Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #11

O beggar! do not offer me the gift of faith
I have nothing to do with faith anymore
I have seen with these eyes the lean of courtesy
I have no love left for favors and affections
I loved man — and what did I gain?
Now even my heresy no longer longs for God
Go, bargain your faith with someone else
I am no buyer of your pious benedictions
O beggar! instead of the charity of faith
Why not give me this prayer — that I become moneyed
That I sell, in the open market, the conscience of existence
And become the standard-bearer of the disgrace of feeling
That I slit humanity’s throat to earn respect
That in the shadow of oppression I seek my solace
That in the daylight I plunder the orphans’ nests
And become the spreader of widows’ wealth
O beggar! do not look at me with startled eyes
My crushed sensibility tells me this:
Look at these cinnabar-painted faces, these dawn-tinted lines
From which the blood of helpless households flows
Look at the basements of these lofty mansions
In whose every breath a venom is dissolved
Look at the collapsing walls of faith
Whose construction makes man suffer tyranny
O beggar! what have I to do with faith?
It cannot stitch even a pauper’s cloak
These youthful bodies, these brimming glances, this intoxication—
The riddle of man will not open save through these
I too must live four days in ease, but
Apart from wealth nothing else can be had
And wealth is that vise, that once you’re caught in it
Not only we — even the pleats of Yazdan do not quiver
O beggar! do not offer me the gift of faith

The times have changed. The wind in which Razzab sang that song is no more. So perhaps the song may reach you — perhaps not. Now the songs that make sense are of this flavor: “O beggar! do not offer me the gift of faith.” O mendicant, do not grant me the alms of religion. Do not give me the prasad of religion. Do not sermonize me with religion. Do not present me the gift of religion.
O beggar! do not offer me the gift of faith
I have nothing to do with faith anymore
Today who has anything to do with religion?
I have seen with these eyes the lean of kindness
I have no love now for favors and affections
People have seen love losing. People have seen love defeated. To speak of the victory of love has become a fancy. And where love turns imaginary, how can prayer be born there? Love, in its ultimate flight, becomes prayer. The very essence, the very distillation of love is prayer. Hollow rituals remain. The life has gone out of them. People still perform prayers, but where are the hearts that pray? People still go to temples and mosques. It has become a habit to go, a custom to go, a formality to go, a social convenience to go. It oils the wheels of life. It is useful. But the temple has vanished from man’s heart. Then the temples outside cannot be of much use. Even today people take the names of Ram and Krishna — but lips, only lips utter them. They do not reach the heart. Who now goes mad in the love of the Lord? Today, if one goes mad with love for the Lord, people consider him only mad — simply mad.

O beggar! do not offer me the gift of faith
I have nothing to do with faith anymore
I have seen with these eyes the lean of kindness
I have no love now for favors and affections
I loved man — and what did I gain?
Now even my heresy no longer longs for God
And when loving man yields nothing, why would one love God either? When nothing comes by loving man, what will come by loving God? The flavor of longing for God arises only when something is found by loving man. When, through small, small loves, his rays are touched, then the longing for the sun is born.

If you have loved even one person, and that love has colored your life, and his love has perfumed your being, then today or tomorrow you will fall in love with Paramatma. You will have to — there is no way to avoid it. Where will you run? If such nectar flowed from the love of the momentary, then what nectar will not flow from the love of the Eternal? The arithmetic is straightforward, clear arithmetic. Even the dull-witted will understand. When from one flower such fragrance came, then by being linked with the Vast, what dance will not happen, what festival will not be? The fleeting, that was like a bubble on water, even that filled the eyes with new light. Dreams rose of the sky. You do not remain mere clay when you fall in love. When you fall in love, the body is forgotten. In moments of love you become soul. That very experience leads towards the love of Paramatma.

I loved man — and what did I gain?
Now even my heresy no longer longs for God
Go, bargain your faith with someone else
I am no buyer of your pious benedictions
Such is the wind today. And I would say: the so-called religious are responsible for this wind. It is because of the pseudo-religious. Because of the hollow religion. The corpses of religion lie strewn, and from them this stench rises. Because of them man turns away from God. Because of them even the wish to turn toward God does not arise. Look at your pundits-priests-officiants: does anything arise in you on seeing them — to dance and be lost? There is no dance even in their lives. They were born ringing bells in temples, but the veena of the heart has not yet sounded. They were born offering flowers in temples; by bowing before stones again and again they too have become stone. Their prayers are impotent, their rituals hollow — all hypocrisy, all deception. Man has eyes — he is not altogether blind. He can see this much. Those who for lifetimes could gain nothing through worship and prayer in temples — their God too will be false. Who will feel eager for their God? Who will desire their God?

I want to tell you this: the ground today is atheistic not because of the atheists, but because of the so-called theists. People are not even desirous of God. They see the falsity of God’s suitors, and they do not wish to join that falsity.

Hence you will have a bit of difficulty. These songs were sung in another wind. This plant grew in another soil. The soil has changed. Yet if you listen with a little sympathy — if you set aside the nets of pundits and priests and listen — the thing will be understood. And if not, not much is lost. For in your own depths too, in the profundities of your heart, however much you try, the search for Paramatma lies hidden. No man is ever satisfied without finding Paramatma. Only by finding That does contentment happen. However much one may turn one’s back upon That, however much one may, in annoyance, say, “I am no longer your suitor” — annoyance is one thing; this thirst is not the kind that ends. This is not a thirst that dies simply because you declare it dead. It will end only when Paramatma showers into your throat.

This thirst is man’s treasure. Because of this very thirst, even if a million hypocrisies parade in the name of religion, still a little, if not much, curiosity about religion remains. Even if exploitation goes on in the name of religion, even if temples, mosques, gurudwaras turn false — even then man finds some new path, some new way. He saves himself from temples and mosques, but the search for Paramatma continues. The thirst is such that without finding Paramatma it cannot be quenched.

So you will understand; the capacity to understand is naturally within. Yet these songs were sung in a different air, in a different milieu. They were sung by a different kind of people, before a different kind of audience. Those people have slowly departed; such intoxicated madhushalas are no more; such joyous satsangs are no longer. Listen—

Ram bin saavan sahyo na jai.
Without Ram the monsoon cannot be borne. Ram means the Supreme Beloved. Call the name what you will: Allah, Ram, Rahim — whatever name you choose — He is the Supreme Beloved, without whom everything is insipid; without whom we do exist, and yet as if we do not. Without whom we are hollow and empty. Without whom we have no worth. Without whom, though we live, our living is nominal. Truly said, we go on dying. Without whom we do not live. Only death keeps coming closer — and what comes to our hands? Day by day we die a little. In which direction are you moving? Where will you reach? You reach only into death. Is this any life?

What is the definition of life? Life is that which leads into the Great Life. If life is true, its ultimate fruit will be the Great Life. But the fruit of this life is death — then what kind of life is this! This cannot be life. Somewhere a mistake has occurred. Somewhere a slip has happened. We have taken something for something else. Without the companionship of Paramatma there is no life. With Him there is life. In opposition to Him is death. That which is separate from Him will die. That which is with Him never dies.

There is a lovely saying of Jesus: Come, be with me, for those who are with me shall never die. Those who are with me have no death. What is Jesus saying? He is saying man can live in two ways. One way is isolated, as ego, as “I,” in opposition to Paramatma, in non-cooperation, separate from Paramatma. This is how most people live. The center of their life is “I.” I will do this, I will become that, I will attain that. They have their own will, some ambition they want to fulfill. They want to show the world who they are. They wish to sign their name upon stones — they themselves will perish, but the name will remain. They wish to leave marks upon the sands of time. They are mad — for where have marks ever remained upon sand? Winds will come and the marks will be erased. Here even stones become sand. Even if you engrave your name upon rock, how long will it last? And in this immense, eternal arrangement, your name and fame — what meaning can their remaining have? It is all futile, all a dream. Yet the ego lives like this: that I may do something, show something, become something.

And the ego has its own will: it must be like this; only then will I be content; if not, I will remain dissatisfied. That is why so many are dissatisfied — because things do not go as you want. This existence cannot run by your wanting. If it ran by your wanting, it would have gone mad long ago. For your wants are so many. They cannot all be fulfilled. In one moment you want one thing; in the next you want another. And this is only one man. Then there are so many people, so many animals, so many birds, so many plants, so many lives. Scientists say there is life on at least fifty thousand earths. How can all these wants be satisfied! It is the want of Existence that is fulfilled. Man’s wants are not fulfilled. Yes, sometimes your want does get fulfilled; then know that by coincidence your want fell in step with the want of Existence. By a slip you desired that which Paramatma desired. Therefore you succeeded. You flowed in the same current in which Paramatma was flowing. If sometimes you succeed, this is the reason.

You never succeed; Paramatma always succeeds. You, in fact, always lose. In ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, you lose. Learn something from this loss. Learn this: my will cannot be fulfilled. The one who sees that his will cannot be fulfilled will not take long to see the second thing: only the will of Paramatma is fulfilled. So let me become one with His will. Let whatsoever He does be right. Let there be no opposition left in me. Let my cooperation, my harmony, be complete. Properly understood, this itself is satsang — becoming one with the will of Paramatma. Saying: You do. I am the flute in Your hands — You play, You sing. Let Your song flow through me; let me not become an obstacle — that is enough. Then there is no failure in life; then no defeat. What defeat? Then whatsoever happens is success. Even if midstream you sink, that is the very shore. His will! The one who has dropped his own will — he alone is religious. And the one who has dropped his will — he is with Paramatma.

Ram bin saavan sahyo na jai.
And the one to whom this becomes clear will see that the whole of existence is filled with such ecstasy, such joy! Saavan — the monsoon — is ever here. It is monsoon and only monsoon. This nature is forever absorbed in festival. Here the great festival is going on without a pause. Not for a single moment is there a break. The waves of this festival keep rising. The billows keep colliding. The dance of moon and stars goes on. All around, this vast celebration is underway — this is saavan. And the one who sees this will see another thing: without Paramatma how am I to bear so much beauty! Without Paramatma how am I to bear so much nectar! Without Paramatma so much festivity will become a frenzy; I will go mad. I will not be able to bear it; it will become unbearable.

Remember: only sorrows are not unbearable; joys too become unbearable. If you have peered into the inner process of “becoming unbearable,” you will be amazed. Scientists say: the phrase “unbearable pain” is not quite right — for no pain ever becomes unbearable. Before it becomes unbearable one becomes unconscious. This is the inner arrangement of pain: only so long as you can bear it does consciousness remain. As soon as the pain starts to exceed your bearing, you faint. It is nature’s intimate arrangement to save you from pain. Hence there is, in fact, no unbearable pain. We say so — but there is none. The moment it would become unbearable, you become unconscious. That is why when a blow comes to the head you faint. The agony is intense; nature saves you by making you unconscious. She does not let you bear it.

Pain, then, never becomes unbearable. But joy can become unbearable — because to save you from joy, nature has made no protective arrangement. Joy can climb higher and higher — to such heights that you begin to scatter, where you begin to break, where you fall to pieces, where you cannot hold yourself together, where the dance becomes such that you will be torn limb from limb. And if you look at the celebration of life, such nectar will arise in you. Without Paramatma it cannot be borne. To hold such an ocean within, the vessel must be just as vast. That vessel can only be His. That capacity cannot be one’s own.

Ram bin saavan sahyo na jai.
Without Ram the great festival of life cannot be borne. Perhaps that is why people do not even look at life’s celebration. They keep searching in life for sorrows, for complaints, picking thorns, counting dark nights. Thus their arrangement remains intact. If you see life’s joy, how will you bear it alone? Joy has to be shared.

Have you understood the majesty of joy? Man wants to suffer his sorrow alone; he wants to share his joy. When someone is sorrowful he shuts his doors and hides in his room, saying: do not disturb me, do not say anything to me, do not take me out; let me drown in myself — I am miserable. A miserable man sometimes drinks, just so that all connections with others may break. And sometimes, in extreme hours, he commits suicide — so that neither the flute remains nor the bamboo. If I myself am not, then with whom any relation?

But when joy arises, man wants to share. When Mahavira was in sorrow, he went to the forest. The Jain scriptures tell grand tales of this. But that is not the real tale, not Mahavira’s real secret. The real secret is: what happened when Mahavira became blissful? Then he returned from the forest to the town. Now it was to be shared. What will you do alone in the forest? The stories we have written of holy ones are also incomplete. We have elaborated how they left — the great palaces, the golden palaces, the vast kingdoms, elephants and horses in great numbers, immense wealth, immense riches — we have described that leaving with relish. But we do not tell the other thing: why did they return? One day all returned. Buddha returned after six years; Mahavira after twelve — one day all came back. What happened? When they had gone, they should have gone for good. Why return to this world? But they had to come. When bliss ripened, it had to be given. Bliss cannot be hoarded. And who is the most fitting recipient with whom to share bliss?

If Paramatma were before you, the bhakta would dance to his heart’s content. Then tie the bells to your ankles — and dance. Then have no worry. Then drown your whole dance into That Vast. Otherwise the monsoon becomes too heavy. If you have loved in ordinary life, even then the monsoon becomes heavy. Taking that as symbol, Razzab wrote this song. The beloved can endure, can wait through the common seasons — but when the monsoon comes and clouds gather in the sky, and the moment of the parched earth’s quenching draws near, new leaves sprout on the trees, the fine drizzle begins, peacocks dance, the papihas sing, the cuckoos call, all around a festival begins, flowers bloom — then it becomes unbearable.

Ram bin saavan sahyo na jai.
Even in ordinary love, without the beloved it is hard to endure the monsoon. Bad days pass; good days do not pass. A man can bear sorrow alone — in truth, if you have loved, you will not even wish to speak of your sorrow to your beloved. You will think: what is the point of speaking of sorrow? I will bear it alone. I will drink it silently like a bitter draught. But when joy surges you will want to put your arm around her neck, to take her hand in your hand and dance.

The process of simple love and that of prayer are the same. The difference between them is of magnitude, not of quality. There is no qualitative difference. Quantitative difference certainly: infinite upon infinite greater is the delight of prayer. Yet it is but the drop of love become an ocean.

Ram bin saavan sahyo na jai.
Do not ask about the tale of the glance of love
Ask not what they call the sorrow of ecstasy
That intoxicated night — that goblet-in-hand night
Ask not the price of that drunken night
In the heart there arises a certain restless sting
By God, ask not the mischief of that glance
The whole world was a mountain of tears
Ask me not the story of the night of separation
Nights I have been conversing with the stars
Ask not of me the saga of my madness
What has happened to your poem — what shall I say?
Ask not the condition — ask not my condition
Love drives one insane. And when the monsoon knocks at the door, then in love a flood arrives! This flood is being spoken of. And then this is the love of Paramatma — not the love of some small lover who is here today and gone tomorrow. This is love that is forever; when it comes it does not go; it is eternal; it recognizes no perimeter of time; it is vaster than the sky. Understand the bhakta’s mood — the madness within the devotee.

Black clouds have gathered into death; O mother, desire burns me up.
Inside, inside, a fire is burning; outside the monsoon has come — and there is no trace of the Beloved. Clouds have massed — beautiful clouds, dear clouds — but without the Beloved, how are these dear clouds, these beautiful clouds, to look dear, to look beautiful?

Remember: we see in nature only what is happening within us. If your beloved has come home, the night of new moon becomes full moon. And if your beloved has not come, then even the full moon remains a night of darkness. If the Beloved has arrived, the moon appears to be dancing in the sky. Your heart is dancing; that dance of the heart begins to be mirrored upon the moon. Your beloved is leaving — the moon is still the same — but your heart is weeping; look at the moon and it seems as if tears are dropping from it. What we see outside is the reflection of the within. Whatever happens within, that we see upon the screen without. So, whatever you see outside, take a hint about your within. Whatever you see outside, understand from it what is within you. Standing before a mirror — the face that appears there is not in the mirror; it is your face. In the same way we stand every moment before the mirror of nature. Whatever is seen there is our own face. From it we have to recognize our own face.

Black clouds have gathered into death...
These intoxicated black clouds, these dancing clouds passing by — they seem as if death itself were coming.
...desire burns me up, O mother.
And inside, inside, the eagerness for union. The longing to become one — that is kam.

Understand the meaning of kam.
Kam means: in two there is pain; in one there is nectar. In becoming one there is bliss. When even an ordinary man and woman fill with deep love, they want to become one, to be joined. And that is the misfortune of love — they cannot become one. Hence all loves fail. For the very longing of love is to become one, and to become one is not possible. How can two bodies become one? Perhaps for a moment — but after that moment one has to fall into deep dark chasms, to wander in the black valley. The pain grows yet more. That momentary union deepens separation. In its context, separation becomes even more profound. In the world, love longs to become one, and that longing cannot be fulfilled. It can be fulfilled only with Paramatma. That powerful surge of kam within you can be fulfilled only with Ram; there is no other way. For with Him there is no union of bodies — it is the union of soul. There the boundaries can be lost forever. There we can take the plunge — and need never return.

Black clouds have gathered into death; desire burns me up, O mother.
Gold palaces, silks and scents all turn pale...
The palace of gold grows insipid. Beautiful garments turn pale.
Gold palaces, silks and scents all turn pale when the Beloved’s context is absent.
And when the Beloved’s context is not there, when His reference is not there, everything grows pale. The greatest joys of life happen only in the context of love. Look into your own life a little. The greatest moments of joy in your life did not come in aloneness; they came in the context of love. Whenever, for a moment, a window opened in your life and you glimpsed the Infinite, it did not happen in solitude; it happened in the context of love. Wherever love has blossomed, wherever love has ripened, there life receives a new context, a new reference.

Words have no meanings in themselves — understand it thus — nor do events have meanings in themselves. No word has any meaning in itself. Meaning belongs to the sentence. When you place the word within a sentence, it acquires meaning. In another sentence the same word will have another meaning. In a third sentence, a third meaning. Then the sentence too has no meaning in itself — its meaning is in the context of the whole page. And the page’s meaning is in the context of the entire book. If you understand this rightly, isolated events have no meaning. Meaning arises in context and reference. And the larger the context, the larger the meaning grows.

The greatest meaning happens in the context of love for Paramatma — for that is the largest context. Beyond that there is no context. That is the epic of epics. Linked with it, paltry words turn to gold. Linked with it, pebbles and stones become diamonds and pearls.

Gold palaces, silks and scents all turn pale...
All is there — yet all is pale. This is today’s most ponderable question. Never has man been so affluent as today. Science has given man great affluence, great convenience. Everything is there; we have the capacity to go to the moon — but the reference to Paramatma is lost. Therefore, though all is there, man is utterly pale — utterly blank, empty, void. Outside there are heaps of wealth, golden palaces constructed — and within? Within there is great beggary. Within man is a complete mendicant. This is modern man’s greatest problem: what has happened, why has it become so? Why does man feel meaninglessness within?

The greatest thinkers of the world are most anxious about this question — the question of meaning. Why has man’s meaningfulness been lost? Why are people asking: what is the meaning of life? In life there is no meaning in itself, nor can there be. Meaning exists only in a context. There was meaning in the context of Paramatma; that context has been lost. Suppose a page of a book, torn loose, comes to you blowing in the wind — you read it; you will not understand much. The meaning was in the whole book. Or a single line of poetry comes to you — you will not understand. The meaning was in the whole poem. Or a single word comes — and you do not understand. Man’s condition has become like this: he has been torn from context. His roots do not seem to be linked today with Paramatma. He stands alone; the background is lost; he cannot make out who he is.

Gold palaces, silks and scents all turn pale when the Beloved’s context is absent.
I am not yet content with the first rays of dawn’s sole —
Your beauty too would occur in some pleasant ray.
I called from the rooftop, I cried from the gallows —
Where have I not reached in the longing to see You!
I have carried around the corpse of life’s sorrow —
At times in my solitudes, at times in Your assembly.
To Your grief each one of my tears has been offered —
There is no star left now to shine in my sky.
If even once a mere glimpse of Him is found, all stars grow pale. Then no star can shine. Then no wealth remains wealth. Let the hint of meditation touch you — then no wealth remains wealth. If even a slight stirring of prayer happens within, then no love remains love. If the sense arises that there is Paramatma, then whatever meanings were in this life — all of them change. Then a new journey of meaning begins. The pilgrimage begins. Now you have begun to enter the proper context. Now you have found your roots.

A great calamity overwhelms me, without the Beloved — the serpent of separation has seized me.
It is a great calamity, a great distress — without Him, without the Beloved.
A great calamity overwhelms me, without the Beloved — the serpent of separation has seized me.
And separation has seized me as if a serpent had coiled around me — as if one had fallen into the grip of a terrible snake. Some fierce serpent has coiled itself on all sides — such has separation seized him. Today separation seizes no one like this — a misfortune. For the greater the separation that seizes you, the greater the hope of union. If our separations are small, our unions are small. There is proportion between separation and union. When someone writhes in the separation of Paramatma, there is a beauty even in his writhing. And a man writhing for wealth — there is ugliness in his writhing. A man writhing for position — his writhing is inhuman, wild. In his writhing there is no culture. In his writhing there is no place for man’s higher values.

If you must writhe, writhe for something great. If you are to seek, seek the Supreme Treasure. If you have begun the journey, make it to the Supreme State.

The bridal bed is empty — to whom shall I tell my pain? This weak woman can hold no courage.
Razzab says: the couch is empty — adorned, and empty. The monsoon stands at the door, and all is empty.
The bridal bed is empty — to whom shall I tell my pain?...
And this is a sorrow such that to whom shall I tell it? Only those who know will understand. Blessed are they in whose lives such a sorrow arises that even to speak it one must search for a worthy ear! Blessed are they whose sorrow cannot ordinarily be spoken — which means the Supreme sorrow has arisen within them.

The whole night is distraught — O stars, you at least go to sleep.
The peace of death is descending — O stars, you go to sleep.
Laugh — and laughing drown into the spaces —
This night weighs upon me — O stars, you go to sleep.
We will also fall asleep; we too will sleep —
But for now there is some restlessness — O stars, you go to sleep.
Perhaps the stars will understand — man will not. Man has become so witless, so stony, stone-like! To whom shall one tell?

The bridal bed is empty — to whom shall I tell my pain? This weak woman can hold no courage.
There is no courage. A terrible unrest is born.

I remind you of a saying of Jesus—
Someone asked Jesus, “Are you the one of whom the scriptures say that with his coming peace will descend upon the world?” Jesus looked at the man intently and said, “I have not come to bring peace but a sword. I have come to disturb you.” Christian thinkers have pondered this saying for two thousand years. It would have been better, they feel, had Jesus not said it—because Jesus is an apostle of peace, and this saying, “I have not come to bring peace but a sword; I have come to disturb you!” Yet the saying is meaningful, and it is good he said it. I fully agree. Whoever is beloved of God will disturb you. You are “peaceful” only in the sense of moving along—everything is “fine”: you run your shop, go to the market, have children, sleep, wake, earn, win, lose—life goes by, “all is well.” But if you come close to one beloved of the divine, this “all-well” will shatter in a single instant. For the first time you will see you have wasted your life, spent it gathering rubbish. A deep restlessness will arise, great unease, a great impatience—an inner, spiritual discontent.
There is one kind of discontent for worldly objects—that is the mark of the irreligious mind. And there is a discontent for God—that is the mark of the religious mind. Those dissatisfied with outer things keep running outward. Those who become filled with an inner longing, who grow thirsty for inner experience, whom an inner discontent seizes—a divine discontent—set out on the inner quest.

Be content outwardly and discontent inwardly! Right now your condition is the reverse—you are utterly content inwardly and most discontent outwardly. You say, “This house is small—let me get a bigger one; this shop is small—let me expand it; this heap of money is small—let me make it bigger; this position is no position—let me find a higher one; I have a little power—let me push it; I have a little opportunity—let me exploit it.” Outwardly you are dissatisfied, inwardly you don’t even look—you are empty, there is darkness; no lamp has ever been lit there—yet outside you celebrate Diwali, while inside it is bankruptcy.

Look within a little too. These outer lamps won’t help for long; they flare and go out. No one has ever gained real light from them, nor can they. Death will come, and with one gust it will extinguish them all. Light such a lamp that death cannot blow out.

“On the empty bridal bed, to whom shall I tell my ache? The helpless heart finds no courage.”
The devotee becomes very restless. Only after this restlessness comes peace; the greater the restlessness, the greater the peace. This restlessness is the price paid for that peace. The devotee becomes greatly afflicted. What suffering are you talking about? Your suffering is small and petty. The devotee suffers more; his chest is full of wounds, his eyes brimming with tears. He sees nothing but darkness all around and emptiness within. Yet deep inside, a voice keeps saying: If you truly desire, everything can change—monsoon stands at the door—the Beloved can be met!

Think a little of that anguish! When everything could be—and nothing seems to happen. The hours of waiting pass, but the sound of his footsteps is not heard. In such a state the devotee passes through countless moods:

“My heart longs to tell him the tale of my sorrow—if ever I get a chance, by his own oath I will tell him all. But he neither comes nor listens to the saga of my pain. How helpless we are—what an injustice is this! And on top of that, they demand we confess our love: ‘Worship us, desire us, love us.’ So merciless—no regard for justice, not a speck of mercy’s fragrance. Even faced with such unkindness, my heart does not retreat. Let him come now, for there is no hope of living. And let him himself confess love: ‘Worship us, desire us, love us.’”

A voice is heard: “Worship me, desire me, love me”—but from where does it come? The source is unknown. A call comes from very far, or from very deep, or from very within—but the source is not found. Who is calling? One cannot see. And the call grows denser and denser—and with its density the devotee’s anguish intensifies. A fire begins to burn—the fire of separation in which the devotee burns. This is the real sacrifice.

Stop the sacrifices you perform outside. Don’t waste ghee and grain in them. If you must burn something, burn your ego in the inner fire of longing for God. If something must be offered, offer yourself there. Let the altar be built within. The true sacrifice is there—the sacrifice of life is there. And the day you become pure ash—absolutely ash—union happens in that very instant. You disappear—and union is. Your vanishing is the meeting.

“In the turmoil of the night of waiting—don’t ask how dawn arrived: at times I lit a lamp, at times I snuffed one out.”
The night of separation is long. How the morning breaks is hard to say.
“In the turmoil of the night of waiting—don’t ask how dawn arrived…”
Even those whose dawn has come cannot say how it came. The journey was long, the night very long.
“At times I lit a lamp, at times I snuffed one out…”
Somehow I kept doing something—prayer, worship, mantra, chanting—all of it was just that: sometimes lighting a lamp, sometimes putting one out. But behind it all was the longing—that alone is the real thing. Behind it was the search, the groping—that is the gist. The quest. What you did for seeking’s sake doesn’t matter much—the inner search itself is what counts. God does not watch what you do; he watches what you desire. Your longings are tested, your aspirations recognized. Your inner feelings are read.

“On the empty bridal bed, to whom shall I tell my ache? The helpless heart finds no courage.
Frog, peacock, and pied-cuckoo call—their voices strike the body like arrows.”
All other lovers are finding their beloveds—when will the devotee’s Beloved come? The monsoon has arrived—the brides are adorned, the bridegrooms decked out; those awaited ones are arriving—the beloveds meet their sweethearts—monsoon has come.

“Frog, peacock, and pied-cuckoo call—their voices strike the body like arrows.”
Even the animals and birds meet their mates; everywhere the hour of union has arrived—monsoon means the hour of meeting. Love ripens for all—but there is no sign of the devotee’s God. Within there is still dark night, a desert—only the taste of separation.

“Sobbing winds, heavy with sorrow, be quiet.
Don’t make the flowers laugh at my plight—be quiet.
Before dawn, do not speak, fellow singers—be quiet.
They sleep in pain—do not wake them—be quiet.
All taverns are shut; the cupbearers have become judges.
O thunderous, echoing clouds—be still.
Heartbeats suffice to declare longing—let not your lips go beyond—be quiet.
You know, after all, what season this is—
till the season of blossoms comes, O well-wishers, be quiet.
Grief sits against the wall of thought—
let no melody hum within the heart—be quiet.
When the flames of circumstance die down, we shall see—
don’t rush into darkness before time—be quiet.
See that no neighbor leaves his house—
O my friends, my companions in pain—be quiet.
Why make anyone a partner in sorrow, O Qateel?
Lift your own cross upon your shoulders—and be quiet.”

“Lift your own cross upon your shoulders—and be quiet.” This is the devotee’s life-pain. “Why make anyone a partner in sorrow, O Qateel!” Even if you tell your pain—whom to tell? What is the point of telling? Who will understand? People will laugh—at best they’ll call you mad.

“Why make anyone a partner in sorrow, O Qateel?
Lift your own cross upon your shoulders—and be quiet.”
The devotee must bear silently, weep silently. I am not speaking of those “devotees” who arrange nonstop recitations; they know nothing of devotion. They create noise for twenty-four hours, disturb the neighborhood’s sleep. Devotion is a very quiet pleading—in the darkness of night, in solitude. Whom will you tell of your grief? Who will understand here? People will see your tears and laugh. Cry silently, call silently. Let this remain within—there is no need to let anyone know; man is cunning—often the arrangements are made so that people will know. All such arrangements become false. Let it be enough that God knows. Do not strive to let others know.

You’ve seen it—if someone is worshipping in a temple and two, four, ten people gather, his worship grows louder; the aarti swings more vigorously. If a photographer arrives, a reporter too—then, of course! He becomes so ecstatic that Kabir would wonder, Nanak would shake his head, Mira would hesitate to dance there. But when no one is watching, he quickly rings the bell, sprinkles a little water and runs away. He has nothing to do with God. Your worships and rituals become announcements of your ego.

“Why make anyone a partner in sorrow, O Qateel?
Lift your own cross upon your shoulders—and be quiet.”

“Adorned with every ornament, still it all feels a burden—nothing pleases the heart.”
Rajjab says: I am fully adorned. What is the devotee’s adornment? He has cleansed his vessel—purified himself of toxic feelings—left anger, greed, attachment, dropped addictions to jealousy and enmity, abandoned dualities, arguments, doubts—he has refined himself from all sides. The adornment of the devotee is faith.

“Adorned with every ornament—yet all feel a burden…”
Until the Beloved is found, all adornment is a burden. Once he is found, everything changes—color changes, style changes.

“Moonlit night and the preoccupation with verse—
I have sculpted idols of silver;
breathe a soul into them—or else
my thoughts are cold corpses.”
Sing on then—but there is no life in the song. “My thoughts are cold corpses.” There is no life in my expression. “Breathe your spirit into them”—only then will they live. There are songs which the singer does not sing—the singer is only a medium and God sings. That is a different ecstasy—then the sky descends to earth. And there are songs which the singer himself sings—God is nowhere in them; however beautiful the words, they are lifeless.

That is the difference between a poet and a seer. The poet sings himself; the seer lets God sing. From the outside both seem alike—lips form words, voice issues from the throat—but one comes only from the throat, the other from the beyond—his own it is not; he is like a hollow reed flute.

Kabir said: “I am a hollow bamboo; all songs are yours. If mistakes occur, they are mine—the reed distorts the notes, makes them off-key; the slip is mine, the beauty is yours. Merit is yours; if sin happens—mine.” This is the devotee’s feeling.

“Moonlit night and the preoccupation with verse—
I have sculpted idols of silver;
breathe a soul into them—or else
my thoughts are cold corpses.”

“Adorned with every ornament, yet all feel a burden—nothing pleases the heart.”
What can please the mind now? Once the mind is joined to the Enchanter of minds, nothing else pleases; all is flat, tasteless, out of tune. All beauty is superficial. Only when the Beloved is present does existence breathe and throb.

“Rajjab asks: With whom shall I sport in joy while the Beloved is not within?”
How can I be festive? How sing? How dance? How celebrate rasa?—when the Beloved has not yet come within. When he comes—then there is only dance, effortless; you do not try—dance begins. Without him, however many arrangements we make, all are false—all hypocrisy.

Religion has turned into hypocrisy because of our arrangements. When you contrive, it becomes pretense. When, out of the experience of his presence, something arises in you spontaneously—then religion is true. Learned religion is futile—read it in the Gita or the Quran and perform it—it is arranged. Call upon God within; let his image form there.

And remember: if there is thirst, the meeting happens. Only complete thirst is needed; beyond that, nothing is in man’s hands.

“We sat aside, yet the cupbearer’s glance fell upon us—
if the thirst is complete, even the moths will come.”
Complete thirst—that is all. How long can the cupbearer avoid you? How long will he evade?

“We sat aside, yet the cupbearer’s glance fell upon us—
if the thirst is complete, even the moths will come.”
They will surely come—when the lamp is lit, the moth arrives; when thirst blazes, the Beloved arrives. He must come. You have fulfilled the condition—the only condition is thirst. Your prayer should be nothing but the expression of your thirst. Ask for nothing else. Desire nothing else. If you must desire, desire him; if you must ask, ask for him—ask for nothing else.

“Rajjab asks: With whom shall I sport in joy while the Beloved is not within?”
Rajjab says: The monsoon has come—I too wish to dance, to honor the season. Birds burst into song, clouds gather, peacocks dance.

“Frog, peacock, and pied-cuckoo call—their voices strike the body like arrows.”
The arrows of monsoon pierce me too; this beauty awakens me as well; everywhere there is celebration—how can I sit apart? But what can I do? My life-beloved has not yet come; even his footfall is not heard.

“Without remembrance I lost myself in the world.”
And why has this happened? How did it come to be that the Beloved is not found?

“Without remembrance I lost myself in the world.”
We ourselves have slowly lost his remembrance. Bhajan means remembrance—smriti, surati—of him. We ourselves have let it slip. No true devotee will say “He forgot me.” He cannot cast such a slur upon God. We have forgotten him; we have turned our backs. We have arranged our lives in such a way that we drifted far. God is not far from us—we are far from him.

“Without remembrance I lost myself in the world.
You may go west or east—there is no contemplation in the heart.”
Go where you please—west or east; become Hindu or Muslim; worship in this direction or that; let your Kashi be here and your Kaaba be there—it makes no difference. If there is no remembrance—no inner recollection of the divine—and your mind is filled with the world’s memory, then even in Kashi you will remember only the world; in the Kaaba too you will remember only the world. Your demands will be worldly.

Consider this riddle: Tomorrow morning when you wake, God will be standing before you and will say, “Ask three boons.” Think—what three boons will you ask? There is no need to tell anyone—so no need to cheat—just see what you would ask. You will be astonished at your own demands—you will surely ask for something petty. Even with God standing before you, you will miss him. It will scarcely occur to you to say, “Now what need of boons? You are here—that is enough.” Rarely will it occur to you to say, “No more boons—just let these feet remain forever in my hands; let me cling to them, let their flame remain in me—enough.” Could you ask that? If you think and calculate you will say, “Let’s keep that for number three—first let us settle the other two.”

You will not be able to ask it. Your heart is filled with the world’s memory. You will think, “Why waste this chance?” You will say, “Make me president, make me prime minister; make me the richest man on earth.”

“O beggar, do not give me the gift of faith—
I have no business with faith now.
With these eyes I have seen the favors of kindness—
I care no more for mercy and love.
I even loved man—what did I gain?
Now my unbelief has no craving even for God.
Go strike your bargain of faith with someone else—
I am no buyer of your pious prayers.”
“Without remembrance I lost myself in the world.
You may go west or east—no contemplation in the heart.”
Only this one thing is sure: the thought of God does not arise in your heart. All other thoughts arise—countless thoughts—one alone is missed, and that is the essential. Whoever finds that one finds all; whoever loses it loses all. What you take to be wealth, is calamity.

“We took the executioner’s hand to be the painter’s;
that which was a slaughterhouse, we took for a lovers’ gathering.”
You are misunderstanding everything in the world. This is a slaughterhouse—everyone is queued for death—yet you take it for home?

“We took the executioner’s hand to be the painter’s;
that which was a slaughterhouse, we took for a lovers’ gathering.
Nothing remains in our hem but prickly blame—
O passion, whom did we take for the lane of spring?”
In the end you will find nothing in your lap but thorns. That is what you are gathering—thorns you mistake for flowers.

“Nothing remains in our hem but prickly blame—
O passion, whom did we take for the lane of spring?”
We took it for the lane of spring—we thought joy would happen, nectar would rain—and found nothing but thorns. People leave this world defeated. You can go victorious—but victory is with him. “Without Ram, the monsoon cannot be endured!” Victory is with him—defeat is alone. Whoever joins with him, wins. He finds the lane of spring; he finds the moments of spring; then, in his life, nothing but spring remains; monsoon is there, the Beloved is there, and union is eternal.

“You may go west or east—no contemplation in the heart.
You desire the upward—and get stuck to the downward—bewildered, foolish, rustic.
You drink poison and want to live forever—death needs not a second time.”
You want to live forever, and you bind yourself to what is transient. You join yourself to the body—which is here today and gone tomorrow. You do not join yourself to the soul—which was yesterday, is today, and will be tomorrow.

“You drink poison and want to live forever—death needs not a second time.”
Death does not take long, and every day you see people die—carry the bier, accompany them to the burning ground—yet it does not occur to you that your hour is approaching fast. Nothing changes in your life.

When I was small I loved to go to the cremation ground. I learned a lot there. Whoever died in the village—I would go with the bier. If I didn’t reach school, my teacher knew someone must have died. If I didn’t reach home to eat, my family knew—send someone to fetch me from the cremation ground!

Two things amazed me there. A man is burning—and people sit chatting about the world. Yesterday they talked with him—he was their friend, dear one—today he is burning; they have lit the pyre, and now they sit around gossiping: what film is running, how is it; what is so-and-so’s condition—again the same marketplace! It does not occur to them: this death is your death too. This moment was meant for attention—for thought. This man died talking of these very things—and we too will die talking of them. Slowly I understood—they entangle themselves in talk to save themselves. The fact of death must not be seen—it would disrupt their lives, shatter their structures, compel them to remember God; the world’s remembrance would not suffice—because while it is remembered, people die daily.

When will you be wise enough to remember him so that there is no more dying? Such a key is within you; such is your possibility. You are children of immortality. The Vedas say: Amritasya putra—O children of the immortal, why are you entangled in death? Whoever is entangled in the world is entangled in death—because the world is mortal. Whoever remembers the Lord becomes immortal. Become friends with what abides—choose your friendship wisely.

“You drink poison and want to live forever—death needs not a second time.
Sitting on a rock to cross the sea—all such are sure to sink.”
See the irony: people put rocks into the ocean, sit upon them, and intend to cross! The rock will surely sink—and you with it. This is what you are doing—building boats of wealth and position. These are rocks; they will drown you. With them, drowning is certain; crossing is not possible.

“Sitting on a rock to cross the sea—all such are sure to sink.
Only one boat takes you across—Nanak says, the Name is the ship.
Without the Name, there is no deliverance—never will one reach the other shore.”
If these few words enter your understanding, magic will enter your life.

“Without the Name, there is no deliverance—never will one reach the other shore.”
Without his Name—his remembrance—no one has ever crossed, nor can anyone cross.

And the one who sees this truth—that his remembrance takes us across—begins to dance at once. The very insight is so delightful—sadness vanishes, a new shine comes to the eyes.

“Look beyond the prison—behold the garden’s hues, the fervor of spring.
If you would dance, then stop staring at your fetters.”
Raise your eyes a little beyond the prison—beyond the limits of wealth, status, name—look to the sky. Those who would dance do not sit staring at their chains. Once the gaze is lifted upward and dance begins, all chains break of themselves. There is no need to sit worrying about chains. Chains have not bound you; you forgot the dance—hence chains appeared. Chains do not stop the dance; the absence of dance manufactures chains.

“Without the Name, no deliverance; never will one reach the far shore.
For the sake of happiness they sink into long misery—bewildered, foolish, rustic.”
What is the folly of this world? You want happiness and you plunge into sorrow. You ask for heaven and you dig out hell. You know this is what is happening—reflect on all the suffering you have borne; you always desired happiness and always harvested sorrow. There must be a fundamental error within.

“And all the while, the current of time carries you toward death.” This must change.

“O cupbearer, the tavern’s system needs changing—
there are thousands of ledgers in which neither wine came, nor the goblet.”
How many live and die without ever tasting the nectar of life—who live in God yet never drink God—thirsty in the ocean. They never met the nectar.

When I look at you, I cannot understand how you arrange your suffering, how expertly you organize your misery. When will you awaken? When will you see? You keep striking your own foot with the axe.

“…bewildered, foolish, rustic.
For the sake of happiness they sink into long misery—the current of time sweeps them toward death.
Rajjab says: thus the whole world is entangled—caught by the lure of maya.”
What is maya’s basic deception? She writes “heaven” on the gate of hell; “happiness” on the door of pain; “wealth” on the door of calamity—and you go right in. Without even looking at what is happening, you chase wealth. Look at the wealthy—have they found anything? You chase position—peep into the hearts of those in power—have they found anything? You set out to be Alexander—what did Alexander get? In human history has any rich man ever said, “I have found”? Turn the pages of the centuries and see.

Yes, sometimes a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna, a Christ, a Kabir have said, “We found.” But they were not seekers of wealth or position; they were seekers of Ram. They were soaked in bhajan. They said, “We have found.” But you do not listen to them. You have made yourself stone-deaf to their voice. And if you are forced to face them you say, “Sir, you must be right—here is my worship, I touch your feet—but spare me!”

“O beggar, do not give me the gift of faith—
I have no business with faith now…
Go trade your faith with someone else—
I am no buyer of your pious prayers.”
You said this to Buddha, to Mahavira, to Krishna, to Christ, to Kabir—you say this to me; it has become your habit. Drop this habit—you’ve wasted many lives in it; do not waste this one.

“Rajjab says: thus the whole world is entangled—caught by the lure of maya.”
By chasing this deception, people are entangled, obstructed, confused. And when I say “people,” remember—I speak of you. Otherwise you will cleverly think I speak of others.

A fakir preached in a church every Sunday. One man always sat in front. When the talk ended he would come and say, “Exactly right—people need this!” People! The fakir grew tired of hearing this. One day heavy rain—no one came—only that man. The fakir thought, “Now’s my chance.” He laid it on—scolded, struck from every side. The man sat blissful. The fakir wondered, “Now what will he say?” The man said, “Amazing—you really gave it to them—though no one came today. Had they come, they’d have got it—this is exactly what they need. Don’t worry—I’ll go village to village, house to house, and tell people.”

But he would never take it upon himself. People think “others” are being addressed.

I am speaking to you. When I say “people,” I mean you. No one else is under discussion. Until you take it directly, these nectar-words will be wasted. Rain will fall and your pot will remain empty.

These aphorisms are rare—hum them. If they begin to make sense, life becomes easy.

“My journeys became easy, even the winds changed their course—
your hand slipped into mine, and lamps lit up along the path.”
If these aphorisms penetrate, your hand will find God’s hand. He stands ready, his hand long outstretched—tired of holding it out—but you won’t take it.

“My journeys became easy, even the winds changed their course—
your hand slipped into mine, and lamps lit up along the path.”
It is not hard for lamps to light along the way; not hard for the monsoon to bring the Beloved. This monsoon is his—the owner must be nearby, hidden somewhere. He must be around. Without him, what monsoon? Monsoon is his aura, his wave, his shadow. If the monsoon has come, its Master too will have come. Search a little, call a little, fill with a little thirst.

“We sat aside, yet the cupbearer’s glance fell upon us—
if the thirst is complete, even the moths will come.”

Enough for today.