Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #1

Every instant here the vintage wine keeps pouring into a new ocean-goblet;
From buds beauty drips, from flowers youth boils over.
Here the lightning of loveliness flashes, here the rain of pure light falls.
Every sigh here is a melody, every tear here a pearl.
Every evening is an Egyptian dusk here, every night a Shiraz night here.
Here is the world’s ache, and here is the world’s music.
This is the desert of passion for the mad, this the assembly of fidelity for the moths;
This is the city of delight for romantics, this Eden of exalted longings.
From this floor we have leapt and plucked the stars of the heavens;
We have whispered with Venus, and made kin with the Pleiades.
In this gathering swords have been drawn, in this gathering goblets shattered;
In this gathering we have spread our very eyes, in this gathering even hearts were stitched together.
In this gathering lances were flung, in this gathering daggers were kissed;
In this gathering we have fallen and writhed, in this gathering we have drunk and swayed.

There is only one world—this very world. Then you can make it a hell, or you can make it a heaven. The world is merely an opportunity—an empty book. What you will write depends on you. And only on you. No one else carries any responsibility. If you want to live in hell, make it hell; if you want to live in heaven, make it heaven—the whole creation is in your hands. Here everything is available. If you want war, there is war; if you want to live under the shade of love, there is love. If you wish to grow flowers of peace, no one stops you; if you wish to light the lamps of Nirvana, no one blows them out—and if you insist on pressing wounds to your chest, no hand will come to stop you either.

You are free. You are independent. This is man’s majesty—and his melancholy as well. The melancholy is that man is free, free even to err. In freedom the freedom to go wrong is included. If there were only the freedom to do right, it would not be freedom at all. Freedom means: you also have the freedom to be mistaken. If you choose, you can erase; if you choose, you can create. If you choose, you can fall into mud and become mire; and if you choose, you can become a lotus.

Life is a bare opportunity—absolutely bare! Like a blank canvas upon which a painter brings forth his painting; like a rough stone out of which a sculptor reveals a statue. Words are available; if you want, you can make them into curses—or into songs. Let this sink as deeply into your heart as possible. Do not even by mistake think that someone else is shaping your fate. There lies a great danger in that thought. Then man becomes inert. Then whatever happens, happens. Then there is nothing left but to endure. Then man becomes a lump of clay; his life juice dries up; the stream of life ceases to flow within him. He loses the strength to accept challenges. And where the strength to accept challenges is absent, there the birth of the soul does not happen. The Atman is born from the acceptance of challenges. The soul is born in storms—in tempests and whirlwinds it takes birth.

And the greatest storm is this: accept your freedom. It will be difficult, because the entire responsibility will fall upon your head. For now there are so many arrangements for not thinking—what can we do? Fate, destiny, karma, God… what can we do? For now there is a way to pass the blame to others. But this is your trick—and a cunning trick. These doctrines are your own fabrications, and they are filled with dishonesty. Behind these doctrines you have hidden yourself very well. And what did you gain by hiding? Only this—that you gained the convenience of creating hell, and lost the capacity to create heaven.

Religion begins in the life of the man who takes this first step—who declares, I am the decisive one. If I go to hell, it is my decision; I will pin responsibility on no one. I will go knowing it is hell that I choose. At least there will be this assurance, this solace, this contentment—that I lived by my own decision.

But if it becomes clear to you that you go to hell by your own decision—will you choose hell? Who would? No one wants to manufacture misery. Therefore the very moment this arrow pierces your being—“I am free”—in that very moment the construction of heaven begins. This is the very earth, this the very place. Here someone lives as a Buddha—and here someone lives as a simpleton. Here someone attains the supreme bliss and dances in the fragrance of Samadhi—and here someone rots. Here! Exactly the same place! Yet there are as many worlds here as there are people.

Today we will begin our journey with a man truly rare. Sometimes such rare beings happen. And the first lesson you can receive from their lives is precisely this.

Rajjab’s life began in a most wondrous way. You might never have imagined that life can turn like this! Is this too a way for a life to change? Rajjab was a Muslim—a Pathan—he was in love with a young woman. The day of the wedding arrived. The procession was adorned. The procession set out. Rajjab astride a horse. A wedding crown tied upon his head. Kinsmen with him, band and music, the sprinkling of perfume, garlands of flowers. And in the middle of the bazaar, just a few steps from his bride’s house, only ten or five steps more, her people ready to welcome him—then the revolution happened! Beside the horse a strange, carefree faqir-like man came and stood, and he looked at Rajjab intently. Eye met eye. Four eyes joined. In that instant the revolution occurred. That man was to become Rajjab’s guru—Dadu Dayal. And what Dadu said—those words are astounding! In those few words the whole revolution is hidden. Dadu Dayal gazed fully into Rajjab’s eyes; their eyes met, and Dadu said—

“Rajjab, you have done a marvel—tied the wedding crown upon your head;
You had come for Hari-bhajan, and you are making a dwelling in hell!”

Just this much. No delay—the very next moment Rajjab leapt down from the horse, tore off the wedding crown and threw it away, clasped Dadu’s feet. And he said, You have awakened me—awakened me in time. And he became Dadu’s forever. The wedding party pleaded much—crowds gathered, the whole village came, the bride’s family arrived—but Rajjab kept repeating only one line, again and again—

“Rajjab, you have done a marvel—tied the wedding crown upon your head;
You had come for Hari-bhajan, and you are making a dwelling in hell!”

Is a revolution possible in a single instant? It is. Revolution happens only in an instant. Those who say, “We will take time,” are merely postponing. Those who say “tomorrow,” do not want to do at all. “Tomorrow” is the talk of the insincere. Whatever is to be, must be today, now, here—now or never!

Rajjab did not say: Is this any way? Is this any time? I am going to my wedding, with such eagerness!… And it was no ordinary wedding—it was a love-marriage. It was not that his parents had arranged it and forced the boy onto the horse. With great difficulty this wedding was happening, with great struggle—this was a love-marriage. The families were not in favor; Rajjab had insisted stubbornly upon it. And yet he turned back like this! He flung off and discarded the crown! Some ancient remembrance returned. An arrow struck. That word became an arrow. The guru’s meeting of eyes, that slight sign, that slight gesture… for the intelligent, that is enough.

Just think—how many hopes Rajjab must have woven! He was going to meet his beloved—how many dreams he must have seen! What plans, what castles of cards, what lovely songs must have been composed in his mind! And in a single moment, with a jolt, he shattered it all! And by a vagabond’s meeting of eyes this happened. Hence I say, Rajjab was a man of marvel.

“What kin are you to Joseph’s beauty?
You have become peerless in the age.”

No one comparable to Rajjab. Many have become saints, but such swiftness, such intensity, such density! People ponder for years, think, reflect, weigh the pros and cons, compute, fit arguments—and then perhaps they step into saintliness. But like this!

How could it have happened?

Because man is free. If you choose, it can happen now, in this very instant. But you do not want it now. And you are so dishonest that you say, What can I do? What will come of my doing? When the divine ordains, then it will be. When the Lord wills, then it will be. You hide your unbeautiful intentions behind beautiful words. You search for excuses—and such excuses as look religious. Excuses that seem sanctioned by the scriptures. The scriptures too are authored by people like you. The signatures of the same kind of insincere ones are there as well.

But I want to tell you: if you choose, it can happen now. And if you do not choose, it will never happen. You are nothing new. You are as ancient as existence itself. The Himalayas are new; you are more ancient.

What happened in that moment? What did Dadu Dayal remind him of? Why this insistence after the youth? And was this any hour, any season, any time? He need not have been so ruthless. At least a little compassion! Let him live a few days in happiness. Let the wedding happen. Let the bridal night pass. What was the hurry?

And what did he say? And why did he say it?… The recognition must have been old. The assurance ancient. The promise not new. Therefore the word went home instantly. He must have seen: again he is about to fall into forgetfulness, again into the ditch. Again another story begins. And once begun, to turn back becomes harder and harder, for every story develops its own complexity. There is a wife, then responsibilities; then children; then the responsibilities of children. Responsibilities beget responsibilities. One thing leads to another.

To my mind he was caught at exactly the right time; a little later and the net of responsibilities would have thickened. But this was an old promise. Here too there are many with whom I have an old acquaintance. Here too there are many who are not new. You do not come by accident. And to one like me no one comes by accident. This is no cheap religion. Here no prestige is to be had. If there is any prestige, it will be lost. No ego, no honor is nourished here. If there is any, it will be reduced to dust. To befriend me is costly. Yet you are drawn. Even if the whole world is against it, even if the whole world opposes, still you have come. Perhaps you yourself do not remember; somewhere a bond is ancient, some old circumambulations were performed. Your memory has forgotten. You may have forgotten; I have not.

Dadu must have seen—an old companion, an old disciple. He must have sat once before at Dadu’s feet. Then he wandered off into entanglement—toward the pit. Later he must have wept much, perhaps in some other birth he wept: What to do now? There is a wife, I must care; and there are children, their marriages must be done, they must be educated. And now you say, Wake up! Is this any time to wake? Wait a little. Things are half done, let them be completed. The household is raw, let it become firm. I will come, certainly I will; I must come; how long can I delay? But the time has not come yet. Let the season come, let the fruit ripen—then I will come. He must have said so once. Today was not the day to miss. Dadu came at the right time. That meeting of eyes was only a device to arouse the memories buried in the unconscious.

When a guru looks into the eyes of a disciple, those things which even the disciple no longer knows, lying deep in his unconscious womb, are set active. Forgotten remembrances are revived. Seeds that lay dormant begin to sprout. Longings awaken with a powerful surge.

In that one instant of Dadu’s gaze into Rajjab’s eyes, the revolution was complete. Rajjab must have recognized that now there is no way to escape—this man has caught me at the exact moment. I can no longer say: There is a wife, there are children; the house is unformed; let me set things in order; I have accepted responsibilities, let me fulfill them; I will come, certainly I will. I can no longer say such things—this man has caught me at the very gateway of the bride’s home. I was at the edge of the pit, about to fall—and he caught me.

“Rajjab, you have done a marvel!” And he said it so sweetly: You have indeed done a marvel! You kept deceiving me before—this entanglement, that entanglement… and now this! Now you are doing this when there is no entanglement! Now, when all can be resolved; now when the way is clear; now, at the crossroads—turn here or there; go toward hell or toward heaven; fall into Maya or search for the Lord—now you commit this marvel! With your own hand you commit your soul’s suicide! “You had come for Hari-bhajan…” And you had promised me that next time you come, it will be only for Hari-bhajan, for nothing else.

And I tell you, you too have made such promises many times—that next time… This life I have seen enough, enjoyed enough; it is enough; if I get another chance, then only Hari-bhajan. Only the search for the Beloved of the heart. But the moment you die a veil falls upon memory. A new birth—everything old forgotten; again A-B-C; again the beginning. The same mistakes again, the same repetitions.

There is nothing new to do here. What new will you do? The same anger, the same lust, the same greed, the same Maya, the same attachment—everything the same. The same wheel turns. The same potter’s wheel of the world.

Among the essential works of the true guru one is this: he reminds you that what you are doing, you have done many times before; nothing is new. Do not be so excited. Do not go insane. Remember a little, recollect, search within. For in your buried memories everything lies; whatever you have ever been, the memory of it is present in you. Carry the light of your awareness there. Uncover a few layers. Remove a few veils. And you too will find that many times, at the moment of dying, you said: If I come again, it will be for Hari-bhajan. But that was the talk of a dying man; the living man forgets. Let that be old—put it aside.

When you are in sorrow, you remember God; when happiness arrives, you forget. When death comes, you remember; when life is given, you forget. With failure the feeling of sannyas arises; with success you say—Is this any time? When you are old, you think of taking sannyas. When young, you think—I am young. And the mind’s deceit is such that the oldest man—others call him old—he never calls himself old.

An American millionaire lived to ninety. When he became ninety, his friends asked, Why do you still keep earning? You have more than enough! And how much life is left? Now the trouble of earning? Still going to the office? Do you know what the ninety-year-old said? I must put aside something for old age!

A ninety-year-old man still saving for his old age! No one accepts he is old. People say, The body may be old—what difference does that make? Youth is of the mind! The mind is young! What does the body matter? People convince themselves with such talk. When pain comes, they begin to think; when pain is gone, they forget.

How many times you have done this! When you are angry you decide—no more anger. It burns, it scorches, it is poison. But how long does that memory stay? Like a line of smoke it disappears—you do not know when. Then a small thing, and the same fire, the same anger, the same poison. How many times you have gone through lust—and how many times you repented! Then some desire seizes the mind and shakes you. And each time you say—only once more! But that “once more” never ends.

Rajjab must have been a marvel. The guru looked into his eyes and it was as if an explosion happened. He remembered the promise he had given. He did not delay even for an instant. Had he delayed a moment, he would have missed. In that very instant he pulled off the wedding-crown and flung it away. The matter was finished. Casting off the crown meant casting off the world. He laid his head at the guru’s feet. After that day people were astonished; they could not believe that sannyas taken with such swiftness and intensity could deepen. They thought, In two–four days sense will return. He is so young—how will he become a renunciate? The elders must have thought, Do not worry; in two–four days his wits will be back. But when a thing has happened, it has happened.

It is a matter of decision. Decision is enough. Conduct does not need to be cultivated—the weak cultivate. Those who have a little vitality—their decision itself becomes their conduct. One decision is taken—the matter is finished. To look back is the work of the weak. He did not look back. It is said even Dadu felt compassion for him. Even Dadu must have thought, The poor fellow was still young—and I brought him back from the middle of the wedding procession. I should have let him taste a little joy. What have I done?

So after two–four–eight days Dadu himself said to Rajjab, Look, you are still young. You obeyed me—that is good. Now I feel a slight regret. You have entangled me. Forgive me. It was my error that I stopped you amidst the wedding.

Perhaps even Dadu Dayal had not imagined that this would happen. People are so lazy, so sluggish, so cowardly—how often does such a thing happen! Dadu must have thought, I will sow the seed; it will happen in its own time, it will take years—but let me sow at least. He had not thought that the moment the seed is sown the fruit would appear. Such a miracle he had not imagined. He began to repent. He must have felt within, What have I done? Daily seeing this guileless youth sitting in Hari-bhajan, he must have thought, I have created another trouble. I should have let him enjoy a few days. And he must also have feared—He is so young; he may waver; in such speed he has leapt, in such speed he may fall.

So, it is said, after a few months Dadu told him, Rajjab, it is good you obeyed me; now obey me once more—go back into the world.

Rajjab looked into Dadu’s eyes—and Dadu must have trembled. He never raised that topic again. That flash, that flame, those burning eyes. It is said Rajjab did not utter a word; he only looked into the guru’s eyes. And everything was said: Is this any talk? And to hear it from you! Let all others advise—fine; they are ignorant, let them. But to hear it from you! Do not raise this again! He did not say it—but the flash of his eyes said it all.

Thereafter Rajjab remained like a shadow with Dadu Dayal. He devoted himself to service. Those feet became everything to him. In those feet he found all. Rajjab was a wondrous lover. When Dadu Dayal became unmanifest, when he left the body—you will be astonished… If one is a disciple, be like this!… Rajjab closed his eyes—and never opened them again. People asked, Why do you not open your eyes? He would say, That which was worth seeing I have seen—what remains to be seen now?

For many years Rajjab lived after Dadu’s death, but he did not open his eyes. What was worth seeing, he had seen. The vision of the truly seeable had happened. What remains now? Why open the eyes?

Such was this astonishing being! Understand his words with much love and sympathy. These are not the words of a theorist—they are a stream of nectar flowing from a consciousness that has passed through revolution. These words are not words—they are arrows. And if you consent, they will pierce you. They can transform you as well. To sit in the shade of the sayings of one like Rajjab is to befriend revolution.

Before we enter the sutras, a few more things must be understood about this unique event. For it is not that this happened only between Rajjab and Dadu; this is the inevitable event between disciple and guru. The modes may differ, the form and color may vary, the tune and cadence may be different, but this event is inevitable. Without it the relationship of guru and disciple is not forged.

From one angle it seems Dadu chose a most inopportune time. From another, there could be no more beautiful moment. Why? Because the heart was brimming with love, a river of love was flowing… Rajjab’s being was fevered with love. He was going to meet his beloved! Love was ready; only a slight turning was needed. The moment was just right. Strike while the iron is hot. From one side it looks improper, a kind of vagabondage, that Dadu did not speak suitably. But look more deeply—behind it lies a complete psychology.

You will be surprised to know—whenever a religion is alive and newly born, those attracted to it are young. And when a religion grows old and dies, becomes a corpse, then in temples and mosques only old men and old women are seen. Why? There is a reason. Life-energy! Those whose love has dried up—how will you turn them toward God? Love is love—whether it flows toward a woman or toward a man; the same love, if turned, begins to flow toward the Supreme Beloved.

Rajjab must have been full of feeling. Imagine the hour a little. Sketch the heart of Rajjab a little.

“Come, for the memories of that beauty are bound to me,
Who has made this heart a house of fairies.
For whose love we had forgotten the world—
We made the world a mere tale of the world.
Familiar are those paths to your feet on which
Her intoxicated youth bestowed its grace.
Caravans have passed by of that very elegance,
Whose vision these eyes worshiped in vain.
Those beloved winds have played with you in which
The faded fragrance of her garments still remains.
Upon you too has shone the moonlight from that terrace,
Where the ache of bygone nights still lingers.
You have seen that forehead, those cheeks, those lips—
For whose imagining we squandered a lifetime.
Upon you rose those lost, magical eyes—
Do you know why we wasted our years?
We share the common favors of the sorrow of love—
So many favors that if I begin to count, I cannot.
What have we lost, what have we learned in this love?
If I explain it to any but you, I cannot make them understand.”

A flower must have been blooming just then! Who knows how brimming with urgencies! The beloved’s eyes, her beauty, the scent of her body, the warmth of her body.

“You have seen that forehead, those cheeks, those lips—
For whose imagining we squandered a lifetime.
Upon you rose those lost, magical eyes—
Do you know why we wasted our years?
We share the common favors of the sorrow of love—
So many favors that if I begin to count, I cannot.
What have we lost, what have we learned in this love?
If I explain it to any but you, I cannot.”

Rajjab was mad—a lover! For that one woman he had staked everything. The iron was fire, a glowing ember! Dadu struck at just the time. The very love that was flowing toward the world, that was flowing toward the body—the very love that today or tomorrow would become hell—that same love was turned. That love was turned toward the eyes of the guru. That love was turned toward the God hidden behind one’s own eyes.

It is love—whether you lavish it upon the world or upon God. Blessed are those whose hearts contain love. There is only one energy with you. The very love that was for the beloved, the same attachment, the same flavor became devoted to the guru. Without his beloved Rajjab did not wish to live; if he had not met her, he would have died. The same love, when the guru left his body, closed his eyes forever. There was nothing left worth seeing. He had seen one like God—what else was worth seeing? He had seen the ultimate lotus—why look at grass and weeds now?

This revolution is of the lover. Therefore let me remind you—do not kill love; and those who have told you to destroy love are your enemies. They have turned your life into a desert. Do not kill love; transform its direction. Change love’s pilgrimage. Love is moving one way, lead it to the pilgrimage of the sacred. Make love a tirtha-yatra. This is the meaning of the path of bhakti. And all these utterances are utterances of bhakti.

Rajjab is a wondrous lover! In a single blaze the journey of love changed. There must have been a storm of love, a tremendous energy of love. Had he gone into the world he would have created a great hell—surely. He would have spread far and wide. Not going into the world, he entered the Divine—and he went very deep.

In Rajjab’s songs you will again and again find the fragrance of that love.

Sutra—

“Ramray, this Maya is most difficult.
Whomever she has charmed, the whole world she has devoured.”

He speaks to Ram—

“Ramray, this Maya is most difficult.”

A devotee speaks to God. His conversation is with God. Even when he speaks to men, they are mere occasions—he speaks to God alone. Because to the devotee none other than God is seen. Perhaps Rajjab recited this song before his disciples, his companions—“Ramray, this Maya is most difficult”—but he addresses Ram. He speaks to the Ram hidden within you—O King Ram, this Maya is most difficult!

What does Maya mean?

Maya means: that which is not, yet appears as if it is. A dream. At night you see it; in the morning you awaken and find it is not. Yet when you saw it, it was—and it felt absolutely real. You were terrified in the dream. You were elated in the dream. You gained wealth and held it to your chest. Bandits attacked, you cried and writhed—everything happened. Your dream contains a whole world. Still it never occurs to you that if the entire world can appear in a dream, perhaps the entire world is a dream!

What is there in the world that does not occur in your dream? Have you seen anything in the world that does not occur or cannot occur in a dream? Is there any necessity that cannot be in a dream? When everything can occur in a dream, everything that occurs outside, then at least once awaken and consider—might this too be a waking dream?

Then at night you forget your day’s dream. You are a beggar; at night you forget you are a beggar sleeping beneath a tree. At night you dream you are an emperor, you have palaces of gold. And the day’s memory of years upon years that you are a beggar—flows away like a line written on water! Not a trace remains. It does not occur to you—Fool, what are you thinking? Gold palaces! You are sleeping at the roadside; the constable is coming—he will rouse you in the middle of the night and drive you away. What dreams you dream! And how many days you have been a beggar—maybe fifty years! But fifty years of continuous truth is not enough to break a wave that arises in a moment’s dream?

Not enough. What value has such truth—truth of fifty years—that cannot even break a ripple of a moment’s dream? It cannot be more than a dream. This truth has no value. It too is but another kind of dream.

And you may note another thing: when you awaken in the morning, sometimes you remember a bit of the night’s dream; but when you sleep at night, you never remember the day’s dream. What does this mean? It means that the day’s dream is even weaker than the night’s dream. This is simple arithmetic. The night’s dream sometimes leaves a faint memory, a blur. But the day’s dream leaves nothing at night—not even a blur. Surely the night’s dream has a deeper groove; it enters a little into the day. But the day’s dream seems absolutely false—it does not enter the night at all.

Maya means: dream. That which is not, but seems to be. And because it seems to be, you stake everything upon it. And staking everything, you lose—for there is nothing there, nothing to gain, however much you stake.

What will you gain in life? The day you die, your hands will be empty. In your soul there will be nothing but regret.

Consider a little! And it is not that you have wasted life just like that. You earned greatly. You gained position, prestige, fame, name, wealth, this and that—built great houses, palaces—and at the time of death… imagine—death has come. What is in your hands now? All your earnings are lost. The palaces are gone like dreams.

You go to sleep at night, and even then you do not remember the palaces of day—imagine the sleep of death. When the deep sleep of death comes, everything is flattened. Then there is no memory of wife or husband or son, no fame or infamy. Everything is left lying there. This state is called Maya.

Rajjab says: “Ramray—O King Ram—this Maya is most difficult.” False it is, but so intricate! So seductive! So pleasing to the mind! It pulls and pulls. One keeps forgetting.

Have you seen—when you go to a film, you know very well that on the screen there is nothing. Yet you keep forgetting. People’s eyes fill, tears begin to fall; then comes shame, and quickly in the dark they wipe their tears with a handkerchief. Even the thought arises—What am I doing? Why am I crying? There is nothing there on the screen—only a play of light and shadow. But it makes no difference—soon you forget again. Once more you are absorbed. Once more you take what’s on the screen to be real.

In a village a film came—first time ever. The villagers watched the first show and then bought tickets for the second; they wouldn’t leave! The same film—then the third show… The manager said, Please go; others… They said, We will not go. He inquired; they looked at one another and laughed. He said, Say something—why won’t you go? You have seen it twice; let others see, the whole village is eager. You won’t budge! They said, Take the money—we are not going. Then one fellow said, If you won’t relent, we will tell. There is a scene in the film: a pool, and a beautiful woman removes her clothes to bathe. She has taken off nearly all, only the last garment remains—just then a train passes, and behind it the whole affair gets spoiled. By the time the train passes, the woman is already in the water. So we are sitting because someday the train will be late. Today or tomorrow; tomorrow or the day after—no train comes on time every day! Someday…! And so no villager will leave; we will see that scene complete.

You may laugh, but you have done the same foolishness many times. While reading a novel, you also became so absorbed you took the story as real. And when you take it as real, it becomes real for you. Read a ghost story at night, alone in the dark—and then fear begins to arise. Your own loincloth hangs there, but you see someone with arms outstretched. A mouse rustles past and your heart thumps!

Maya means: the tendency to take imagination as real. And deep within man this tendency is strong. And if you take imagination to be real, then for you it is real. You will squander your life chasing that false truth. And the one who gets entangled in taking imagination as truth is deprived of seeing Truth, for both cannot happen together. One who takes imagination for truth—how will he see Truth? A net of imagination veils his eyes. Removing the net of imagination is necessary so that what is—may be known. To know what is—therein lies liberation. Therein lies bliss. Therein lies the only earning, the only wealth. Running after what is not is a mirage.

“Ramray, this Maya is most difficult.
Whomever she has charmed, the whole world she has devoured.”

Whom she enchants, she eats. And the whole world is enchanted.

“This Maya has deluded Brahma, ensnared Shankar.
Great Siddhas and sadhakas are slain by it; in a wink, pride is cast down.
This Maya has devoured the six philosophies; with mere talk it has crazed the world.”

Hindu tales are wondrous and profound. They say: Brahma created the world, then became enamored of his own creation. He created a woman, and was so enchanted that he pursued her. A most unethical thing—because the creator is the father. The father became enamored of his daughter!

But in Hindu tales there is truth. The truth is just this. They have taken no care whether someone’s moral sentiments are hurt. The truth is that even Brahma… he wove the web and became ensnared in it.

A great painter in the West was painting a nude woman. Now a difficulty arises in painting a nude. His disciple was watching. He asked his master: You paint a nude—how will you know when it is complete? If there were clothes, one would know—clothes are on, it is finished; the ornaments are all hung, it is finished. But this is a naked woman—how will you know when it is complete? He said: There is a trick. When I begin to feel like pinching her, then I know it is finished.

His own painting; on the canvas there is nothing; yet the master says, When I myself begin to be deceived, then the painting is complete.

Brahma’s becoming enamored of the woman of his own making is the story of completeness. Brahma himself made it—he should have remembered! He too forgot. If you understand rightly, you too are Brahma, and what you are making around you—your world—is your own creation; and you too have forgotten. That is the secret of the story.

You say, I became enamored of this woman because she is beautiful. You speak wrongly. You became enamored—therefore she appears beautiful. Because to others she does not appear beautiful; only to you she appears beautiful. If she were beautiful, all would be enthralled.

And have you not seen—often people laugh at you: Why are you after this woman? Or this woman—why is she after this man? What does she see in him? You too have laughed many times—This fellow is crazy! But ask that crazy one. He says: Such unique beauty exists nowhere. And ask him why he is enamored: Because she is beautiful. The matter is exactly reversed. He fell in love; therefore beauty was born. Beauty is an outcome of infatuation, not its cause.

Whatever you fall in love with, that begins to appear beautiful. That is why no one’s mother appears ugly to him. How could she? Infatuation began on the first day. Whom you accept as your own does not appear ugly. To which mother does her son appear ugly! And you have noticed—every mother praises her son as if no such son has ever been born. People grow weary of mothers, listening to their sons’ eulogies. No one wants to listen. But every mother praises her son thus… Mothers bring their sons to me too. Where do all these prodigies vanish—I do not know! But every mother thinks this gifted son, this special son has been born! It is your infatuation. Because of your infatuation he appears special. He is not special and therefore you love him.

Whatever you become attached to… fashions of attachment also change. Once the fashion was the rose. Now not the rose—now cactus is in fashion. If you plant a rose now people think—Old-fashioned, outmoded! Where are your senses? Twentieth century and you plant roses? Plant cactus.

Cactus, people did plant before too, as a hedge to keep wild animals out. Who planted cactus in their homes! And who ever saw beauty in cactus! But now they do. People plant cactus and gaze with great rapture. In each thorn they experience exquisite beauty. Poems are written on cactus. Paintings of cactus are made. The very word cactus melts sugar in many hearts. The rose seems old-fashioned, orthodox. The rose—what are you talking about? From what age are you speaking? Some gentleman from Adam’s time! Don’t they know the age of the rose is over? The rose is a symbol of capitalism. The cactus—of the proletariat, the poor, the worker. The rose—of parasites, exploiters! Cactus—of the exploited! Then the whole story changes.

Fashions change. Time changes. People begin to savor new things. As they begin to relish them, those things appear beautiful. You construct a world around yourself—do not think Brahma alone did it—you too are Brahma; you too weave around yourself a world of Maya, of infatuation, of beauty, of attachment, of obsession. You live in that world. That is why when two people come near, clashes happen—because two different worlds collide. Harmony does not happen between two persons. Your taste is different, your wife’s taste different, your son’s different. Taste is private, imaginary.

Maya means: you construct a web of imagination and then become possessed by it.

“Whomever she has charmed, the whole world she has devoured.
This Maya has deluded Brahma, ensnared Shankar.
Great Siddhas and sadhakas are slain by it; in a wink, pride is cast down.
This Maya has devoured the six philosophies; with mere talk it has crazed the world.
With all their cunning even the clever are bewildered; none has any power over it.
Many are slain who turned toward her, who set their minds upon her.
Rajjab, free of Maya are only those whom Ram, whose hand they grasped, has delivered.”

Words—within them Maya is hidden. Therefore unless one learns the art of becoming empty, one does not go beyond Maya. Unless one knows how to be so quiet that all words and thoughts cease; unless the lamp of meditation is lit—no one goes beyond Maya.

“And with all their cunning even the clever are bewildered…
None has any power over it.”

Those from whom we hope they will not be deceived—they are deceived. Because the formula of deception lies within. That formula is your mind’s capacity to dream. As long as your mind manufactures dreams, you will be deceived. The day your mind stops manufacturing dreams, becomes thoughtless, delights in emptiness—that day you are beyond deception.

“Many are slain who turned toward her, who set their minds upon her.”

Whoever turned his face to Maya and turned his back on God—all were slain. They gained nothing but death in the name of life. They died again and again—they never lived. They were born and died—they never lived.

“Many are slain who turned toward her, who set their minds upon her.
Rajjab, free of Maya are only those whom Ram, whose hand they grasped, has delivered.”

And understand well what it means for the Name to resound. It does not mean sitting and repeating “Hari Ram, Hari Ram,” “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” It means: where all words fall silent and the real wave-sound of existence, Omkara, arises.

The Om you repeat is not the real Om. When your mind becomes utterly empty, in that emptiness a sound is heard—that very sound is Omkara. You are not the repeater—you are the hearer. You do not produce it; that sound pervades. This world is made of that sound. That Nada is hidden in the very breath of existence.

“Many are slain who turned toward her…
Rajjab, free of Maya are only those whom Ram, whose hand they grasped, has delivered.”

But who receives his grace? Do not think his grace distinguishes. If there were distinction, it would not be grace. His grace showers on all. But those with their backs turned to him remain deprived—by their own doing. Think of it as rain falling, and your pitcher is kept upside down; it will not fill. Turn the pitcher upright. Turn toward Ram.

This is what happened in Rajjab. When Dadu looked into his eyes, he was going one way—revolution happened—he turned. He dismounted from the horse. Not only from the horse—he dismounted from the world.

The horse is a symbol of the world. That is why it is used in marriage. When they seat the man on the horse, they seat him upon the world. When they tie the peacock-crown, they make him a king for a day. All is false. They say, “Bridegroom King!” There is no kingdom. Without a kingdom, a king—for a single day there is pageantry. The wedding party moves! They give you the illusion that you are someone special: you on the horse, all others walking. They hang a dagger by your side—though it cannot cut even a vegetable. It is useless—but symbolic. A symbol that you are made a king. They dress you up. The band plays. They give you the delusion you are a king—mounted upon the steed.

When Rajjab jumped down from the horse in a single instant, he stepped down from the world. He shattered the symbols. In that instant he plucked off the crown and flung it away. He saw that the dominion here is a false dominion—that this crown and all is nonsense. He bowed to the guru’s feet in search of the real kingdom. Think what the wedding party must have felt!

“How the waves rage and blaze,
When the drowning one rises to the surface!”

What must the wedding guests have gone through! They went home hurt and angry, aflame. All night they could not sleep. Because this young man had filled them with terrible embarrassment. His courage had proclaimed their cowardice. His daring told them—you are impotent; you are still riding false horses. You still wear false crowns. You still imagine you are kings. And there is no kingdom at all. This is Maya: no kingdom—and kings!

There are two kinds of people in the world. One—those who seek a kingdom that they may become kings; these are worldly. And the other—those who seek the King, Ram Raja; with him the kingdom comes of its own accord; there is no need to seek it. The King is hidden within you. The whole kingdom is his. But you have turned away from him. Only this much revolution is needed. This is the meaning of sannyas. Just this much revolution—that the eyes which were searching outside, begin to search within.

“Rajjab, free of Maya are only those whom Ram, whose hand they grasped, has delivered.”

“Sants, that which comes and goes is Maya.”

A lovely definition—short, succinct, essential. What comes and goes is Maya. Ayaram, gayaram—Maya. That which neither comes nor goes, which is, which forever is—that is not Maya. That is Truth.

Truth means: the eternal. Maya means: the transient. Waves arise on the ocean and fall; they form and collapse, come and go—the ocean remains forever. If you want peace, hold to that which is forever; grasp that which is eternal. Grip the transient—and you will be restless. You cannot hold it; and it is gone.

“Sants, that which comes and goes is Maya.
That which has neither beginning nor end, neither dies nor lives—no one has ever seen it go.”

This Maya is only a false dream. It has no beginning, no end. No birth, no life. It is merely a web of imagination. Where does your dream at night arise from? And where does it dissolve in the morning? It is neither born nor dissolved. It is only a notion. It has no existence of its own.

“Worlds without number have arisen within it—how could that have been in a womb?
It is the magician’s trick; by it this whole world is spellbound.
Void-like, beyond thought, deathless—neither of the five elements is this body.”

This body of yours, made of five elements—that you are not.

“Void-like, beyond thought, deathless…”

You are that fullness which is deathless, eternal, ancient, ever. What is its form? It is the form of emptiness—shunya-svarupa.

Within you there are two states. One—the rippled state of mind. That is Maya. Then the unrippled state of mind—shunya-svarupa—that is Ram. When the mind becomes utterly motionless, freed of all pulsation; when no thoughts arise; when the mind remains only an empty temple—none coming, none going—this is the form of Ram. This is bliss. This is liberation. Attaining this you receive the true empire. Then you have earned; you are wealthy. Until you attain that, understand—what you earn is misfortune, not fortune.

“Void-like, beyond thought, deathless—neither of the five elements is this body.
Thus countless false manifestations, upon being seen—vanish under the seeing.
As one face appears as two in facing mirrors—the more you grasp them, the more they slip away.”

This is the key of meditation. Mere observation suffices. You do not need swords to slay the false. You do not need to set fires to burn the false. To dismiss the false only one thing is needed: become a witness—look, awakened.

Begin to experiment a little. When anger seizes you, sit quietly and look at anger. Do not fight, do not quarrel. Do not condemn; do not take sides. Simply see—what is anger? Look full into it once—and you will be amazed: before your very seeing the smoke of anger begins to dissolve. Before your eyes anger departs. And in its place a strange peace is left behind—an afterglow of joy. As after a storm there is deep tranquility—so it is.

When lust seizes you, do not fight, do not suppress, do not forcibly impose celibacy. When lust arises, close your eyes and look—what is lust? Let it arise—it is a thought; why be so frightened? Why so disturbed? If lust arises, do not at once pick up your rosary to chant Ram-Ram, trying to forget. By your trying, nothing will be forgotten. You will chant Ram-Ram, and lust will weave its web within. And above you chant, while inside you know what is going on! Whom will you deceive? Perhaps others may be deceived hearing Ram-Ram, but you know why you chant. Your chanting is like those who in winter go to bathe in the river; the water is cold, and as they plunge they begin to recite mantras loudly—“Hare Ram, Hare Ram.”

As a child I watched at the river. I wondered—strange! The man never says Hare Ram; the instant he enters the water he begins. After he emerges, he forgets again. A gentleman near my house—I never heard him say Hare Ram; but in cold water he surely did. I asked him, What is the secret? He said, The cold bites. To forget it. The mind is engaged in Hare Ram, and meanwhile I dip. For a little while I keep the mind occupied.

You will chant, but how long will you escape lust? You will chant—how long will you escape anger? How will you escape? Is this escape? Whom are you deceiving?

No—the key is different. The science is different. See! Look awake! Be fully aware. Alert.

“Thus countless false manifestations, upon being seen—vanish under the seeing.”

So many false happenings arise within you; merely by seeing they dissolve.

“…vanish under the seeing.
As one face appears as two in facing mirrors—the more you grasp them, the more they slip away.”

You stand before a mirror—your face is one, but another appears in the mirror. What appears in the mirror is not real. Do not be deceived by it.

I have heard—there was a royal palace lined throughout with mirrors. A dog, by mistake, remained inside for the night. In the morning he was found dead, and all the mirrors bore his blood. What happened? Alone at night in that palace, when he looked around, in every mirror dogs appeared—dogs everywhere! He must have been terrified. Surrounded by so many dogs—one little dog, what is his capacity! So many all around, all ferocious! If he barked, they all barked. If he sprang, they all sprang. He collided with a mirror, the other dog also collided. Mirrors were shattered. Glass was broken, and the dog lay dead.

The human state is nearly the same. Your mind is only a mirror. Do not wrestle with the mind. Do not fight. Do not take what arises in it as true. They are mere shadows. Lust, anger, greed—mere shadows. Look full into them; see them with care—and they will dissolve.

“As one face appears as two in facing mirrors—
The more you grasp them, the more they slip away.
Servant Rajjab knows such a method—that what is, he leaves as it is.”

A most lovely utterance! Rajjab says, The guru gave me such a method, such a key…

“Servant Rajjab knows such a method—that what is, he leaves as it is.”

Now Rajjab sees only what is, as it is. He sees nothing otherwise. He does not mix his imagination in between. He does not allow his dreams to be blended with Truth.

“…that what is, he leaves as it is.”

With the removal of dreams, what is—alone remains. That alone is called the Divine.

God is not a person sitting in the sky upon a throne. Do not fall into that illusion that someday you will meet God holding a bow, or playing a flute, or wearing a peacock-crown—those are your imaginations. That is the net of your Maya. God is the name of that state which Rajjab describes: “What is, remains as it is.” Now there is no distortion, no dream between. Now things appear as they are. No distortion, no imposition, no projection. What is, as it is, appears. This state is the state of Paramatman.

If in this journey with Rajjab you grasp only this one key, you will not go empty-handed. A priceless treasure will go with you—the rain of grace will pour. Do not keep your pitchers upside down. The treasure will rain. Keep your pitchers upright. To set the pitcher upright is called discipleship.

Discipleship means: I am ready. Ready to receive! Eager! Welcome. My heart is open. No argument, no dispute—only acceptance.

In such a state of acceptance, the rain that pours will fill you.

And these are not ordinary words. These are the words of one who has known; of one who has passed through that unique revolution. They are the words of a siddha.

“Servant Rajjab knows such a method—that what is, he leaves as it is.”

From the day Rajjab sat at the guru’s feet, from that day he became drunk with ecstasy. In one instant the thing happened—but the pitcher filled to the brim. Dadu Dayal has said: Drinkers like Rajjab are rare. In a single gulp he drank—filled to the full.

“And what more do you need now, O wounded heart of mine!
See the effect of love’s rapture tonight.
Light upon light—wherever I raise my eyes;
Beauty upon beauty—far as sight can reach tonight.
God, God! the glory of that silver brow—
Even starlight stands entranced tonight.
What can one say of this storm of song and wine!
My house has become Khayyam’s own house tonight.”

That night it rained—wine of ecstasy. What did Dadu see in Rajjab’s eyes, as if he upturned the decanter! The guru is always ready to pour; drinkers are rare. Drink—so that you may say—

“What can one say of this storm of song and wine!
My house has become Khayyam’s own house tonight.”

This can happen. All depends on you. Heaven and hell—they are your creation. You are the master. Your freedom is supreme. If you are in sorrow—you are the cause. Understand—awaken. No one will stop you. Do not remain entangled in useless talk. Do not think, How can I awaken today? First the entanglement of births upon births must be cut. Have you taken God to be a shopkeeper, sitting with ledger and accounts—calculating grain by grain, penny by penny—Where did this coin go? Pay up! God is the Giver. The great Almsgiver! There is no account of your doings. Who is asking you? Your crimes are small. What are they before his compassion? His compassion comes like a flood—it sweeps away all your trash and debris.

Think of it like this: you have lived in a dark house for lifetimes. Today, if a lamp is lit—do you think the darkness will say, I have been here for thousands of years; I will not depart at once by the lighting of a single lamp. I will go gradually—over lifetimes as you light lamps I will go. No—a single ray of the lamp is enough. A small lamp suffices to dispel the darkness of millions of years. Such darkness was dispelled for Rajjab. Such darkness can be dispelled for you too.

Enough for today.