Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #13

Sad are the stars of the sky,
all the scenes look extinguished;
even the laughing spring is in tears—
so has my nest been plundered.

This is everyone’s experience. This is the experience of the world. Here, only man is looted, laid waste; he never truly settles. There is no way to settle here. This is not a dwelling, it is a cremation ground. Here there are only people waiting—for death—standing in line. When the hour comes, they will be taken. The hour can come at any time. In truth, it arrived the very day you were born. With birth itself, death came like a shadow. The one who is born can no longer escape death. In birth, death was made certain, fixed.

Where only death is to happen, where only ruin is assured, those who keep the idea of settling down there are unwise. And where only one thing is certain and everything else is uncertain—where only death is certain—those who build houses there, build them in vain. This house will be ruined. And in making this house you will suffer; then, when it falls, you will suffer again. Here, there is only pain. Here, there is only sorrow. The world is an ocean of sorrow. The one who experiences this alone sets out in search of the Divine. The one who takes this house to be the real home—his search stops.

The one to whom it becomes visible that this nest is not the real nest, that the real nest is yet to be sought—at most, this is an inn; we have stopped for the night, with morning we must move on; at most a halt, not the destination—within such a life the search for the Unknown begins. Call that Unknown by whatever name you like: call it Paramatma, call it Moksha, call it Nirvana, call it Truth, call it Samadhi—these are only differences of names. But before the search for these, it is indispensable that this is realized: no home can be made here. Here nests are built only to be broken. Here all shelters are doomed to fall. Falling is the nature of this place. Settling is delusion; falling is truth. Dwelling is illusion. For a little while someone may dream of settling, but dreams are dreams. How long will you keep yourself lost in a dream?

The sooner one sees the dream as a dream, the wiser one is. Some see it in youth; some do not see it even in old age. There is only one touchstone of your intelligence—how quickly you see that the boat you sit in is made of paper; it will sink—now or then; and the house you have built is on sand; it will fall—now or then. Before the house collapses, the one who becomes free of the house, free of attachment to it, free of infatuation—into his life descends a new ray—the search for Paramatma begins.

Dust on flowers, dew on the thorn—keep seeing, O seer;
this is the very climate of justice—keep seeing, O seer.

The breezes of promised dawn have blown away the moths’ ashes;
the candle stands a figure of mourning—keep seeing, O seer.

An ancient graveyard wherein lie buried a hundred thousand hopes—
Adam’s breast is pierced and torn—keep seeing, O seer.

Not your heart alone is wounded; pain has smitten others too—
some grief is yours, some of the world—keep seeing, O seer.

Just open your eyes a little and look. What will you find here?

An ancient graveyard wherein lie buried a hundred thousand hopes.

What will you find yourself to be? An old tomb in which thousands upon thousands of longings have already died; in which thousands of desires fell dead and rotted.

An ancient graveyard wherein lie buried a hundred thousand hopes;
Adam’s breast is pierced and torn—keep seeing, O seer.

And here, every heart has become riddled. Somehow people hold themselves together and go on—that’s another matter. But everyone’s steps are wavering. Such are the winds, such are the storms. The boats are all rocking. Yet there are those who pour their whole life, their entire energy, only into somehow keeping their boats steady. They have floated into the waters their priceless treasure of life. There are others who, seeing that in this life nothing is eternal, all is transient, turn toward the Eternal; in that turning the revolution happens. In the individual’s life, religion is born.

This will not happen by reading scriptures, nor by going to temples and mosques; it will happen when you see life as suffering. It will happen when you recognize life rightly. It will not happen by chanting Ram-Ram. You may chant Ram-Ram on the lips while inside desire keeps arranging its dreams. You may keep turning rosaries while within darkness sits enthroned. You may light lamps without while within remains the deep, dark night of the new moon. Look at life!

And so that life not be seen, we have found many devices. We must. If life’s sorrow were to become visible to all, this show of song and color, this display of hope-enthusiasm-excitement—would all vanish at once. The people you see hurrying along with such urgency—their momentum would break. It would become clear to them that no one has ever found a destination here. Then how will they run? For what will they run? Then the dreams they weave, the plans they make, the anxieties they nurture, the brooding and the vacillation—what to do, what not to do—would all instantly be reduced to ashes.

We have created a world to escape the real world. Around ourselves we have spun a net of thought, a layer of ideas through which we see. We look at the world through the glasses of our hopes. Then the world begins to look colored. The tint of the glasses starts to appear as the color of the world. And from childhood every child is given such glasses by his parents—ambition, craving: become something, prove yourself, make a name, earn fame, position, prestige, wealth. This is the lesson we teach each one. And all these hopes one day prove vain. They prove false. No one’s ambition has ever been fulfilled here. Such is not the nature of the world that it should fulfill anyone’s ambition. Then the search for Paramatma begins.

Once the world appears essenceless, how will you live without seeking the essential? The eyes turn, and movement begins in other directions. The outer journey stops, the inner journey begins. And remember, the inner journey is the only real pilgrimage. If your pilgrimage is outward, it is part of the world. Go to Kashi, go to Kaaba—these are not pilgrimages. There is only one pilgrimage—go within; go where Rama is found, where the Eternal is found. Not in Kaaba, not in Kashi, not on Kailash. Whatever outer journey you take, whether in the name of religion or wealth, it is outer all the same. And the outer will never lead you within.

Outside nothing is obtained. To accept this is painful, because all we have done is rendered undone. All the bets we have placed in life so far are wasted. We do not wish to see it.

An acquaintance of mine—his wife came to me. She said: I suspect my husband has cancer, but he will not go to the doctor. He says, “I have no illness, why should I go?” I called him. I said: Your wife is disturbed. He said: Needlessly disturbed. When I am not ill, why should I go to a doctor? I said: If you are not ill, what is the fear in going to a doctor? Your wife’s mind will be at rest, I too can see you look fine, and the doctor will see it as well; no doctor will accept your wife’s word and declare you ill. He was in difficulty. He too suspected, and fear was inside him. It was because of this fear that he avoided the doctor—lest the suspicion turn out true. What if it really is cancer? But having come to me, he got trapped; he could not find an answer. I said: Your wife is anxious; at this rate she will become ill herself. She does not sleep at night; the worry haunts her. Dispel her illusion. You seem perfectly fine, the doctor will also find you fine—but her worry will end, she will be at peace; go for her sake. Now he had no way to refuse.

I took him to the doctor. I went with him, fearing that on the way he might tell his wife something and escape. He was afraid of the doctor. And it happened—he had cancer. He began to weep at once. I had never seen him weep. He said: You have put me in trouble—as if I had produced his cancer. Everything was going well; now you have thrown me into difficulty. I said: You were in difficulty; now some remedy can be sought.

Do you see his logic? It is the logic of most people in the world. That is why people do not go to a Sadguru. There is fear that the disease might be exposed. There is dread that the futility of life may become clear. Then what will we do? There is fear that the hands are empty—right now the fist is clenched in the belief that diamonds and jewels are inside. There is pleasure in that belief; by that belief one goes on living—there is heat, there is zeal. Lest some Sadguru open the fist and show that all this is dust, there are no diamonds, no jewels. You will fall at once from your heaven. You will descend from your throne at once. You have taken your broken hovel to be a palace. Go to a Sadguru and he will shake you awake—this is a broken hut; what palace, what dream?

You will be angry at the Sadguru.

People have always been angry with the true Masters. This anger is not accidental. There is deep psychology behind it. You did not abuse Mahavira for nothing; you did not throw stones at Buddha for nothing; you did not give Socrates hemlock for nothing. Who goes looking for trouble? No one throws stones at just anyone. As for sadhus and saints, people revere them—offer flowers at their feet, go to receive their blessings. So there are two kinds of saints in this world. One kind gives you consolation. Them you worship. The one who consoles you, who says: “You and cancer? Impossible! It is not in the lines of your hand. I have seen your palm—never. A person like you—simple-hearted, serviceful, going to temple and mosque, reading Gita and Quran—you and cancer? Never. That happens only to atheists.” Your heart is gladdened. You return home happy. If someone gives you consolation, you are pleased.

Remember, these two kinds of sadhus and saints have always been on this earth. The one who consoles you, who covers your wounds, who places two flowers on them—he seems dear to you, though he is your enemy. He will not let your world be ruined; he will keep you wandering. But you wish to wander, therefore the deluder seems dear. Once in a hundred there is also a saint who does not console you. Instead, he takes away your consolations. He snatches away your hopes. He draws the dreams from your eyes. Such a saint you will stone. You will seek a thousand ways, for this person has aroused fear within you. He has shaken you. Yet he alone is the Sadguru. The ninety-nine are pseudo—false. They are ornaments of your world—parts of your shop, your marketplace, your cravings and desires. You will not give them poison, nor will you stone them—you will worship them.

But you will stone Buddha. You will harass Dadu. You will trouble Kabir. You will trouble them because the very presence of Kabir troubles you. The fault is not yours; if there is blame, it is Kabir’s. He is stripping away your layers. He is exposing your wounds, pressing out the pus to show you. He is bringing your inner sores, your cancers, out before your eyes. You will be angry.

The friend I told you of remained angry with me as long as he lived. He never came to me again. His anger had a clear cause. I seemed his enemy; everything was going fine—now he faltered, he was frightened.

The search for God can begin only when your world is completely shaken. Nothing less will start the search. If your feet retain even a little grip on the world, you will say, “What is the hurry? Let me relish a little more. Let me enjoy the festival a little longer. Paramatma can wait. He is eternal. We will seek later.” You will postpone God till tomorrow if your feet have even a slight hold on the ground. A Sadguru is the one who pulls the entire ground from beneath your feet. If you do not get angry, what else will you do?

I know, those who gave hemlock to Socrates were people just like you. They were troubled. The court that sentenced Socrates gave him two options. It said: If you leave Athens, we have no problem. Live as you please. If you do not leave Athens, then death—because the citizens of Athens are disturbed by you. Second option: if you choose to remain in Athens, then cease the work you have been doing. Stop awakening people. People do not wish to awaken. Stop speaking truth. If people prefer untruth, that is their freedom; let them remain fond of untruth. Do not pursue them. Do not unsettle them. Do not put fingers into their wounds showing them that they are wounds. It hurts, causes pain. So be silent. If you remain quiet, we have no objection—you can live.

Socrates said: Where would I go leaving Athens? Wherever I go the same trouble will arise again, for there too will be people like these; they too will be angry. As for my being silent—that is not possible. Truth will speak, whatever the price to be paid. Truth will not remain unspoken. Truth will be declared. It is not in my power to stop it. Where am I now? There is only Truth. And what is to be, will be. Do not worry. I must die anyway—today, or tomorrow, or the day after. In any case I will die. Whether I die this way or that, what difference does it make? What sentence you give—give. Do not advise me on how to escape—for in this life there is no way to escape. Life itself gives no option here; death is decreed. So whether one dies today or tomorrow or the day after; how one dies—of illness, in bed, or by poison, or on the cross—what difference does it make? Death comes; the mold it takes, the style it takes—there is no difference at all.

People were not angry with Socrates for nothing. There was cause.

The one whose life is still attached to the world will be angry with the Masters. You even go to gurus in order that some worldly desire be fulfilled. Such confused people also come to me. They come only once, because there is no way they will come twice. They understand this is not that place. They come and say, “I am contesting in the election; please bless me.” Will a Sadguru bless you to win an election? A Sadguru will bless you thus: the sooner you lose, the better. The defeated remember Hari’s name. Lose, and Hari’s name will come to your lips. Win—and how will you remember? In victory, arrogance grows. People come and say, “I am starting a business; I wish to begin with your blessing.” I say, go elsewhere. If you begin with my blessing, the business will not run. My blessing can only be this: may all your businesses break. Then if you are not angry, what else will you be? You will take revenge on me—what else? You will seek ways to take revenge. I understand your difficulty too; it is natural.

So keep one thing in mind; only then will today’s sutras be understood. Only if a little glimmer appears to you that the world is futile can a relationship with a Sadguru arise. Otherwise your relationships will be with false gurus, because even with them you will go only for the protection of your worldly life. From them you will ask for wealth, for position, for prestige. You will ask for a son, a daughter, success in business—always worldly desire. In some guise or other, the longing in your mind will be worldly. And the one whose mind holds worldly longing can only go to a false guru; his fit will be with the false.

People sometimes ask me: How to decide who is a Sadguru? I tell them: Do not worry about that. How will you decide who is a Sadguru? Worry instead whether your world has run dry. Then your connection with a false guru cannot be made, because a false guru can only give worldly cravings, worldly temptations, worldly ambitions—his blessings are worldly. Your connection with him will not happen. So the question is not how to recognize a Sadguru; the question is whether the taste for the world has waned within you. Then the one with whom your heart connects, whom you love—that one will be the Sadguru. A false guru you will see instantly—for you will ask for meditation, he will bless you with money; you will ask for God, he will bless you with position. You will ask one thing, he will give another. Your eyes will clearly see: he is giving the same world that you have left behind—or seen to be futile.

No one can decide who is true and who is false. But you can certainly decide whether the relish for the world within you has ebbed or remains. If it has ebbed, whomever you find—you will find the Master.

And for the one whose taste for the world has faded and whose search for God has begun, it becomes necessary to find the Sadguru. Direct connection with the Divine is almost impossible—I say almost, for sometimes it happens. But in ninety-nine cases it does not. In ninety-nine cases a bridge is needed in between. That bridge is the Sadguru.

We have absorbed you into our every breath;
that you do not know is another matter.

What remedy can wine offer for this?
This is grief of life, not grief of romance.

Even among the faithful are such unfortunate ones
who were not granted even your cruelty.

O Shad, how strange that in the banquet of life
the candles burn, yet there is no light.

Here, lamps are lit on every side, yet there is no radiance—for as yet your eyes are not worthy of that light. The sun has risen, yet you are in darkness. You have forgotten even to open your eyes. You stand with eyes closed and wish to see the sun! The meaning of Sadguru is only this: he will not give you the sun, the sun is already there. He will only give you the art of opening your eyes. He will not give you God; Paramatma already is—nothing to give, nothing to take. But he will tune your inner scale so the supreme music becomes audible. He will give you the art of listening so your ears may hear that sweet resonance which is present each instant. Your ears are able only to hear noise—the uproar of the marketplace, the slogans, the clangor—you hear that. But you do not hear the Omkar resounding within—it is supremely subtle.

You will have to connect with a musician, who step by step leads you into subtlety. One must take the hand of one who has learned to see. When a blind person must cross the way, he takes someone’s hand. Sometimes it even happens that the one whose hand he takes is also blind—but the trust that a hand is held gives strength. Sometimes it has happened that those who had not known God—those who accepted someone with love and trust—even they reached God. The guru is only a vehicle.

Such a thing happens too.

I have heard: a blind man stood at the roadside waiting for someone to help him across. Another man came and stood near—he too was blind, waiting for someone. They felt each other’s hand, each thought, “Ah, someone has come,” and both crossed the road. On the far side they thanked each other: “How kind of you to take me across.” The other said, “What are you saying? It was you who took me across.” Then the secret was revealed: both were blind. Yet the faith arose that a hand was held—and the journey became easy.

When trust arises, strength arises. And if you find the hand of one who sees—what more is there to say? I give the example only to say that sometimes even the blind have helped each other across; then what to say if the seeing hand is found?

The lamps are lit, the sun is risen, the flowers have blossomed—only you have forgotten the art. Your sensitivity has grown dull. You have become inert. You neither hear nor see. There is no heartbeat in your heart. Love is pouring.

Jesus has said: God is love. We even hear it, but do not understand. Love is raining. Even now it is raining. There is no moment when the Beloved’s love is not raining upon you. If its rain stopped even for a moment, the bridge of your life would collapse. By his love you live. By his grace you breathe. His grace is your very being. But recognition is lost, awareness is gone. To make friendship with one who is aware—that is what it means to find a Sadguru.

Those holy drunkards are so pure that, if they touch us,
we would turn even hell-fire into a garden.

Make friends with those drunkards who have drunk God—who have drunk that sacred wine—

Those holy drunkards are so pure that, if they touch us,
we would turn even hell-fire into a garden.

If only so much happens, even hell’s fire becomes a flower-garden; in the fire of hell flowers begin to bloom; hell’s darkness becomes light. Hell is nowhere other than in your closed eyes. There is no other hell. Your blindness is your hell. Open your eyes and there is only heaven. There is nothing here but heaven. All existence in its forms is heaven. Yet I know people live in hell. How strange—the whole of existence is heaven, and the fun is that people live in hell. Most live in hell—sometimes someone lives in heaven.

How to connect with this heaven? How shall it happen? How will this dark night pass? How will these moments of separation be fulfilled? Find a drunkard. Find a madman of God. And such intoxicated ones are always here. That you do not find them has but one reason—you are always looking for the old intoxicated ones, who are no longer here. Someone seeks Buddha; Buddha is no more. This is clear—now Buddha is not here. Someone seeks Mahavira; Mahavira is no more. And the irony is, when Mahavira was present, you were not seeking Mahavira—you were seeking Krishna. And when Krishna was present, you were seeking someone else. You always seek the dead. But Paramatma is forever present in living form. In your temples you worship the dead, while somewhere God is alive—walking, standing, sitting. Somewhere songs are being sung right now, and you are busy reading the Bhagavad Gita. You mouth verses from the Quran, while somewhere the verses are descending fresh. Somewhere God is calling again, and you are entangled in the Vedas, while somewhere the Vedas are being composed—each word a richa.

Your difficulty is that you always worship the dead. There is a reason: the dead have prestige—the prestige of a thousand years. You are used to the marketplace, where the old has credit—brand sells. Who buys the new? The new is hard to sell. Even to launch a new thing, people buy an old name. Old names fetch a high price. If you make a new soap and buy the brand name “Lux Toilet Soap,” it will sell—no one will worry whether it is new or old. But launch a new soap under a new name—it won’t sell easily. People buy names; they are familiar with names. They buy advertisements—here there is an advertisement of a thousand years.

I have heard: an American tycoon, Andrew Carnegie, was greatly against advertisements. He never placed ads in any newspaper. But a newspaper owner hounded him. However he drove him away, the man would return in two or four days. One morning he caught Carnegie in the garden. Carnegie said: You have come again—I do not want to give advertisements. The owner asked: But why not? Explain it to me once and for all, and I will not come again. What is your logic? He said: My goods sell anyway—why should I advertise? People already know my products; I have no need for ads. Just then, the church bell on the hill began to ring. The newspaper owner said: Do you hear? How long has that church been there? Carnegie said: A hundred years. The owner said: Yet morning and evening it still rings its bells—otherwise people will forget. Those bells are advertisements—“I am still here; do not forget me.”

They say Carnegie listened to the church bells a while—and he began to advertise. He understood. People value advertisements.

Now the Vedas have an old advertisement. Hence all religions try to prove that their book is the oldest. Scientific research shows the Vedas are no more than five thousand years old. But Lokmanya Tilak said ninety thousand years. Hindus say they are Sanatan—eternal. We will not count in years; counting in years is dangerous—some other book might prove older! They are Sanatan—always were. There never was a time when the Vedas were not. Why this insistence?

Ask the Jains—they say Jain dharma is older than Hindu dharma. Our Tirthankaras are the most ancient. They seek arguments. They say the name of our first Tirthankara is found in the Rigveda—and reverently. That means when the Rigveda was written, our dharma already existed; our first Tirthankara had already appeared. And such reverent mention is made as we never make for a contemporary. A contemporary we criticize. We honor only the ancient. Our very method of honor is for the old. So they say: the first Tirthankara is mentioned with such reverence—this proves thousands of years had passed since his death. If he were contemporary, we would not have honored him, perhaps not even mentioned his name. Thus, Jain dharma is older than the Rigveda.

Everyone strives to prove their book, their religion, the most ancient. Why? Because the old holds prestige. With the old comes tradition. A history of thousands of years, stories, legends, events become attached. Power accrues. When the new is born, it has no tradition, no stories, no Puranas. But God is ever new—ever fresh, nitya-nutan. Your obstacle is that you seek in the old and do not find. And seeking in the old you fall prey to the scholar, for the pandit trades in the old. He lives by tradition. He exploits your yearning for tradition. Then you fall into the hands of the pandit.

And the pandit can give you consolation, not truth. He himself has not found truth. He has dead words in his hands. He will fill you with dead words—he will pour dead words into your mind.

The search for a Sadguru can begin only when you understand this much: now Buddha will not be found—seek a living Buddha. Now Mahavira will not be found—seek a living Mahavira. And keep in mind: Mahavira happens only once, in one unique way. There is no repetition in this world. This too is an obstacle for the seeker. You have created a mold. “All right, we will find today’s Mahavira”—but today’s Mahavira will not speak Prakrit. How can he? Today’s Mahavira may speak Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati—and you will search for a Mahavira who speaks Prakrit, because the original Mahavira spoke Prakrit. You will not find him.

Mahavira had a way, a vision of life, a style—unique, unparalleled. But in this world there are no carbon copies. And there is danger in the copy. If you go in search of Mahavira you will fall into the trap of a carbon copy. Somewhere there are actors who copy—who walk, sit, eat just like Mahavira; naked in the same fashion; they have adopted the same conduct—you will fall into their snare.

Remember, God is never repetitive. He is ever unique, matchless. Mahavira is only once—never before, never after. Mohammed is only once—never twice. But it does not mean God ceases to be. God takes new forms every day. God is creative.

The capacity to recognize the new is needed—then the Sadguru will be found. If you cling to the old, you will find imitators, actors; you will find skilled actors, scholars, priests, pundits, followers—but not the one of original experience. The one who sets aside all this bias and goes forth, surely finds the Sadguru. The Sadguru is always present. It can never be that there is no place on earth where God’s lamp is burning bright. It cannot be. His grace is vast. It is proof of his compassion that he is not yet disappointed in man—still he descends, still he calls, just as in ancient days. But you must understand his new language, his new color and style. He will be in tune with today. And because he is always new, those who carry old maps will never find him. He will not fit the old mold. It needs a very open eye. But if you truly set out, if the search has seized every fiber of you, the happening will be.

Upheavals rise with my every breath—
from head to toe I am a single restless heart.

If your every pore is restlessness, thirst, want—the burning thirst to find the Sadguru—

Upheavals rise with my every breath—
from head to toe I am a single restless heart—

then it will not be long.

The more intense the longing, the sooner the meeting. And if the Sadguru’s eyes meet yours once—that is enough. It is also a love at first sight—the first glance. Only your eyes must be clear—not stuffed with old junk; the eyes clear—once they meet the Sadguru’s, the matter is done.

Enemies have behaved like enemies—
but what lack did friends leave in that?

Intellect could only light the head—
Love has lit the heart.

This is the happening of love—great love.

Intellect could only light the head—
Love has lit the heart.

From scriptures at best a little light may come to the mind. But that light is of little use—borrowed, stale, someone else’s. Your own light rises in the heart. Your own flame flares in the heart.

Intellect could only light the head—
Love has lit the heart.

When light throbs in the heart, you are on the right path. Seek those eyes that evoke love at a glance. Seek those hands whose touch kindles love. Then all becomes easy.

Such a happening came to Rajjab. Mounted on a horse, the wedding procession moving—Dadu Dayal stood before him; eyes met eyes—and the matter was finished. Finished in the very moment. He took off the wedding crown and threw it aside; placed his head at Dadu’s feet—made Dadu the crest of his head.

Blessed is the blow that the Satguru gives—
then he remakes you anew, entirely otherwise.

The company of a Sadguru is not cheap. The Master will strike, erase, break. Only the courageous can remain near him. Those who came seeking consolation will flee from afar. You went expecting a garland around your neck—and there your neck began to be cut. How will you stay? Only if you have the courage to have your head cut can you remain. Placing the head at the feet is not mere formality, not some way of salutation. Placing your head at the feet means: Here is my neck—cut it if you will. I will not resist. This neck will not withdraw. Raise the sword and cut; I will die here in this very ecstasy—there will be no complaint. I will die, vanish, in this very bliss. Erase me. I have lived in my way and found only pain; now erase me, burn me. Be my death, be my cross. This ego has tortured me for lifetimes; how many dreams I have seen through it, how many despairs I have suffered—where has it not led me astray? I have wandered enough—now dissolve it. Let no trace of “I” remain in me—dissolve my selfhood.

Placing the head at the feet is not merely a greeting. That is why Westerners are puzzled—what kind of greeting is it to place one’s head at someone’s feet? They do not know it is not a greeting at all. It has nothing to do with salutation. It is a declaration of surrender: Here is the head—now do as you will.

Blessed is the blow that the Satguru gives.

Rajjab says: nothing in the world is more precious than this—the Master’s blow. And he will strike from every side—for who knows how much trash of centuries must be stripped away; what you hold as wealth must be snatched away; how many diseases within must be destroyed; those very diseases you have taken to be your life. How many entrenched selfishnesses within—lust, anger, greed, attachment. How many poisonous mind-states—they must all be erased. He must cut them one by one. He has to prepare you.

Blessed is the blow that the Satguru gives—
then he remakes you anew, entirely otherwise.

The one who agrees to endure the blow—with welcome, with reverence, with trust—“then he remakes you anew”—the guru transforms him into something utterly different! A metamorphosis happens. Inch by inch, the cutting must be done. Hence only a few courageous warriors remain with the Masters. The weak run away. The weak find countless excuses to flee, countless arguments. Who knows what thoughts arise—and they run. But remember, all those are arrangements for escape.

As the potter pounds the clay,
so consider the Master’s blow.

And when the Sadguru raises his sword, when he begins to cut your neck—Rajjab says: think on this, for the mind will wish to flee; it will say: “This is not why we came—we came for a little knowledge, a little peace, some happiness, some prosperity, some respect, to achieve something in the world, to leave a name, to make a signature. We did not come to have our neck cut. What is happening?”

As the potter pounds the clay—

Rajjab says: look—just as a potter pounds the clay; without pounding, the clay is not prepared. You too are only clay—nothing more for now—because as yet death is the mark of your life. Yes, in your clay some nectar is hidden—but it must be released by pounding. In your body the Atman lies buried—but a path must be made for it. For the present you are only body—only body—clay and nothing more.

As the potter pounds the clay.

So the Master will raise his weapon, begin to pound—he must separate the nectar from death, the living from the inert, wakefulness from sleep.

As the potter pounds the clay,
so consider the Master’s blow.

Always remember—when the blow falls, do not be frightened. Think: “Right—I am in the potter’s hands. Now clay will be beaten; now something will happen.”

Then he remakes you anew, entirely otherwise.

The world order is changing; perhaps even God will be made anew.

All the attendants are new, the monasteries feel new;

Those who grow tired and sit in the way of seeking—
in my eyes, they are slave to desire.

What rest is there in the way of seeking?
What refuge is there in seeking?

The one who has truly set out to seek, the true seeker of truth—“What rest is there in the way of seeking?” He no longer weighs what to risk and what to save. “What refuge is there in seeking?” He takes no shelter. He does not hide his neck. When the guru rains, he does not raise an umbrella. He does not organize defenses around himself. “What refuge is there in seeking?”

“And those who, in the way of seeking, grow tired and sit—such, in my eyes, are lust-driven.” Those who grow weary so soon before the Master—this only means that their minds were not yet free of the world; some attachment remained; some craving survived; they came just like that—half-baked, unripe. They had heard the world is futile, but had not known it. They had read that the world is maya, but it was not their own experience. “Those who grow tired and sit in the way of seeking—such, in my eyes, are slave to desire.” They are passion-driven, who came by mistake.

“What rest is there in the way of seeking?” What rest? The one who seeks truth stakes everything—keeps nothing back. “What refuge is there in seeking?” He does not build any protective layer around himself—not of intellect, not of thought, not of body. He leaves himself open in every way.

The intent is not to break your mind;
if anything petty breaks, let it break.

And when the guru strikes, do not think he is angry. Guru—and angry? Impossible. Do not think he is insulting you. Guru—insult anyone? Impossible.

The intent is something else entirely.

If a potter beats the clay, is he insulting it? He is honoring it. He has chosen this clay; he has a form to make from it. There were many clays—he did not beat them, he did not pound them—he did not find them worthy. When a sculptor takes a chisel to a stone, it is not an insult—it is honor. Stones were many in the world; this stone he chose—to fashion godliness from it; there is something special in this stone.

The intent is something else entirely—
therefore, O mind, do not be hurt by the blow.

So do not focus on the blows; focus on the intent. Do not stay fixed on what the guru does—keep searching what he longs for. There you will always find compassion; there you will always find kindness; there you will always find love. And the greater the love, the sterner the guru will be.

As the blacksmith shapes iron—
beating and cutting, he extracts the essence.

As hard as iron you are—difficult—you must be melted in fire; only then will you become fluid. You must be melted—only then will you soften.

As the blacksmith shapes iron—
beating and cutting, he extracts the essence.

He will beat and he will cut—only then can the essence appear. As you are, you are without essence: an unhewn rock, a heap of earth, a lump of iron.

He strikes and, by striking, he graces.

With one hand he strikes; and the one who endures the blow will in the same instant find that his grace—his shower of compassion—is falling from the other hand. But only the one who welcomes the blow will know it. The one who runs will be deprived of grace—deprived of compassion.

He strikes and, by striking, he graces.

He strikes, then he soothes. He wounds, then he caresses. Again and again he will strike—and each blow will be deeper than the last. And after each deeper blow, a deeper compassion will be available to you. To the onlooker nothing will be clear. These are secrets of the inner—revealed only to those who enter within.

He strikes and, by striking, he graces—
then, when the birth has happened, he no longer strikes.

This striking continues until the lamp within is lit, until the eye of knowing is born, until witnessing arises, until the essence appears.

Then, when the birth has happened, he no longer strikes.

And when this vision is born, there are no more blows. Then the guru does not strike at all. Then even death cannot strike. There is no striking then; there is no death. There is nectar. But before that nectar, one must die many times. Blessed are those who are willing to die, many times, at the Master’s hand.

As the fletcher holds the arrow in tongs,
he straightens it with his hand.

As the maker of arrows grips the arrow with pincers, hammers it, straightens it—

As the fletcher holds the arrow in tongs—

so the guru seizes the disciple. It becomes hard to escape. Those who escaped before the grip—escaped; those who came within the grip—do not escape.

As the fletcher holds the arrow in tongs,
he straightens it with his hand.

Your arrows are crooked and awry. With them no target can be hit. You aim here, they land there. They are not straight. An arrow must be straight to strike the mark. Your gait is so crooked. You have walked crookedly for lifetimes; nothing about you is certain—you say one thing, you do another. You wish to do something—what you will do, who knows? Nothing is certain.

Mark Twain returned from giving a lecture. His wife asked: How was the lecture? Mark Twain asked: Which lecture? The one I wanted to give? Or the one I actually gave? Or the one which now I think I should have given? Which lecture?

Man is layer upon layer crooked. You know it too: you say something—the mouth says one thing, the eyes say another; the mouth says yes, the eyes say no; the mouth says no, the eyes say yes. Inside something else; the feeling something else. You will not listen to what you say, nor to what you feel—and when you act, who knows what you will do? Nothing is certain. Man is all askew—not straight. The guru must straighten this arrow. He must bring into harmony your speech, your thought, your conduct, your very being—must give you coherence, congruence. You are a bundle of conflicts. Many directions are pulling within. One hand goes west, one hand east; one foot south, one foot north—you set out for all four pilgrimages at once. You intend to gather all four holy places—you will reach nowhere; you can reach only when, integrated, you move in one direction.

As the fletcher holds the arrow in tongs,
he straightens it with his hand.

And difficulties there will be—clay will be pounded, iron melted, stone broken, the arrow hammered, beaten, held in clamps.

We too, for the sake of one morning,
passed a night flickering, burning.

In the sun of sorrow, often, after drying,
the garden bed of life bears fruit.

In the sun of sorrow, often, after drying—the garden bed of life bears fruit. To accept this suffering in the spirit of joy is tapas. The relationship between guru and disciple—that is tapasya.

The intent is not to break your heart.

The guru does not wish to break you; he wishes to make you. But to make, he must break.

The intent is not to break your heart.
If anything petty breaks, let it break.

And those who break—the responsibility is theirs. They were petty, useless. They did not understand. They saw the guru’s hammer and ran. They took one or two blows and ran. They did not give even enough time to receive the grace that follows a blow.

This happens here daily. Because this is a laboratory. Here people are being made and unmade. Here clay is pounded. Here iron is melted. Here daily it happens that someone, upon hearing just one word that goes against him, vanishes—and the one who runs, runs. He does not look back. He does not give even enough time to be soothed after the blow. He does not give even enough time to taste the shower of compassion that was about to follow. He simply runs. The petty man is not patient. And these paths are paths of patience. To transform life is a matter of patience.

If anything petty breaks, let it break.

If someone breaks, remember—he broke by his own cause.

The intent is not to break your heart.

The disciple should remain in waiting—in infinite patience.

So ready were we for your voice
that when a bud cracked, we mistook it for your message.

The disciple should become nothing but ears when the guru speaks, nothing but eyes when he looks, nothing but hands when the guru touches.

So ready were we for your voice—
we listened with such fixed gaze, we became such ears—

So ready were we for your voice
that when a bud cracked, we mistook it for your message.

And messages come just so—in such patience, such stillness, such wonder; like the cracking of a bud do the messages come. There are the hammer’s blows—and there is the cracking of buds. Do not look only at the hammer’s blow, for behind it the bud will crack. If you are lost in the hammer’s blow, you will miss. The door had come; you would have been filled forever; you remain empty.

As cloth goes to the tailor—
cut into pieces he makes it anew.

Before making, cutting into pieces is necessary. Why? Because you are wrongly joined. Your parts are connected wrongly. Your hand is where your foot should be; your foot where your head should be; your head where your belly should be. You say: what kind of talk is this?

George Gurdjieff has analyzed this deeply—a Master of this century. He wrote: when lust stirs in a man’s brain, it means the sex-center has moved into the head. It is natural that the energy of sex be in the sex-center. But if it moves to the brain, it is distortion. When someone feels emotions with his skull, something is wrong; feeling belongs to the heart—there is its center. Heart and brain have become mixed, jumbled—the khichdi is made. Your organs are wrongly joined.

People come and say: It is my idea that reverence is arising in me toward you. I ask: Idea? If reverence arises, there is no idea. Reverence has nothing to do with thought. Reverence is beyond thought. In reverence, where is thought? In doubt there is thought; doubt is thought. Reverence is freedom from thought. That is why the man of reason calls the reverent man blind. There is strength in his charge. He says: All reverence is blind—because there is no place for thought in it, no scope for logic. When someone says, “It is my idea that reverence is arising in me toward you,” he reveres from the head—which is wrong. Reverence’s center is not there—it is in the heart.

When you fall in love with someone and speak of love—have you noticed? Suddenly your hand goes to your heart—the moment you speak of love. No one puts his hand on his head and says, “I have fallen in love with you.” If someone did so, what would it mean? Everything is mixed-up. When love happens, the hand goes to the heart. The heart is the center of love. The center of reason is the brain. You are jumbled within—your wires are wrongly connected.

Everything is within you. Suppose a car stands at the door; everything is in it, but the parts are attached wrongly. Where the engine should be, it is not; where the brakes should be, they are elsewhere. How can it run? Where is your life-car running? In literal truth, your gaadi is a gaadi—really “gaddi,” a thing stuck. The very word says it: gaddi—embedded, not moving. Your gaddi is truly stuck; it does not move; where would it go? You will die stuck where you are. People are born where they die; not an inch of true journey happens in their lives—dead where they came, and they brought everything with them.

So the guru will cut.

As cloth goes to the tailor—
cut into pieces he makes it anew.

He will cut first. Wherever parts are wrongly joined, he will cut them. Sometimes it happens—you fall, a bone breaks; it heals wrongly; the surgeon must break it again—then set it right.

The Sadguru is a surgeon. Not only your bones are wrong—everything is wrongly joined. For you have assembled yourself in ignorance. You did not know what belongs where.

Cut into pieces he makes it anew.

There will be pain in the cutting but…

Thus is the play of the Satguru—
understand it so, and endure all blows.

Take it as play—take it as the Master’s play.

Thus is the play of the Satguru—
understand it so, and endure all blows.

If you take it as play, you will endure. If you become too serious, too troubled, too restless—you will run. Often it happens that if someone runs away from the operating table mid-surgery, his condition becomes worse than before. He was better off. Therefore those who become half-baked religious suffer greatly; their plight is wretched. Either do not go to the operating table at all—

I have heard it happened: a certain leader was being operated on. His brain had been taken out, the surgeon was cleaning it—leaders’ brains need cleaning. In truth, every year leaders’ brains should be taken out, cleaned and put back. While it was being cleaned—time was needed to cleanse a leader’s brain—suddenly a man ran in: “Leaderji, Leaderji, what are you doing lying here? You have become Prime Minister!” The leader got up to go. Doctors said: “Stop—where are you going? Your brain is outside your skull.” He said: “What use is a brain now? I am Prime Minister! Keep the brain safe—I have no need.”

Do not run from the operating table midway—or your plight will worsen. It is also my experience: those who never meditated are fine. But those who did some half-hearted meditation get into more trouble. Those who never did yoga are fine. Those who did it half-heartedly got into more trouble. The old structure is thrown into disarray; the new has not settled—an inner anarchy results, a kind of unhinging. Many people in this world are in such a state—deranged. They ran away mid-way.

If you go to the Sadguru’s feet, break all bridges behind. Leave no way back; throw down the ladder—only then can this work be done. Only then can it be done in its most beautiful completeness. We go—but how do we go? We go half and half. And when you go half, you risk running away.

People come to me; the day before yesterday someone wrote: “I wish to take sannyas; but can I avoid wearing ochre and the mala?”

Then why take sannyas at all? Can you not do even this much? Do you think this is a great task—putting on ochre and a mala? Have you crossed seven seas? Climbed Mount Everest? You wear some color of cloth anyway—then wear ochre. And hang a small mala on your neck—do you think you become a Siddha by that? But even this is not possible? You make conditions: let me have sannyas in such a way that I need not do even this. Then what of what lies ahead? Your condition is like saying to the surgeon: “If I need not lie on the table, will it do?” Lying on the table is not surgery. By lying there everything is not done. But the one who won’t even lie on the table—how will you operate on him?

These are only signals of acceptance—that we agree; we trust. They are merely indications.

But man is incomplete, and cannot hide his incompleteness—it becomes evident in some form. I experience it daily. Thousands have come into contact. I see them—even when someone bows to the feet, both things are visible at once. One part wishes to bow; one does not. He wants to bow—and also does not want to bow. The part that does not—shows too.

It happened: a man in a hotel called a certain leader an “owl’s whelp.” The leader was enraged; he filed a defamation case. He took Mulla Nasruddin as his witness. The man who had insulted him said: I did not take anyone’s name—and there were at least fifty people there—how can it be proved that I called the leader an owl’s whelp? I did not name anyone. I only said: “Look at these owl’s whelps!” There were fifty people there.

The magistrate was convinced. He asked Mulla: You are a witness—you say this man called the leader an owl’s whelp? Nasruddin said: Certainly he called the leader an owl’s whelp. The magistrate said: This man says fifty people were present and he did not name anyone. How can you be certain he meant the leader? Nasruddin said: Except for the leader, there was no owl’s whelp there at all. He alone was the owl’s whelp—so we are certain he meant the leader.

Hidden feelings become evident. How long will you hide? How will you hide? What lies in your depths today or tomorrow will come out.

Remember—when you connect with the Sadguru, connect wholly. Do not conceal anything within. If there is need to conceal, then wait; the time has not come, the season has not arrived; wait a little longer. Better to wait—but running midway is dangerous. For the one who ran, his life will never again be well-ordered. The old life will not be found—that is gone. And the life that might have been—for which you sacrificed the first—now has no possibility, for it could only be found through the Sadguru. Suppose cloth was cut by the tailor and at that very moment the cloth fled—what would be its fate? It was better off before, at least it was intact on the bolt. Now it is in tatters. Wait a little. Let form arise, color, shape emerge.

Thus is the play of the Satguru—
understand it so, and endure all blows.

Take it as play—then you can endure. If you take it with great seriousness, a small thing will wound you. Why? Because seriousness is actually a shadow of ego. Take this from me—grasp it well—seriousness is a form of ego. Egolessness is simple—like a small child—he takes everything as play. And taken as play, all is light—done easily.

Dadu, the compassionate Master—he is my crest.

Even in the literal sense this is true. The groom laid down his crown and held Dadu’s feet—made him the crest; he was going to bring a bride; he left the thought of that bride and set out for the true Bride. There was a search for love—but it flowed in a wrong direction. Eyes met Dadu’s—and true love bore fruit.

Dadu, the compassionate Master—he is my crest.

So becomes one with life, your remembrance—
like someone mixing wine into wine.

Let the disciple become so merged in the Master that not the slightest distance remains—“like someone mixing wine into wine.” When water is mixed into water, even then some faint line seems to remain.

So becomes one with life, your remembrance—
like someone mixing wine into wine.

Then happenings begin—swiftly, intensely; then you do not step inch by inch—you stride mile by mile.

Rajjab says—by his grace I found an unmoving seat.

And by his grace that place was found—from which none can dislodge you—not even death. What Krishna called the state of sthitaprajna—“I found an unmoving seat.” As though a lamp burns and no gust can make it flicker—unshaken.

Rajjab says—by his grace I found an unmoving seat.

Rajjab says: not by my own capacity—by his compassion. This is every disciple’s experience: the revolution does not happen by one’s effort, but by his prasada.

Rajjab found the wondrous—guru Dadu, the giver.

Remember those words of Dadu spoken to Rajjab as he sat on the horse—

“Rajjab, you have done a strange thing…

Mounted on the horse, Rajjab goes, the procession moves, he the groom—Dadu stopped the horse midway and said—

Rajjab, you have done a strange thing—
a crown on your head!

You came to sing the Lord’s name—
and you go toward the abode of hell!”

What have you done? Rajjab answers:

Rajjab found the wondrous—guru Dadu, the giver.

“Wondrous” means: otherworldly; here—and not of here. In the world—and not worldly. In the loka—and alaukik. Something from beyond. And in whom you glimpse the beyond—that is the guru. Bow at such a one’s feet. In whose eyes you see a ray from very far—whose source you cannot even guess; in whose eyes, if you gaze, an ocean appears without shore.

Rajjab found the wondrous—guru Dadu, the giver.

The Sadguru gives—without cause—hence he is called Datar. Nothing will come to him in return. You have nothing to give him. There is no price you can pay. No value by which you can purchase.

Rajjab found the wondrous—guru Dadu, the giver.

Sorrow and poverty left—that very instant—
and joy’s treasure without measure.

“Right then.” In that very moment it left. Not that it left slowly—right then, the moment the eyes met the guru.

…and joy’s treasure without measure.

Take care here—commentators translate “treasure” as money. “Sampatti” does not mean money in the language of sadhus. These are the words of saints—do not force worldly meanings here.

“Sampatti” is a beautiful word. To understand it rightly you must recall many words: Samadhi, Samadhan, Sambodhi, Samyaktva, Sampatti—all arise from the same root—“sam.” “Sam” means: balanced, equanimous—where all is equal; joy and sorrow balanced; success and failure balanced; life and death in even poise. “Sampatti” means Samadhi; means Samyaktva; Samadhan; Samata; Sambodhi. It means true wealth—but within them all, remember, the root is “sam.” What you call wealth is misfortune—call it vipatti, not sampatti. Where is equanimity there? Where is rightness? Where is peace? That which you call wealth should be called calamity. You call vipada “sampada,” and vipatti “sampatti.” That is your delusion.

So do not interpret this verse to mean that the roof broke and a rain of coins poured down. The roof did break—but another roof; and the coins did rain—but not those minted by the state; coins that descend from the Infinite, from the Eternal; minted in God’s mint.

Sorrow and poverty left—that very instant—
and joy’s treasure without measure.

Rajjab says: the male and female—like the pairing of the chakva and chakvi.

A very sweet saying.

In the middle of the night, by the guru’s word,
he broke both houses.

Rajjab says: all are divided in two—male and female. Woman is drawn to man, man to woman. In this attraction, God is missed. In this attraction the very thing to be sought cannot be sought. And in this attraction, nothing is obtained. The woman gets the man, the man the woman—but nothing is gained. The hands remain empty. It is all a dream.

Rajjab says: the male and female—like the pairing of the chakva and chakvi.

This entire worldly arrangement is the splitting of the One into two. The One is broken into two halves. Those two wish to meet each other; they are eager; they do not meet. Even when meeting happens, it does not happen. This is the lovers’ agony—that no matter how near they come, distance remains. No matter how much they unite, union does not happen; meeting and parting continue. Near and far alternate. Marriage after marriage ends in divorce. A moment of joy—and then a shower of sorrow. A little love—and then aversion. Duality goes on—because beneath it lies the fundamental duality—male/female—the polarity of opposites.

Man and woman—two polarities. Like negative and positive in electricity. Bound to each other, attracted to each other—and repelled. They wish to come near; they also push away. The world is dual. Duality can be split into two—male, female.

In China this thought has been taken to great depth—yin-yang. In the Taoist tradition much exploration has been done into this—that the whole of existence is divided into dualities. And as long as one remains entangled in duality, there is no deliverance, no release. One woman bores you; you get stuck in another woman. One man bores you; another man ensnares you. The process is endless. Even if you were given all the men and all the women of the world—you would not be satiated.

In a play by Jean-Paul Sartre, a character says: “Even if I had all the women in the world, I would still not be fulfilled.” Think for yourself—would you be fulfilled if all women were yours? Instantly you will see—no, something would still be empty. This vessel does not fill until it is filled with God. It does not fill from the opposite; it does not fill from another outside. Its search must be in the innermost.

Rajjab says: the male and female—like the pairing of the chakva and chakvi.

In the middle of the night, by the guru’s word—

And in the very middle of the night—just when union was about to be, it seemed—now, now… And Rajjab is right—the procession was going; the union was about to happen; joy was about to rain—and in that very midst, the guru came.

In the middle of the night, by the guru’s word—
he broke both houses.

He toppled both houses. He let me remain neither as woman nor as man. He toppled duality. He broke both houses. He brought me into non-duality. He erased the two and led me into Advaita. This was the search. Through woman, the very search is for this non-dual.

What do you seek through woman? To become one with someone. Through man, what do you seek? A moment where we dissolve into existence.

So becomes one with life, your remembrance—
like someone mixing wine into wine.

This is what you seek. But it does not happen. Not thus. It happens by a very opposite process—by going within yourself. Going outward, distance increases. For within you, in your innermost core, sits the Divine. The One resides within you. Outside, there are two—there must be two: I and Thou. Within, there is only One. And the deeper you go, the more you will find it has no form of “I,” for “I” needs a “Thou.” As you go inward, you find neither Thou remains nor I. Where I is gone and Thou is gone—there, instantly is the experience of that One we have sought for lifetimes; for which the journey has been on.

He broke both houses.

Which two houses? The houses of I and Thou. He erased the male/female feeling.

The guru, long joined with Govind, accomplishes the disciple’s good works.

Whatever the disciple sought, asked for—under the guru’s shade, it is fulfilled.

…accomplishes the disciple’s good works.

All is done. What was not achieved by doing—happens merely in the guru’s presence.

The guru, long joined with Govind—

Because the guru is joined with Govind. You cannot easily join with Govind, for you have no acquaintance with him. But you can join with the guru. As soon as you join with the guru, you are joined with Govind.

Rajjab says: Mecca is far—but sit aboard the ship and you arrive.

God is far—but sit in the guru’s boat, and you arrive.

…accomplishes the disciple’s good works.

What does the wish-giving cow of a guru say—if the disciple is desireless?

Rajjab says: Empty remained he who met the guru—the ill-fated disciple.

If you remain empty even after meeting the guru—the responsibility is yours. You were useless. You did not do what the guru said. Where the guru led, you did not go. You were good-for-nothing.

What does the wish-giving cow of a guru say—

The guru is Kamadhenu—whatever you wished would have happened. But you did not move, you did not rise, you did not listen, you did not embody—lazy you remained, in stupor you lay.

What does the wish-giving cow of a guru say—if the disciple is desireless?

So the guru goes on saying, goes on saying—while the disciple, in his idleness, in his sleep—hears and does not hear. The joining does not happen, the revolution does not occur, the fire does not light.

Rajjab says: Empty remained he who met the guru—the ill-fated disciple.

Rajjab says: If someone remains empty after going to the guru—he is ill-fated, unfortunate. But the case turns upside down. If, after going to the guru, you remain empty, you will say: This guru is useless. I remained empty. Clearly this guru had nothing—otherwise I would have received. You will not think—as you should—that perhaps my pot was upside down; the guru is raining and I do not fill. Or my pot is cracked—whatever fills spills. Or my pot is dirty; the cloud rains pure—but by the time it enters my pot, it becomes muck from the drain.

Clean the pot. Do a little doing—to clean the pot. Drop laziness. Seal the cracks. If the pot lies upside down, set it upright. Do these three, and you will fill—surely you will fill.

Then your remembrance came into the darkness of my heart
with such hues and light
as if a veiled maiden
were lighting lamps in a tomb.

Open yourself and the Divine descends. Open to the guru—and he surely descends; with him, God descends. By his support you reach God—or God reaches you.

Then your remembrance came into the darkness of my heart
with such hues and light—

Open a little—and in the guru’s remembrance there are many hues and much light. Much radiance, much celebration. All the colors of flowers, all the modes of light are there.

Then your remembrance came into the darkness of my heart—

and your heart is darkness—an amavas.

with such hues and light
as if a veiled maiden,
all in white,
were lighting lamps in a mausoleum.

Such a pure maiden, in white—lighting lamps in a tomb—just so a sacred Ganga begins to flow within you. A virgin Ganga flows. You touch a world untouched.

But show readiness. Readiness to dissolve is needed. Without dissolving, none has ever been—and none can be. Blessed are those who are ready to vanish at the Master’s feet—for the celebrations of the whole world will be theirs. All the festivals of this existence will be theirs. Their new-moon night will end. And in their life the full moon will rise. The whole moon is yours; the whole sky is yours—but you can be worthy only when you are emptied of ego completely. To offer that ego is what we call discipleship.

Enough for today.