Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #15

When the resonance shivers through the tavern-lanes,
then, lured by the mere idea of arrival, the feet begin to yearn.
If pocket and collar can keep their harmony intact,
then the stations of a song’s graciousness do, at last, appear.
When golden fingers pause upon the jugular of the instruments,
the trilling breath of melody stops within the chest.
The overseer of expediency is indeed a thing—but still,
the venom-sweat of sorrow spills over, in every crystal flask.
Imagination pants at the very limit of life—
where people of lust pile wrong upon wrong.
Compelled, the tongue flickers upon the dais of the assembly;
the smiling angles of the body cry out in complaint.
The music of the gaze, the curl of tresses, the sweetness of lips—
here, everything is forced to serve a false love.
Here, bright idols of character are never cast;
here, every life is compelled to keep up its chatter.
From these windows wafts the scent of smiling hungers;
here, the commerce is paid in the pleadings of life.
By day the bodies are weighed on the scales of power;
by night the strongmen set up their arena.
Buyers! Here every night is a public revel;
this is the marketplace where love is put to auction.

The world is love’s mistake, love’s misunderstanding. Love itself is right—but it has gone astray. Love is beautiful—but it has become futile. Love is eternal—but it has been made ephemeral. And when love becomes false, everything becomes false; for love is our very life-breath. The whole existence is woven from love’s energy.

“The music of the gaze, the curl of tresses, the sweetness of lips—
here, everything is forced to serve a false love.
Here, bright idols of character are never cast;
here, every life is compelled to keep up its chatter.”

Whenever man loves, whomever he loves, in truth he is seeking the Divine. When you were enchanted by the beauty of a woman, then—though you knew it not—in the mirror of that face you caught a glimpse of the Divine. Whether you were aware or not. When you fell in love with a man, you heard a faint whisper of That—distant, perhaps unclear, beyond the grip of your fist—yet whenever you have desired someone, I say to you: you desired only the Divine. But you did not understand the color of your longing, nor the method of your longing. You desired one thing, and entangled yourself elsewhere.

As if someone saw the rising sun through a window, and clutched the window-frame, and began worshipping the window. The window is not wrong—through it, the sun was shown; offer thanks. But if you sit to worship the window—what then of the sun? The window becomes the goal; it would have been fine as a medium.

So too we found a glint of the Divine upon some human face, saw His wine descend into certain eyes, His lightning flash in a young body—and we seized the body, we began worshipping the eyes, we became priests of form, and forgot entirely that the Formless shimmers through every form, the Unbounded through every boundary, the Nirguna through every attribute. Let this much be remembered—and life reaches that bend from where a new journey begins. Life puts on the robe of Dharma, life begins to sing the song of Dharma.

The world is the love of the Divine—but it has become the love of the medium. And we clutch the medium so tightly that what the medium was meant to reveal is altogether missed. Imagine you fall in love with someone, and you take their garments to be everything, never seeking their body—people would call you mad. The world is mad. If you fall in love with someone, seize their body, and never seek their soul—this is the same confusion. For the body is no more than a garment. If you fall in love, catch hold of their soul, yet your life-breath does not rise to the Divine—even then you remain mistaken. Keep digging. Keep seeking. You can reach the Divine from anywhere—because He is hidden everywhere. Whatever the coverings, they can be drawn aside. Do not grasp at the veils; and do not flee from the veils in fear.

Two tendencies have always appeared in the world. Some people grasp the coverings—some began to worship the window. Seeing their folly, others fled from the window and will not come near. Both are mistaken. For the sun is seen through the window. Neither the worshipper nor the fugitive will see.

The world is the Divine’s window. The sensualist does not see, and the one you call a yogi also misses. The sensualist has seized the world; the sight of his clutch frightens the yogi so much that he turns his back and runs to the forests. But it is His world. He vibrates here. This song is His. Upon this flute His notes rise. Do not seize the flute, do not fear the flute—recognize the unknown notes coming through it. Then the flute, too, will be honored. In a truly religious heart, the world is not despised, it is revered. For this alone is the means of being linked to the Divine; this alone is the bridge. The true one is grateful even to the world—because through it he came to the Divine. The true one is grateful even to his body—for the body is a vehicle. The true one is not against anything. He uses everything. The wise is one who can use even poison as nectar. That one is skillful, that one intelligent.

In the hands of the wise, poison becomes medicine. In the hands of the foolish, even nectar can become poison; remember this. Even Dharma has become poison in the hands of some, and the world—Darshan of the Divine—in the hands of others. So the question is not where you are—not whether you are in the world or on the mountain, in solitude or among the crowd. The question is whether you know the art or not—the art of using life as a medium. The name of that art is Dharma. Here, everything is a step to His temple. Do not take the steps for mere stones, do not stop, do not get stuck—climb and cross over. Then you will give thanks to the steps. Until then, everything here turns false.

Why does everything turn false? Because you take the means to be the end. The moment you do—that is the moment falsity begins. Where love is arrested in illusion, the birth of prayer becomes impossible. Where love is not arrested within illusion, and rows its boat right through illusion—the same love becomes prayer. And those who are not caught in the illusion of the world—these alone seek the Sadguru. When does the search for the Sadguru begin? Who will leave himself in the hands of the Sadguru? Not everyone. Who leaves? There are conditions—remember.

First: the one who has butted his head on every wall, who has tried in every direction, has done all he could—and everywhere he has failed, everywhere defeated; every direction he sought gave only futility; within whom a deep recognition dawns: “I, because of myself, shall not find.” Why not? Because each failure reveals that this “I-sense” of mine is the foundation of my failures. Whatever I do, my I-sense is strengthened. If I perform worship—ego grows. If I renounce—ego grows. If I donate—ego grows. Whatever I do, my doing ornaments the ego, fortifies it—and this very ego shatters me. Ego means: I am separate. Ego-lessness means: I am one with this vastness. Until we become one with this Vastness, we shall not know it. We shall keep thirsting, keep wandering—and ego is the obstacle. And whatever I do strengthens the ego. Even cultivate humility—and the ego deepens: “None more humble than I. None more egoless than I.” The same old stiffness—only the mask has changed. Before, it was the pride of wealth or position; now pride has taken new forms, entered by a back door. Earlier it was in front—so you could guard against it. Now it has seized you from behind—recognition becomes difficult.

That is why your so-called “great souls” often have more ego than anyone else. Not without reason—there is a whole science behind it. The great soul has striven mightily: renounced all, left comforts, safety, inflicted austerities upon himself—fasts, vows, yoga, so many means. In all this doing the ego grew fat. Understand: wherever the sense of doership rises, ego finds food—fresh blood. When this is seen clearly—that I am the obstacle, and whatever I do strengthens me—therefore nothing of “mine” will help—then one sets out in search of the Sadguru. Then we seek one in whose doing something may happen. We cast ourselves at someone’s feet. We say: I am defeated; now I surrender. Break me, erase me, remake me.

Remember this first: only the one badly defeated by his own journey of “I” goes to the feet of the Sadguru.

Second: the one who, through the experience of life and the world, has become so disillusioned that even if the whole world were given to him—he would refuse. One who has seen: even when you gain—there is sorrow; when you do not—there is sorrow. Win—sorrow. Lose—sorrow. One who is seized not only by defeat, but who can see defeat even in victory; who has dropped all hopes, who is empty of hope—only that one can go to the feet of the Sadguru.

Why?

Because to go to the Sadguru is to go to the feet of death. The Sadguru will lift the sword and cut you into pieces. Only if you are cut to pieces will your new birth happen, your rebirth. Only if you are cut to pieces will the accumulated junk of lifetimes—what you think you are—fall away. But who will consent to be cut, to die? Only the one in whom life holds no hope. If even a little hope is left, you will say: “Let me try a little more; perhaps it did not happen yesterday—tomorrow it may. Let me run a bit more, arrange a few more methods, who knows—success may come!” You will run away; you will not consent to die, you will not stake yourself.

The ancient scriptures say: Acharyo mrityuh—the Guru is death. You can go to the Guru only when life itself begins to seem like death. When you feel: I have nothing to lose—or whatever I have is futile; let someone take it, rob it, snatch it. When what you call “life” appears like death, only then will “death” appear like life. When such a great revolution happens, then one goes to the feet of a Sadguru.

These words today concern what happens upon reaching the feet of the Sadguru. They are significant—filled with deep hints. Grasp each hint.

“Sila sanvari rajnai, tahi navai sab koi.
Rajjab sish-sil guru gadhai, soi puj kin hoi.”

A sculptor fashions an image from stone—Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira—and thousands bow to it, worship it. They know perfectly well—it was carved by a man; they know perfectly well—stone is stone. However beautifully you shape it, you cannot breathe life into it. Search as you will in the statue of Buddha, you will not find Buddha. Where is Buddha there? Where consciousness? Where Samadhi? Enter a stone idol seeking—and you will find only stone. It is a deception.

The famous Zen master Ikkyu once stayed in a temple. It was a winter night, he was cold. He took a wooden statue of Buddha and burned it to warm himself. When the priest saw a sudden fire in the temple, he woke, rushed in—he could not believe it! He had let this man stay thinking him a monk, and he committed such a sacrilege—burning the statue of God! Ikkyu was a well-known monk; the whole country knew him. The priest stood aghast. Ikkyu asked, “Why so stunned? Sit. Warm yourself—the night is bitter.” The priest said, “Are you mad? You burned the statue of God—there is no sin greater!” Hearing this, Ikkyu took his staff and began to poke in the ashes, as though searching. “What are you doing now?” the priest asked. “Looking for Buddha’s bones,” Ikkyu said. The priest, despite himself, laughed: “Surely you are mad. How could there be Buddha’s bones in a wooden statue?” Now it was Ikkyu’s turn to laugh. “Then bring the other two statues as well—night is long. We shall warm ourselves and chat.”

In a statue of Buddha there are not even Buddha’s bones—where then Buddha’s soul! There is nothing—only wood or stone. But our eyes have become blind to form. We have been so bound to shapes—women, men, sons, wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, friends—that we have grown so attached to form that the mere shape carved in stone deceives us. We have loved forms so long that we bow even to a stone statue because a form appears. We have forgotten that behind the form one loves the soul. The misunderstanding is centuries old; it has sunk deeply. Someone installs a statue of God—the form appears—and we bow. We are not even aware of our stupidity. Nor will we be—because thousands are bowing. “So many bow; it must be right—so many cannot be wrong,” we think.

Someone told George Bernard Shaw—he had made some statement no one agreed with; he was prone to such statements—that scientists say the earth revolves around the sun, and he had said this is wrong, the sun revolves around the earth. “What are you saying?” the man asked. “The whole world believes, all scientists believe, that the earth circles the sun. So many believe—they cannot be wrong.” Shaw replied, “If so many believe, it cannot be right. The crowd only assembles around the false; around truth the crowd cannot gather. The rare ones choose truth. As for my statement—I have my reason: I cannot accept that the earth upon which I live should revolve around anyone. As long as I am here, at least, the sun shall circle the earth.”

He was mocking man’s ego. He spoke in jest, yet said something true: if many believe, it cannot be right. Our logic is the reverse: since many believe, it must be true. Hence the religions of the world strive to increase their numbers, thinking that by the power of numbers their claim will become truth. You too seek numbers. If you find yourself alone in your belief, doubt arises: “Surely I am wrong—can the whole world be mistaken?”

Thus each tries to persuade others to his view. Why? If another agrees, you gain confidence: “My view must be right—see, he too accepts.” You do not trust your own seeing; when trust awakens in the other, you borrow it for yourself. As the crowd grows, your confidence grows. Christians wish the whole world Christian, Muslims the whole world Muslim, Hindus the whole world Hindu. What does it mean? No one trusts his own seeing. Let there be a crowd—then confidence comes.

Be alert: truth comes only to a few. To cradle truth in your lap you must be ready to be annihilated. Falsehood comes to everyone—it asks nothing of you, offers itself free, and brings reasons why it is truth. Truth gives no arguments; it only makes an announcement. That announcement is costly. Whoever goes to receive it is burned to ash—and only then can he hold it.

Every day you see: a man carves a statue; one day it is ready, installed in a temple—you go to worship. Does it not occur to you—how can the Divine be in a human-made image? Perhaps He may be found in what the Divine has made—in a tree, in a bird; perhaps in a man, in a woman—but how in a stone statue chiselled by a craftsman? In the sculptor, perhaps—but not in the statue. Yet you worship statues. Millions do; for lifetimes you have—habit has set in.

What is the essence of habit?

That we are bound to form. We no longer care whether there is soul within the form. Let the form be proper—that is enough. And the irony is: who among you has seen God to make His statue? All your images are of handsome men—forms in which, sometimes, a glimpse of the Divine flashed. But you seized the window. The statue of Rama the archer is but a window-frame. When Rama walked upon this earth alive, perhaps a few saw God in him—a handful of devotees, a few disciples who surrendered utterly. Through that window, they peeped and knew the Divine—so they declared: Rama is an avatar. Since then you worship the window. You made an image of flute-bearing Krishna; it is a window. The meditating Buddha’s statue is a window. Often it happens: Buddha stands before you—you do not recognize; but set his statue nearby and you bow at once.

There is another matter to understand about the human mind.

Bowing before what is dead poses no difficulty—no injury to the ego. To bow before one living wounds the ego—he is like you. After all—even if Buddha be God—he is like us: flesh, bones, marrow; a body like ours; hunger, thirst; night comes, he sleeps; he was a child, became a youth, grew old, died—like us. He would fall ill. A physician named Jivaka always accompanied Buddha, caring for his body. If you went to see Buddha and saw Jivaka, you would think, “How can he be God? He falls ill! God falls ill?” Your stone statue has one special virtue: it never falls ill, never hungers, never tires; seated, it remains seated—day or night. Hindus, out of kindness, put it to bed: “Rest now, sir! We grow weary seeing you sit!” They lay him in a swing, cover him with a quilt, shut the door with lock and key—enough of this endless flute-playing! We must go home—there are a thousand chores. In the morning they open the temple, wake him, brush his teeth, wash his face, bathe him—and seat him again.

A stone image has one obvious advantage: it is not like you. A living person is like you—and unlike you. That second part is visible only to a disciple. The “like you” is visible to all.

When Buddha returned home after attaining Buddhahood, even his father could not see his Buddhahood. How could he? Often those to whom we are most attached, whom we have always known, are the hardest in whom to see. “I have known this lad from birth,” the father thought. Buddha stood at the door, and the father was angry—scolding as all fathers scold: “You deceived me, betrayed me; I have grown old and you ran away. You are my only son; this whole kingdom is yours; all my hopes are pinned on you. I will forgive you—return, ask pardon; a father’s heart is large. Why do you stand with a begging bowl? In our lineage none has ever begged—we are emperors. Why bring us dishonor? Will you beg in this city—your capital—where even the poor live by our largesse? Have some shame; consider my old age.” Buddha’s father saw only the son—no Buddha.

Buddha listened. When the father’s anger had spent itself, Buddha said, “Look at me once with care. The one who left your home is not the one who has returned. Much water has flowed down the Ganga. I have returned another. I have not come to ask—I have come to give; to repay the debt. I have found a treasure. Your kingdom is fine—but I have come into a vaster kingdom, to make you a partner.” But fathers are fathers. “Stop,” he said. “I have known you always. Say this to someone else—you are the same—my son.”

Do you see the difficulty?

He sees only the form. Within, a new sky has opened, a new dance of energy has risen, a new note sounds—the Om has been born. The temple is no longer empty—the Indweller has arrived. But to see this requires discipleship. The father looked, then slowly bowed, slowly understood—but at first he saw only: “My son has returned.”

To bow before the living is difficult. First difficulty: he is like you. Hence every religion, in its scriptures, tries to prove its master to be unlike you—struggling with each other. Christians say Jesus was born of a virgin. Foolishness. But why? To prove: your Krishna, your Buddha, your Mahavira are nothing special—special is Jesus—born of a virgin! Was Krishna born of a virgin? Like any other man. Hindus cannot suddenly rewrite their stories—Krishna’s story is already written. Mahavira’s, too. But each tries in his way. Jains say when a serpent bit Mahavira, milk flowed from his veins instead of blood. When Jesus was crucified—blood flowed. “Just a man,” they imply. “What’s special? With Mahavira—milk!” Nonsense. If his body carried milk, it would have curdled long ago. Who would wait for a snakebite? The whole body would stink of curd; devotees would sit far away.

Buddha, in the hands of Buddhists, was not spared either: they wrote he emerged from his mother’s womb standing, and immediately took seven steps and proclaimed his Buddhahood. Madness! Yet such stories had to be woven—to convince you he is not like you, but utterly unique.

Muhammad, mounted upon his horse, went straight to heaven—took the horse along! Something must be made up. But when a master is alive, you cannot spin such tales—he will burst out laughing. Buddha would laugh, Jesus would laugh, Mahavira would laugh—just as I laugh.

Once a Sadguru departs, the disciples hold the brush—and they paint, and sculpt, until he appears different, separate, extraordinary. The greater the gap between you and the idol, the easier it is to bow. There is great relish in bowing to a dead guru—because a dead guru can do nothing to you. A living guru will kill you. A dead guru will not kill you—indeed, you become his master: you lay him to sleep and wake him at will. With a living guru—you become the servant, he the master. To bow before the living is to offer your neck into his hands. Before the dead—no difficulty. The dead guru follows you; with the living—you must follow him. Hence people worship idols, worship the past, worship the dead. Let a living one stand before them—they criticize, oppose, deny. They cannot accept the living.

“Sila sanvari rajnai, tahi navai sab koi.
Rajjab sish-sil guru gadhai, soi puj kin hoi.”

Rajjab says: see the irony! A craftsman carves a statue—people bow before it. But the Guru chisels the living stone of the disciple—he breaks, cuts, gives a new form—a new soul! Who bows to this? Rarely does anyone. Rarely is there even one to recognize—let alone worship. Notice your mind’s habit? If someone slanders another, you accept without a quarrel. Watch. Someone says, “So-and-so is dishonest”—you don’t ask for proof. “So-and-so is a cheat, a thief, a rogue,”—you readily accept; your ears open wide—“Tell me more!” And you will repeat it to others—with spice. But if someone praises another, “So-and-so is a saint, of pure character, meditative, beloved of the Lord,” you say, “Nonsense! Enough of that. I’ve seen enough ‘favorites of God’—all humbug. Saints were in Satya Yuga—now is Kali Yuga! Don’t be deluded—all are hidden thieves; nod off and your pocket will be cut.” You demand proof upon proof.

And what proof is possible for saintliness? What proof that someone bears the Divine’s reflection within? None. You ask for what cannot be given—and then laugh when it is not given: “We told you so!” Know your mind’s play—slander you accept; praise you reject. Why? Because slander satisfies your ego: “Compared to him, we are better. The world is filthy—save me.” This is why you read the newspaper—greedily devouring news of murder, theft, fraud—relieved: “Compared to these, I am virtuous—I haven’t done such evil.” But let someone be praised—your ego is hurt: “Someone better than I exists?” Mist rises within—the impulse to deny.

Rajjab says: strange world! A sculptor carves stone—people worship. But a Guru invites the living Divine to descend into a disciple—yet few even accept him, let alone worship. Even acceptance is rare; even non-opposition is rare.

“Guru gyata Parajapati, sevak mati roop.
Rajjab raj su ferakai, gharile kumbha anoop.”

The disciple comes to the Guru like clay. The Guru kneads, fashions, calls the Divine, prepares the field, sows the seed, invokes the clouds and the sun—invites the whole existence: the field is ready, seeds planted—come, O clouds, pour; come, O sun, throw your rays! On one side he prepares the disciple to become a vessel; on the other he calls the Divine to fill him. These are the Guru’s two tasks. The Divine does not descend into stone idols. He descends not into clay-made, but into consciousness-made.

“In none was found the radiance of Your lineaments—
I have made and erased pictures again and again.”

Make all the pictures you will—each will prove false, for in none will His imprint appear. How many statues has man fashioned of God—and erased? How many paintings, repainted, over centuries? The Guru’s process is different—he prepares only the vessel out of the disciple’s clay. When the receptivity is complete, the Divine fills it at once—no delay.

Hence Rajjab says the Guru is not only a knower—he is a creator.

“Kneading the dust again and again, he makes the incomparable pot—
the unique vessel within which the Formless may descend.”

“Like the washerman’s beating makes the cloth clean—
so the seeker, by bearing the Guru’s blows, becomes pure.”

One needed preparation, great courage—the capacity to risk. Heavy risk! Who knows whether the pot will be formed? The made may be unmade; the half-loaf in hand may be lost and the whole not gained—who knows? The world’s wisdom says: Do not leave the half for the whole afar. But before the Guru, arithmetic is reversed. Only if you leave all can you be worthy to receive all. Be miserly even a little—and the same small lack will remain; a single hole in the vessel suffices to empty it. Be intact—without holes. Be with the Guru a hundred percent.

A hundred percent is difficult. Only those can be thus who are ready to bow their ego utterly. Ego whispers: be cautious, keep a reserve, maintain distance; if difficulties arise, be able to escape. There are even those who take sannyas cunningly—standing at the perimeter, never entering the center: “If something happens, good; if not, we’ll slip away.” They sit at the edge of the gathering so they can leave easily if needed—one foot with the Guru, the other planted in the old world: “If Ram is not found, at least let Maya remain.”

Such cleverness will not do. The clever and the Guru do not meet. The simple-hearted meet him—who say: “At worst, we shall be erased; but what did we gain by being as we are? If we must die, let us die at blessed hands; even death will have a grace! If we are to perish, let it be on the path of seeking the Divine—that will be a joy. People die pursuing wealth; we will die pursuing God. If anywhere there is a Divine, if even a possibility exists—what fortune that we sought Him!”

“Birahin bihare rain-din, bin dekhe didar.”

The disciple lives day and night in the Guru’s company—in longing. What does the Guru teach? He speaks of Union—to kindle longing within you. Understand this alchemy. People ask me: “Why do you speak so much of meeting the Divine, of Moksha, of Nirvana? Speak only of the method—when we arrive, we will see what happens.” This itself is the method. The savor of Union awakens the fire of separation. The more madly you long to see Him, the more a continuous inner stream begins to flow—tears begin to flow.

“Birahin bihare rain-din, bin dekhe didar.”

I draw his picture—knowing well no picture can be; I praise His beauty and bliss—knowing no word can do justice. Yet I do so—so that the desire to see may awaken, the ambition arise: “At any cost—I must see. I will not leave this world without seeing Him. These eyes shall close only after beholding Him.”

“Some griefs of love, some griefs of the world—
so we are unhappy thus, and unhappy thus.
Life’s journey or your promise—
from where we started, our steps are still there.”

Who knows if the meeting will ever be—why not unveil the deceits of fate today? The heart’s distances—this may be the play of destiny; but shall we not diminish the distance of our gaze? Let distance from the Divine be infinite—still let the eyes behold. Often even far-off stars, seen at night, release a stream of joy. You need not hold the stars in your hand.

“The heart’s distance may be fate’s own sport—
but shall we not lessen the distance of our sight?”

Didar means: at least let the distance of gaze be lifted—let eye meet Eye. Let there be even a small flash—an experience that He is.

“You are close to the heart—and yet,
these eyes still thirst for a glimpse.
Memories of times gone by—
a cobra that keeps biting the heart.”

He is near—nearer than your own nearness to yourself—yet the eyes thirst for a glimpse. We want to see, to recognize, to touch, to breathe His fragrance, to taste Him. How will this thirst arise? Satsang has one purpose: one who has found speaks a little of Him; sings His praise; opens his heart before you—what he gained by finding, what he lost, why the loss was futile, the gain meaningful. But the heart can be opened only before those who have bowed. Without discipleship, satsang cannot happen. Satsang is not entertainment, not a lecture; it is a dance of energy between the seeker and the found—a kind of inner communion: Atman with Atman, existence with existence.

“Birahin bihare rain-din, bin dekhe didar.
Jan Rajjab jalti rahai, jagya birah apaar.”

In satsang, longing begins to awaken. Then a fire burns—one that cannot be doused by any other water than the rain of the Divine. For this the disciple even becomes angry with the Guru. He feels: “Earlier I was fine—my life had a pattern, little awareness, little worry—now a new yearning has been born, a fire whose thirst no worldly lake can quench.” In satsang you are reminded: you are a swan—and Manasarovar awaits. Fly, O swan, to that land! You had become comfortable among herons—forgotten your swanhood—posing as a heron-devotee, praying, going to temples and mosques and gurudwaras—yet within, the desire was to catch fish. Your flights were high, but your gaze clung to the low.

Ramakrishna used to say: the kite flies very high—but its eyes are fixed below, on the garbage heap, watching for a dead rat. People sit in temples—eyes on their shops. Fingers count a rosary—within, no sign of Ram; desires roll on.

Satsang shakes you awake: “What are you doing? This is beneath you. You are made for Manasarovar. You are a swan.” Then begins the trouble. “If I am a swan, where is Manasarovar?” The journey is long and arduous—who knows if we shall arrive. The thirst has awakened; now village ponds give no joy; the herons no longer suit. This is the disciple’s cross. Jesus said: only those who carry their cross upon their own shoulders will reach.

“Jan Rajjab jalti rahai, jagya birah apaar.”

Such longing is born whose shore is nowhere. To gain the Shoreless, the price is shoreless longing.

“The spark of Your love, O tyrant, burned a whole world—
flashing here, smoldering there, burning here and there.”

Then fire is everywhere; no spring is seen—only autumn.

“Seeing, joy’s flowers bloomed; thinking, dust of sorrow rose—
what people call spring is only the shadow of fall.”

As understanding dawns, as the Guru’s word descends, as the meaning flowers within—then we see: what we thought was spring was a limb of autumn, necessary only so autumn might be. Here, life is but a way of dying—a long procession of death, dying slowly, daily. Here, love is love’s deception. Here, light is only outside—within, deep darkness. All this outer shine is worth two coppers.

“Birahin bihare rain-din…” When this is seen, there is neither day nor night—only longing. In these moments, strange experiences come. Sleep will not come—no sooner the eyelids droop than longing burns again.

“Do not be deceived by footfalls—
what trust can you place in their coming—sleep on.”

A slight sound—and you think: perhaps He has come; a ripple in meditation—“He has come.” A little sweetness in prayer—“He has come.”

“Do not be deceived by footfalls—
what trust can you place in their coming—sleep on.”

Sleep will not come. When longing burns—what sleep? First, sleep is burned. What rest? First, rest is ash. Where repose? Man becomes a blazing fire.

“Biraha-pavak ur basai…”

The fire of longing abides in the heart.

“Biraha-pavak ur basai, nakh-sikh jalai deh.
Rajjab upar raham kari, barsahu Mohan meh.”

The body burns from nail to crown—and one sound keeps echoing: “Rajjab, have mercy—O Enchanter, pour down your rain!”

“You do not bring me into your fancy even once—
then why do you come into my assemblies of thought?”

“If you never think of me, why do you haunt my thoughts?” The devotee weeps, pleads, writhes—like a fish thrown upon burning sand. Only he who passes through such longing attains the Great Union. Bhakti is not cheap.

Your so-called saints have said: “This is the Dark Age; bhakti is the easiest way.” Do not be deluded. Who says bhakti is easy? Easy—because you need not master headstands? Easy—because you need not do pranayama? Headstands and fasts are not difficult—give it a month or two, the body learns. Body and mind live by habit. In Africa, a tribe eats once a day; in Australia, one tribe eats once in two days—habits form. Similarly with fasts.

Do not think vows are terribly arduous. Anyone can do them—particularly the less intelligent; for too much blood rushing to the head breaks the finest brain fibers—hence your yogis often look dull. Bhakti is not easy. Is love easy? Are you crazy? Nothing is more arduous—because love burns, throws you into fire—makes you writhe like a fish.

“Biraha-pavak ur basai, nakh-sikh jalai deh.
Rajjab upar raham kari, barsahu Mohan meh.”

“In this there is neither unbelief nor belief—
those whom the world could not please became seers of the Glance.
Those who know the art of drinking—remain thirsty, O Qateel;
the shallow of this age became mere drinkers.”

Those busy drinking little worldly things are shallow. The true drinkers long to drink the Divine, and none other can quench their thirst. Enough sitting by dirty ponds—now to Manasarovar! Rise, O swan, spread your wings—fly to that land. This is not your country, this house is not your home. You mistook an inn for home, a puddle for Manasarovar, the mortal for the immortal, the petty for the vast—and you ask why you suffer?

“Jan Rajjab jalti rahai, jagya birah apaar.”

“Birahin bihare rain-din, bin dekhe didar.
Biraha-pavak ur basai, nakh-sikh jalai deh.
Rajjab upar raham kari, barsahu Mohan meh.”

Surely the Divine rains—but only when your longing ripens to fullness. When you stake everything, keep nothing back; abandon all cleverness and bargaining.

“Humming, the drops come from the sky—
some cloud has struck Your anklets.”

When your yearning reaches its hundred degrees—then the rain begins: drops singing, dancing.

“Some cloud has struck Your anklets”—
having touched the Divine’s anklet, a cloud spills music—spills nectar. But receptivity is born of longing. First the pot is formed: the potter beats the clay, spins it on the wheel, shapes it—one hand strikes from without, the other supports from within—thus the vessel is made. Yet even then it is raw until baked in fire. In the fire of longing the pot hardens and grows strong.

“Bhalkā lagya bhav ka, sevak huā sumār.”

A lovely utterance. Rajjab says: ever since you thrust the spear of love into my chest, since the spear of feeling pierced me—I too came into the count; I became someone. Before that—I was nothing, uncounted. Only when I was pierced—only when I surrendered—did I become anything. So long as I stiffened—nothing.

“Rajjab talafai tab lagai, milai na māranhār.”

A priceless utterance. Rajjab says: I writhed only until I could not find the One who slays. Now I have found the slayer! This is the meaning of Guru—mārnahār, the killer. You have killed—and you have made.

“Bhalkā lagya bhav ka, sevak huā sumār.
Rajjab talafai tab lagai, milai na māranhār.”

Only until the slayer was not found was there trouble. Now we are on the path; now we too are counted. Delay or soon—what of it? We can wait. The spear has struck—the ego has died; the One who kills is found. The One who kills is the same who gives life. One hand strikes, the other supports.

“Jaise nāri nāh bin, bhuli sakal singār—
tyun Rajjab bhula sakal, suni saneh dildār.”

Hearing the loving voice of the Guru, Rajjab says, I forgot all. As a woman, without her beloved, forgets all adornments—for adornment is for the beloved, not for itself—so when the beloved does not come, the ornaments are forgotten. The moment I heard the Guru’s voice, I forgot the world—for certain it became that what I seek is not in the world. I was searching where He is not; I had not searched where He is.

“Mujhko ab tak Khuda se hai sharmindagi—
ai sanamkhānā-e-dil ke pahle sanam.
Kuch to hongi mohabbat ki majbooriyan—
kaun sahta hai warna kisi ke sitam?
Hum Qateel apni dhun mein na kuchh sun sake—
rokte rah gaye humko dairo-haram.”

When the Sadguru calls you—temples will stop you, mosques will stop you, the market will stop you, the house, the family—the whole world will make a ring around you. You will be astonished: this world never cared before; the day the Guru’s call is heard, all will forbid you. But then to stop is impossible.

We, in our own tune, hear nothing—the cloisters and sanctuaries will try to hold us back—yet nothing holds once the voice has entered the ear. Keep coming, keep sitting wherever satsang happens—today, tomorrow, the day after—who knows when the auspicious moment arises, when your ear is open, when the heart is close to the ear—and the word enters? Once the spear strikes—the servant comes into the count.

“Tan-man ole jyu galahin, birah-sur ki tāp.
Rajjab nipajai dekhi tu, yun āpā gali āp.”

As hailstones melt in the sun’s heat—so the fire of longing melts both body and mind. What cannot melt—alone remains. Rajjab says: I have seen myself thus melt—and thus be born. I have seen myself die—and be resurrected. Body melted, mind melted—what we took ourselves to be—melted in longing’s fire—and for the first time the true Self rose—third, invisible. Man is a Triveni. As at Prayag, Ganga and Yamuna are visible—Saraswati is unseen—so body is seen, mind is felt, Atman is hidden. When body and mind are gone—what remains cannot go away—that is you. Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu.

“Rajjab jwālā birah ki, kabahun pragatai māhin—
Tau sínchani ghrit son chahun, karam-kāth jari jāhin.”

Sometimes, by great fortune, the flame of longing appears in the inner shrine. When such a moment comes—do not miss. Do not let it be extinguished. Pour the ghee of your life into it—so it blazes, surrounds you completely. Then karmic wood burns to ash. The jnani will say: by deep meditation, one is freed from karma. The ritualist will say: by good deeds, bad deeds are cut. The bhakta says: in longing’s fire, karma burns as wood in flame—longing refines, as fire purifies gold—making it kundan.

“Darad nahi didar ka, talib nāhi jīv—
Rajjab birah-biyog bin, kahan milai so pīv.”

If within you there is no pain for a glimpse—what are you? You do not count. Your true birth begins only with the longing to see Him. Before that, you lived nominally—in a dream. Whenever one took sannyas with Buddha, he would say: “From today count your age.” A king, Bimbisara, once came. A bhikshu also came. Buddha asked him, “How old are you?” He said, “Four years.” He was seventy. The king was startled. Buddha said: we count from sannyas. Before that—you lived in the night—in dreams.

So long as the thirst to see the Divine has not arisen, so long as His call has not made you restless—you are nothing, even if you have wealth and status. Two coppers your worth. Only when you are filled with His quest does life begin.

“Rajjab birah-biyog bin, kahan milai so pīv.”

Without the fire of separation, the beloved is not found. Yoga teaches how to be joined—but before yoga, there must be viyoga—disjoining. If there is no viyoga, with whom will you join? Those who become yogis without burning in separation have taken a wrong step. Depth in yoga will be the depth of your separation. People try to bloom yoga’s flowers without the thorns of longing—they will never bloom. Do not avoid separation. It is a great pain, a great fire—but who has been refined without fire?

Prepare yourself. Awake in longing. Let separation seize you like a storm—only then will true Yoga be born. If you burn—you will surely find. All who burned—found. And the day you come into the count—that day you became a sannyasin. Blessed are those who come into the count! Blessed are those who can say: “I have found the Slayer!”

Without the Sadguru—who will erase you? And until you are erased—there is only obstacle. You are the obstacle. Let your wall fall—and the sky will enter. There is no barrier besides you.

People ask me: what stands between the Divine and me? I tell them: you. The I-sense is the barrier. They want to hear something else—“Sin is the barrier”—so they can do virtue. “Ignorance is the barrier”—so they can become scholars. When I say “You are the barrier,” they dislike it. They were willing to make the I virtuous, but not to drop it. Willing to paint it white, but not to let it go. Willing to make the I a yogi instead of a bhogi—but never to lay it down.

Remember the essence of bhakti: “I” is the obstacle. Not sin, not ignorance—“I.” “I” is sin, “I” is ignorance. When the “I” goes out one door, the Divine enters the other.

Step aside—make way. Then one day you too will say:

“Bhalkā lagya bhav ka, sevak huā sumār.
Rajjab talafai tab lagai, milai na māranhār.”

Enough for today.