not bow my head.” These people who supposedly see Sita-Ram in the whole world! They cannot even see Sita-Ram in Krishna. Fine talk is one thing—“Sita-Ram pervade the entire world!” Then what—has Krishna alone been left outside the world? Why is there an obstruction in bowing before Krishna?

And Krishna is not Muhammad, Krishna is not Jesus, not Moses, not Mahavira, not Zarathustra; he is an avatar of the very Hindus for whom Ram is an avatar. So what is the problem in bowing before Krishna? The very problem is that they are devotees of the bow-and-arrow Ram, and unless you pick up the bow and arrows, Tulsidas will not bend his head! Even Tulsidas’s forehead bows only with a condition!

And if Sita and Ram alone pervade the whole universe, then this line of his—“drum, rustic, shudra, animal, woman: all are fit for chastisement”—had Tulsidas taken opium when he said it? If all is Sita-Ram, then the drum and the rustic—these too are Sita-Ram! The shudra, the animal, the woman—these too are Sita-Ram. And these are all to be beaten! Will you beat Ramchandra? Will you chastise and torment him?

Rampravesh Singh Chauhan, use a little intelligence. The godliness I am talking about—what will poor Tulsidas do with that godliness! He is a blind follower of the beaten track. But here the old name carries weight, the old reputation prevails—not the new. For the new there are great obstacles.

At the level of the body it is unstable, because the body itself is impermanent. At the level of the mind it perishes, because the mind is momentary. But at the level of the soul it is eternal, because the soul is eternal. Love will be of the plane on which it happens: on the body’s plane, lust; on the mind’s plane, love; and on the soul’s plane, prayer. Prayer is eternal. The love you understand right now does not last.

Is there anyone?
No one at all.
No wind, no color,
no blossom, no fragrance.
A feeling—only a feeling.
As if even the sunlight has forgotten the way to my house.
A teeming multitude,
this hollow crowd;
every moment frozen,
every hour still;
no morning, no evening,
no day, no night—
a feeling, only a feeling
is pricking in my flesh:
the strangeness in every gaze.
Let someone give a voice,
ah, let someone at least knock!

This love goes away quickly; you don’t even find someone to knock.

Those by whom the world of thought and verse had life,
by whom the air of thought and action was crimson,
those by whose light the moon and stars were refreshed,
by whom the courage of love’s madness was young—
where have those longings gone to sleep, my confidant!
Those impatient glances, those waiting paths,
those sighs pressed down in the heart out of regard for restraint,
those nights of waiting—long, dark, and star-scattered,
that half-dreaming bedchamber, those velvety arms—
they were stories; they have been lost somewhere, my confidant!
The blood of spring is stirring in the veins of life,
the strings of the soul are tangling with old sorrows.
Come, let us go and light lamps in the beloved’s domain—
the graves of the next loves are waiting,
the loves that have perished, my confidant!

My friend, my companion! Where are those days lost?
Those that gave life to the world of thought and poetry,
that breathed soul into the poems!
Those by whom the air of thought and action was crimson,
those by whose radiance the moon and stars shone bright,
by whom the daring of love’s madness was young.
Where have those longings fallen asleep, my friend, my companion!
Those restless glances,
those waiting roads,
those sighs kept under the heart’s seal of restraint,
those nights of waiting—long, dark and starry,
that half-dream bed, those velvet arms—
they were all stories; they have been lost somewhere, my friend!
In the realm of the mind everything is a story; everything will be lost.

The blood of spring stirs in the veins of life,
the strings of the soul are entangled with old griefs.
Come, let us go and set the beloved’s quarter ablaze with lamps—
the tombs of the loves-to-come are waiting.
All become mausoleums; all loves turn into graves.
The loves that have been annihilated, my confidant!

All loves die, all love dies. Whatever is born dies. But there is also a love that is never born, that lies hidden within you; the day you discover it, that is your soul, that is your God. You are the temple, and within you an ocean of love is hidden.

But for that you will have to take a deep dive of meditation. It will not happen through thinking, not through reflection, not through scriptures, not through monks and saints, not by bells in temples or azans in mosques, not by sacrifices and fire rituals. There is only one art to unveil that love—which is unborn and immortal—and that art is meditation.

Be without thought, without choice. Become so quiet that inside there remains no restlessness, no bustle; let not even a ripple arise—become waveless. Let the flame of your awareness burn unmoving, as a lamp burns in a house where not even a breath of wind enters. Then you will discover within yourself the eternal tone, the eternal music. That love never fades. That alone is what is being sought. And until we have found it, we have found nothing at all.

Chaitanya Kirti, this kafi truly is lovely. Try to understand each thread of it.

“Munh aai baat na rahindi ae.
Sach kahaan taa bhaanbar machda ae, jhooth aakhaan taa kujh na bachda ae.
Dil dohan gallan ton machda ae, jach‑jach ke jeebha kahindi ae.
Munh aai baat na rahindi ae.”

Meaning: What comes to the mouth does not stay back. If I speak the truth, a tumult rises; if I speak a lie, nothing remains. The heart burns from both sides, so the tongue weighs every word before speaking. Yet what comes to the mouth does not stay back.

Whoever has known truth finds he has to speak—it will be spoken. When a flower blooms, fragrance must spread. When a lamp is lit, light must radiate. When the sun rises, morning must happen.

When truth enters within, it cannot be stopped; there is no way. It will flow; it will reach others—though there are risks. And you who are here with me can see the risks.

“Sach kahaan taa bhaanbar machda ae”—if I tell the truth, there is an uproar. “Bhaanbar” is sweeter than “storm.” What an uproar there is! Now this Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha has appeared—what an uproar he is creating! Where has he wandered in by mistake? He should be doing fire sacrifices and oblations; how did he land in this community of madmen! And all over the country I am being abused—not only in this country, abroad as well.

“Sach kahaan taa bhaanbar machda ae, jhooth aakhaan taa kujh na bachda ae.”
And if I speak a lie, the inner witness—the eye—refuses to testify. I will say only what I see; how can I speak what I don’t see? And if I tell the truth, trouble rises, quarrels begin, storms blow, dust-whirls swell. And if I lie, how can I? In a lie nothing of truth remains; the eyes bear no witness.

“Dil dohan gallan ton machda ae”—and the heart aches either way. If I tell the truth, storms rise on all sides; people are hurt needlessly. Even now, Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha’s heart has been greatly pained. Speak the truth, and there is trouble; live the truth, and there is trouble.

“Dil dohan gallan ton machda ae, jach‑jach ke jeebha kahindi ae”—so, Bulleh says, “I try to speak carefully, ever so carefully.” But no matter how carefully you speak—why, even if you carefully cut someone’s neck—he will still scream! Even if, oh‑so‑carefully, you put someone’s scriptures to the flame, carefully liberate someone’s Hanumanji, carefully remove someone’s Ganeshji—there will be a fracas.

“Jis bhed paaya kalandar da.”
He says: “Whoever has found the secret of the Beloved, whoever has discovered the path within, has found it. He is a resident of that temple where there is no rising and no setting. What comes to the mouth cannot be held back.”

Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha says: here there is no temple and no worship. And Bulleh Shah says: “Jis bhed paaya kalandar da—who has found the secret of the Beloved—raah khojiya apne andar da!” Once he has found the inner path, why would he go hunting temples? He has found the temple within. He himself is the temple. Wherever an awakened one sits, that is a temple; wherever he walks, there is a pilgrimage place; wherever he pauses for a moment, that place becomes Kaaba and Kashi. Kaaba and Kashi are where the crazed go; the awakened go within.

“Raah khojiya apne andar da, oh vaasi hai us mandar da.”
Because there the Master abides. Are you seeking him in mud and stone buildings? Hunting in temples and mosques?

“Oh vaasi hai us mandar da, jithe chadhdi hai na lahindi ae.”
There is neither ascent nor descent there—no change. There is the eternal. There is neither birth nor death.

“Munh aai baat na rahindi ae.”
What am I to do? Bulleh says: the words keep coming to the mouth; they have to be said. If the votaries of temples are offended and the votaries of mosques are offended, then let them be—what can be done? I am speaking as carefully as I can.

I too am speaking as carefully as I can. But say what you will, no matter how carefully you speak, those with vested loyalties will be struck.

“Ae Shah ‘Aql, tu aaya kar, saanun adab‑adaab sikhaya kar.”
They say: “Bulleh, use a little intellect. Don’t blurt out these tipsy, mad, crazy things. There’ll be a great uproar! O ‘Aql—intellect—come, teach me courtesy! Where has this intellect gone?”

In truth, only one who goes beyond intellect finds him—that is the bind. Those who crossed beyond intellect found him; and once they found him, they looked around for intellect again, if only they could get it back to speak carefully. “Come, teach me adab—politeness, decorum.”

I too try hard to be polite. But what am I to do? How can I call loafers “mahatmas”? Let there be an uproar! Bulleh was a nice man; the poor fellow says: “I call my intellect—O ‘Aql, come, teach me manners.” Though I know: once gone, intellect does not return. You yourself reduced it to ash; from where will you bring it now? A nice man though. I am not that nice. I do not summon “intellect.”

My father’s father—my grandfather—always asked everyone a question. I put his question to rest forever. He would ask the children in the neighborhood: “Which is greater: intellect or the buffalo?” Naturally, all would say, “Intellect.” He’d say, “Right!”

He asked me: “Which is greater—intellect or the buffalo?”
I said, “The buffalo.”
He said, “What did you say—the buffalo?”
I said, “Certainly. Because your intellect fits in your skull; can you fit a buffalo in it? If you can fit a buffalo inside your head, I’ll accept that intellect is greater than the buffalo.”

Then I said: “You ask whether intellect is greater than the buffalo—no buffalo asks such a question. It needs no asking. One asks only when one doesn’t know. If intellect knew, why would it ask? The buffalo knows—hence its silence.”

He never asked it again. Many times I’d tease him: “These days you don’t ask which is greater—intellect or the buffalo?” He’d say, “Quiet! Don’t stir up nonsense!” At least in my presence he never again asked anyone. Because now he’d have to prove the buffalo would fit in such a tiny skull—and intellect is so small!

So I do not call for intellect. Bulleh says: “O ‘Aql, come; teach me manners. Explain this false ‘I’ that calls me a fool.”

He is saying: it is my ego that calls me a fool; that says: “Why stir up such an uproar? Keep quiet! People will respect you, shower flowers at your feet. Why go out to eat stones?” So he calls intellect: “Come, instruct this ego of mine.” This mad thing tells me: “If you want honor, don’t speak of truth.”

Indeed, in a world of the blind, if you want respect, never speak of eyes. In a world of the blind, the supremely blind are worshiped. I have received many letters because I criticized Mother Teresa. All those letters harp on one thing: “Mother Teresa is honored the world over; you alone criticize her. She is Nobel‑prize winning, Bharat Ratna; every country competes to honor her—yet you are her lone critic!”

In this world, if there is a supremely blind person, the crowd of the blind will give her a Nobel prize, a Bharat Ratna, and a pile of awards. I ask the letter‑writers: do you think Jesus could have received a Nobel Prize? Then why the cross? Could Jesus have been given a Bharat Ratna? Impossible! Jesus received stones; there was a great uproar. And Mother Teresa receives prizes! People think she is a follower of Jesus. If the uproar is around me, then who is Jesus’ companion—me, or Mother Teresa? If there is to be a cross, it will come to me; it cannot come to Mother Teresa.

Mansoor was hanged; Sarmad was beheaded. Priests and pundits do not get crucified—they get respect, prizes, honors.

Bulleh speaks true: “This world is in darkness; its courtyard is slippery. Enter within and see who is there. Outside you are searching in vain. And once the words have reached the mouth, they do not stay back.”

He says: it has to be said. The world is dark, and you are blind. The courtyard is slippery. Enter within and see who dwells there. Why search outside needlessly? These temples, mosques, gurudwaras, and churches are all outside. These Kaaba and Kashi and Girnar—outside. Krishna, Mahavira, Buddha—all outside. Come within; perhaps you will find the One worth finding.

“On every face is the image of God—somewhere hidden, somewhere revealed.”

That is the only difference. I have told you this often: somewhere God sleeps, somewhere he is awake—only that. Between Buddha and you there is no difference except this: Buddha opened his eyes; you keep yours shut. Buddha opened his doors; you bar yours. Just a small difference.

“On each and every thing the form of the Divine abides—somewhere revealed, somewhere concealed. Concerning everyone, we know this; every ‘wise’ one knows it. And once the word has come to the mouth, it cannot be held back.”

These “wise” men, who “know,” certainly do not know from their own experience—it’s borrowed. Now Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha has come—he seems a learned man, a pundit. He worries that here there is no Hari‑katha; something else is happening. Here there is no reverence for scriptures; scriptures are being criticized.

But in honor of Bulleh Shah I am content. Bulleh is the shah of shahs. Should I discuss your rotten Puranas? If you yourself were to open them, you’d be shocked to see the filth and the pomp of stupidity in them!

Wherever there is something meaningful, I support it. But only when it accords with my truth; otherwise I do not. Whether Krishna has said it, or Buddha, or Mahavira, or Rama, or Mohammed—if I do not find it in my experience, I cannot agree. My responsibility is to my own consciousness, to nothing else.

“Ik laazim gal adal di hai, saanun baat maloomi sab di hai.
Har‑har vich surat Rab di hai; kahin zahir, kahin chhupendi ae.”
Somewhere hidden, somewhere revealed—and everyone “knows” this. The so‑called wise especially know it. But there are none more foolish than the merely learned. True wisdom is in going beyond intellect; intellect only hoards junk. Pundits are parrots.

“Ethe lekha pao pusaara hai, isda vakhra bhed niara hai.
Ik surat da chamkaara hai, jyon chingari daru vich paindi ae.
Munh aai baat na rahindi ae.”

Here everything is his expanse. Its secret is unique. Here is the flash of the One Face—like a spark falling into gunpowder.

Just as a tiny spark can set an entire forest ablaze, when the experience of the Divine is kindled in one person, fire begins; it spreads. There will be an uproar! When fire catches outside, there is such an uproar; when it catches inside, how much greater the tumult! Cry “Fire!” falsely in a cinema tonight and see what happens! A word alone can cause a stampede.

And the inner fire surely burns your ego, burns your “knowledge,” burns your conditioning; there will be pain. The inner fire will kill the old you and give you a new birth. It is such a revolution—of course there will be a storm.

“Jadon zahir hoye noor horin, jal gaye pahaad Koh‑e‑Toor horin.
Tadon daar chadhe Mansoor horin; othe shekhi ki ‘main’ di ae.
Munh aai baat na rahindi ae.”

Bulleh says: when the light manifested, Mount Tur blazed. On Mount Tur Moses saw God—the whole mountain seemed afire. When the light of God appears, flames leap; even mountains burn. But some people’s condition is worse than mountains—their hearts are stone upon stone; even rocks burn, but they do not. If only they burned, they would become alive.

When this mountain burns within someone, when this light appears within, there will be uproar. Mansoor was hung on the gallows for this very reason: the light arose within; the blind could not bear it. Mansoor said just one thing—what was his crime? He declared: Ana’l‑Haq—“I am the Truth, I am God!” That was his “crime”: he proclaimed his godhood—Aham Brahmasmi. Enough for trouble to begin.

From the day I proclaimed divinity, difficulties began. Before that all was fine. I was saying the same things—guardedly. Then I saw: what’s the use of speaking carefully? People never wake up; they keep snoring, muttering nonsense in sleep. So I began to pour cold water on them, to shake them awake, to snatch away their blankets. I began with the declaration Mansoor made—Ana’l‑Haq! Uproar ensued.

Now people write to me—just yesterday: “If you are God, why is there famine? Why poverty? Why do floods come?”

I ask them: do you ask the same of Rama—or only me? Do you ask Krishna—or only me? Ask Buddha too, ask Mahavira. Ask Jesus, ask Mohammed. If all of them agree to answer, I tell you, I will stop famine, stop poverty, stop the storms. But if none of them stopped them, why should I get into this mess? When none of them took it up—and no one asks them…

People write to me: “If you are God, why don’t you serve the poor? Why don’t you open hospitals? Why don’t you open schools?”

How many schools did Mahavira open? How many hospitals did Buddha run? How many widows’ homes or orphanages did Mohammed run? Why ask me alone! What has godhood to do with it? But people are strange. They asked Buddha such questions too; Mahavira too. Now they don’t ask; they worship silently. The dead are worshiped; with the living there is trouble. And only the living can strike a spark in your life; what spark will the dead give? They are ash already. Take fire from the mountain where flames burn now. But you will entangle yourself in the uproar.

“Je zahir karaan taksaar taa’in, sab bhul jaavan ikraar taa’in.
Phir maarn bulle yaar taa’in; ethe mukdi gal suhendhi ae.
Munh aai baat na rahindi ae.”

“If I express it plainly, people forget all their agreements. Then they run to kill Bulleh for the Beloved. Here only the talk of the dead is graceful.”

What a lovely thing: here the talk of the dead is elegant. Here the talk of Buddha is graceful, of Mahavira, of Krishna, of Jesus. Not when they were alive. Then they pelted Mahavira with stones, set mad dogs upon him, hammered spikes into his ears. How do you treat the living?

So when I am abused—and I am, constantly, in every way—I think: good signs. My good fortune. They treat me exactly as they treated Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira, Jesus. I take it as an award. If a Nobel Prize were given to me, I would refuse it—that would be an insult. Jesus didn’t receive such prizes; Mahavira didn’t; Buddha didn’t. What would I do with such a prize? I would step out of my lineage, become a misfit.

“Assan padhia ‘ilm‑e‑haqeeqi hai; uthe ik harf tahkeeki hai.
Hor jhagra sab vadheeki hai; aiven raula paa paa behndi ae.
Munh aai baat na rahindi ae.”

“We have studied the real knowledge; there it is a single researched letter. All other quarrels are surplus; this hullabaloo goes on for nothing. The word that comes to the mouth does not stay back.”

Just the matter of a single letter—akshar: the imperishable, that which never decays, never dies. To know that one nectar—this is the point.

And all the rest of it is vain quarrel—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh—empty wrangling of ego.

“Bulleya, Shah assan ton vakh nahin; bina Shah ton dooja kakh nahin.
Par vekhan vali akh nahin; taahin jaan pai dukhde sahindi ae.
Munh aai baat na rahindi ae.”

Bulleh says: “The Beloved is not separate from us; without the Beloved there is not a speck besides. But the seeing eye is lacking; that is why life suffers its sorrows. And the word that comes to the mouth will not be held back.”

Let me remind Pandit Lajja Shankar Jha: Bulleh says—the Beloved is not separate; there is nothing here besides him. We are his limb; he is ours. We are in him; he is in us. Nothing but him is—yet the seeing eye is missing, hence life suffers pain.

“The word that comes to the mouth does not stay back.”

It will be said—even if there is uproar, storms, tempests! If a cross is to be mounted, let it be mounted; the word must be spoken.

“Hum parvarish‑e‑lauh‑o‑qalam karte rahenge,
Jo dil pe guzarti hai, rakam karte rahenge;
Asbab‑e‑gham‑e‑ishq baham karte rahenge,
Veerani‑e‑dauran pe karam karte rahenge.

Haan, talkhi‑e‑ayyām abhi aur badhegi,
Haan, ahl‑e‑sitam mashq‑e‑sitam karte rahenge.
Manzoor ye talkhi, ye sitam humko gawara—
Dam hai to mudawa‑e‑alam karte rahenge.

Baqi hai lahoo dil mein to har ashk se paida
Range‑labo‑rukhsar‑e‑sanam karte rahenge.
Ik tarz‑e‑taghaful hai so vo unko mubarak,
Ik arz‑e‑tamanna hai so hum karte rahenge.”

What has awakened within will manifest.

“Hum parvarish‑e‑lauh‑o‑qalam karte rahenge”—we shall go on tending the Tablet and the Pen of destiny.
We will keep on singing our songs, humming our tune.

“Jo dil pe guzarti hai, rakam karte rahenge”—whatever happens in the heart, we shall keep inscribing it.
What unfolds within, we will give it expression.

“Asbab‑e‑gham‑e‑ishq baham karte rahenge”—we shall keep gathering the means for the sorrow of love.
For this love of ours, we will go on arranging the ways to express it.

“Veerani‑e‑dauran pe karam karte rahenge”—upon the desolation of the times, we shall keep bestowing grace.
As much compassion as we can pour upon the barrenness of this world, we will.

“Haan, talkhi‑e‑ayyām abhi aur badhegi”—yes, the bitterness of the days will increase further.
We know: life’s harshness will grow, the darkness deepen.

“Haan, ahl‑e‑sitam mashq‑e‑sitam karte rahenge”—yes, the people of tyranny will keep practicing tyranny.
We know this too: the oppressors will go on oppressing, the wicked on in their wickedness.

“Manzoor ye talkhi, ye sitam humko gawara”—this bitterness we accept; these torments we can bear.
We accept even these stones; these stones are our awards.

“Dam hai to mudawa‑e‑alam karte rahenge”—so long as breath remains, we will go on tending the world’s pain.
Whatever remedy we can offer, we will keep offering.

“Baqi hai lahoo dil mein to har ashk se paida”—if any blood remains in the heart, then from each tear will be born…
Even with a single tear, we will still do what needs to be done.

“Range‑labo‑rukhsar‑e‑sanam karte rahenge”—…the color for the Beloved’s lips and cheeks.
With that one remaining tear, we will go on coloring the Beloved’s lips and cheeks.

“Ik tarz‑e‑taghaful hai so vo unko mubarak”—let their style of indifference be theirs, with blessings.
Let the world have its neglect, its turning away.

“Ik arz‑e‑tamanna hai so hum karte rahenge”—and our one petition of longing—we will keep presenting it.
Our one entreaty of love—we will go on making it.

Enough for today.