Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #17

What he says is true. There is suffering in the world—great suffering. There is exploitation—great exploitation. But this suffering has always been. And whether the mind accepts it or not, this suffering will always remain. Suffering is the nature of the world. We can shuffle things about a little, give it a bit of paint, and on the surface a few differences may appear; within, all remains the same—and will remain so.

Man has kept changing the social system, systems of state and economics, but no change has ever ended suffering in life. No change has ever come that we could truly call a revolution. Revolutions have come and gone—revolution upon revolution—and man remains as he was. The fundamental laws of life have not even been touched—no revolution has touched them; all revolutions have failed.

There is no notion in this world more unsuccessful than revolution. Erase the distinction between rich and poor—nothing essential changes. New class divisions arise; rulers and ruled appear again. Abolish masters and slaves—then masters and servants reappear. As man is, so long as he remains as he is, the world’s structure of suffering cannot be changed.

And your argument seems perfectly right from the outside: When there is so much suffering and so much pain, how can we seek Rama? First we will end suffering—let the revolution come first, let everything be set right, then we will seek Rama. Though this argument looks beautiful, it is very dangerous. Then you will never seek Rama. It is good that Buddha did not think, “First let suffering end, then I will seek truth.” Otherwise Buddha would still be a simpleton—just like you. It is fortunate that century after century a few people have lived who were not swayed by this argument.

There are unconscious reasons behind being swayed by it. The greatest reason is that you want to postpone the search for God. You want a strong excuse on the basis of which you can defer the search—and not even feel guilty for deferring it. No trick could be better than the one you’ve found: “There is suffering in the world; first let it end.” Suffering will not end, and thus the “trouble” of seeking Rama will not arise—and the logic is so pretty that even if Rama himself stood before you, he would be hard pressed to answer. “Let suffering end; then we’ll remember him.” Suffering will not end; suffering is the world’s very fate. Suffering is not some accident—just as it is no accident that trees are green. If you say, “When trees are no longer green, then we will remember Rama,” then Rama will never be remembered. Give it up—neither will trees change, nor will Rama be remembered. If you say, “When fire is no longer hot, then we will remember Rama—how can we remember him now, the fire is too hot!”—it is exactly the same kind of statement. The world is intrinsically suffering.

Buddha did not say that the world is accidentally suffering; he said, unconditionally, the world is suffering. Suffering is woven into the very manner of being here. Therefore you will not be able to change suffering. Those who are born in the world arrive already carrying the full blueprint of suffering—wounds of suffering from many lives. One whose wounds are healed does not take birth again. Think of it like this: healthy people do not go to a hospital; only the sick do. If you are waiting for the day when the hospital is full only of healthy people—“Then I will sing the name of Rama”—well then, the singing is finished! Only the sick come to the hospital; the moment someone is healthy he is discharged. Healthy people do not stay in hospitals.

Understand this world as Existence’s hospital. We come here to exhaust pain; the moment someone goes beyond it—awakens—his connection with the world breaks. Therefore the wise are not born again. There is no way a knower can be born again.

The world is suffering. This simple point has not been understood by the revolutionaries of the world; they keep banging their heads against the wall. Revolutions have kept happening and they have kept failing; they will continue to happen and they will continue to fail. Revolution can never win. It cannot happen that the world will be without suffering. Yes, the styles of suffering will change, the colors will change; you were beaten from this side, you will be beaten from that side; one man sat on your chest—he will get off and another will sit there.

Have you not seen? In this country “total revolution” has just taken place—total revolution! In this land small things never happen. Other countries have revolutions; this country has total revolution. Here, if a small village meeting happens, it is called an international conference. Total revolution just took place. What changed? Not a bit. One set of people who were sitting on the chest got off and another set sat down. And if you examine them closely you will scarcely be able to tell the difference. They are the same kind of people. For them a revolution did happen, because now they are the ones sitting on the chest. But for the one whose chest is sat upon, a revolution never happens. The ones sitting on the chest have won; for them, the revolution has happened. The ones who were made to get off have lost; now another revolution will be needed. Soon you will see: another revolution! A great revolution! These who sit on your chest will be made to get down and others will sit there. The “third freedom” is soon to arrive! Soon there will be commissions, and soon the questions will again be raised: “Morarji Bhai, why did you promote ‘Jeevan-Jal’? It harmed the culture of the country. We want an answer.” Revolutions keep happening and they keep failing. Dozens have come and gone; not even the dust has been wiped from man’s face. With every revolution more dust gathers. But in this way you can trick yourself. You can find a powerful argument—a cover to hide behind.

A few days more, my love—just a few days:
We are compelled to breathe beneath oppression’s shade.
Let us suffer a while longer; writhe, weep a bit—
We are heirs to our forefathers’ burden; we endure.

Bodies are imprisoned, feelings are in chains;
Thought is captive, speech is censored.
Yet by our courage we continue to live.
What is life but a beggar’s patched cloak,
Where every hour we stitch another ache?

But now the days of tyranny are few;
Have a little patience—the days of lament are few.

In the scorched desolation of the age
We must live—but not like this forever;
The anonymous, heavy cruelties of strange hands
We must bear today—but not like this forever.

This dust, wrapped around your beauty—
Our two-day youth’s tally of defeats;
The smoldering pain of wasted moonlit nights,
The heart’s fruitless throbbing, the body’s hopeless call—

A few days more, my love—just a few days.

But those “few days” have never ended—and will not end. If a lover says, “I will love when the whole world is peaceful, happy, without exploitation; when the classless state arrives, when Rama-rajya comes—then I will love,” he will never love. He may keep saying:

But now the days of tyranny are few;
Have a little patience—the days of lament are few.

He may console himself, but the days of tyranny are not few; the days of lament are not few. However much you say, “A few days more, my love—just a few days,” the whole of history till now is the history of suffering. Will you learn nothing from it? Suffering has existed from beginningless time—will you remove it in “a few days”? And is suffering some accident? If it were accidental, it could be removed; it is not—it is the inner nature of the world. Just as death is. If you say, “When there is no death, then we will remember God; how can we remember him now—death stands at the door! Corpses are being carried out, people are dying, a dreadful darkness of death hangs over everything; in this night of fear, how can we be prayerful? How can we dance? How can we sing? How can we be still? Death knocks at the door—when there is no death, then!”

Death is not an accident in life; it is an essential limb of life. It is inseparable from birth. If there is a beginning, there will be an end. You cannot escape the far shore if you have started from this one. By pushing and shoving we can delay it a little: a man may not die at seventy but at eighty; not at eighty but at ninety, at a hundred. But have you seen? The more we push life back, the more suffering increases; it does not decrease. The one who dies at seventy dies less afflicted; the one who drags on to a hundred dies after thirty extra years of suffering. And the result of forcibly extending life is that people often remain hung up in hospitals.

In countries like America, where medicine has developed greatly, hundreds of people hang on in hospitals: someone’s leg is bound, someone’s arms are tied with tubes, one is on oxygen, another on glucose. Is this life? But if just breathing is the name of life—yes, they are alive, they breathe; perhaps they cannot even speak—is this life?

In America there is a movement among the elderly demanding a right to suicide. Did you ever imagine such a time would come that people would ask for a right to die? It has come. And before this century ends, the constitutions of the world will have to recognize the right to suicide as a fundamental right. Because when you start forcibly keeping people alive and they do not wish to live—since there is no reason, no meaning left, only hell—and they want to die, but you do not allow it; you force oxygen into them, you force a mechanical heart to beat, you force another’s blood into their veins—is this life? This is coercion. Death cannot be postponed; it still stands at the door. You have only made life more ugly—nothing gained.

What I want to say is: life, as it is, will remain more or less the same. Our mind does not want to accept this, but facts are facts whether the mind accepts them or not. Here, death will keep happening, disease will keep happening. Everything here is transitory. How can lasting happiness happen in the fleeting? Suffering will keep happening here. Everything here is made to pass away. Where everything is made to pass away, how can the kingdom of happiness arise? It is impossible.

If you want to remember Rama, then do it—don’t postpone. The world will go on like this, but you will not remain here forever. The few days given to you—don’t miss them. Use them. And in this life there is only one thing worth using: that your connection with Rama be made. Drop reliance on revolutions; enough have happened!

The red revolution has come, the age of the sun has dawned,
These eyes awaited it for ages.
Now the earth will sing melodies on gentle strings,
And songs will dance in every valley.

The red revolutions did come—Russia, China—but neither did songs echo in the valleys, nor did people dance; quite the opposite. In Russia people are more enslaved than anywhere else; their feet bear more chains than anywhere else. In China people are more frightened than anywhere else. Red revolutions arrived; flowers did not bloom, dances did not arise, songs did not come—and the veena’s strings snapped. But man goes on believing such things and, trusting these empty hopes, keeps postponing the real search.

My request is: use this life. Only two uses are worthy—fill life with love, or fill it with meditation. These are two paths; if you fill yourself with one, the other arrives on its own.

Rajjab’s path is the path of love, of devotion. His sutras are wondrous.

There is only one real revolution; it happens within, not without. There is only one door to happiness; it is within, not without. Don’t look for excuses or tricks; the loss is yours, no one else’s. Don’t entice yourself into nets of fine arguments; you are the only one being deceived. Do not say, “The night is dark—how can I light a lamp?” I say: precisely because the night is dark—light a lamp. And because there is suffering in the world—I say, call upon God. Because there is pain and trouble in the world—open a few windows toward God. The world will remain as it is; but if the door to God stays alive and open, whoever wishes to cross beyond suffering can.

Crossing suffering is personal. All precious treasures of life are personal. Revolution too is individual. A group has neither a soul nor awareness nor possibility. Keep clear of the crowd. Use your time. These few moments in your hand—if by any means a connection with God can be made—do not miss the chance.

Not a single song could be born of their chains—
What has happened to today’s living captives?

If you are alive—yes, life is imprisonment—but if you are alive, you can bring forth a song even from chains.

Not a single song could be born of their chains—
If you cannot create music from your chains, then you will never create music. And I want to tell you a secret: if you create music out of your chains, those very chains melt and dissolve in that music; those very chains break and scatter. No fire melts chains as music can. No aid frees one from life’s pain as celebration does. The devotee knows celebration; the meditator knows celebration. Yes, the world is full of suffering—but dance. The walls around are hard—but dance. There are chains on your feet—but dance. Suddenly you will be astonished: if you begin to dance holding God’s hand, you are freed even in that dance. The walls fall, the chains melt, suffering is gone—the world is gone—and a new sky begins to descend in your eyes. That is revolution. All else—“total revolutions”—are not revolutions at all; forget “total,” they are rubbish—futile bustle—exploitation of man’s hopes.

The exploiters of the world live off your hopes. In two, four, five years you tire of one kind of exploiter; you are ready to give another a chance. A politician was standing for election, telling people, “The opposition has exploited you, oppressed you, amassed wealth, drunk your blood—brothers, give us a chance too!” And brothers give it. They are tired of one, they give another a chance. Five years later, they tire of him and perhaps give the first one a chance again.

Man’s hope is being exploited. Your hope remains that “something is going to be set right—if not today, tomorrow.” Nothing is ever set right here. Let this sink one hundred percent into your heart: nothing here is ever set right. Only when you are utterly disillusioned with the world does your inner journey begin; then you look up. Otherwise you remain stuck—“Now the door will open; now the wall will be removed; now the true revolutionaries have come to remove the wall—now they will break all chains!” They will forge new ones. They have brought chains; the color may be different, perhaps cast in different factories, but they are new chains. Your feet and your neck will never be free—until you find within that which is nectar. In that very moment revolution happens. Then there is no prison, no suffering.

Even in this world full of suffering, it is possible to live in such a way that for you there is no suffering. That does not mean you are hard or indifferent. There is compassion within—but compassion does not mean that if someone is sick you lie down sick beside him; that if someone is crying you sit and cry with him; that if someone is drowning you too jump in and drown. Compassion means: if you can save another, save him—but remember the first condition of saving another is to save yourself. If your lamp is lit, perhaps you can light another’s unlit lamp. Meditation and devotion are the names of lighting that flame.

Understand these sutras:

If You call me, O Rama, Rājjab will come—
As a kite, touched by the wind, rises to the sky.

What a lovely utterance—concise and full. The entire discipline of devotion distilled in a small verse. This is the beauty of the saints: they say it simply, and you don’t even notice how deep it is. So simple that perhaps you don’t listen carefully—because if a thing is difficult, one listens alertly lest one miss something. When it is utterly simple, one hears it casually—“What’s special here?” The sutra seems straightforward:

If You call me, O Rama, Rājjab will come—
As a kite, touched by the wind, rises to the sky.

Nothing special—one reads and moves on. But truth is simple.

It is said that when Buddha awakened he remained silent for seven days. He thought, “Whatever I say—who will understand?” Do you think he thought his experience was extremely complex, intricate, difficult? No—the experience was so simple that Buddha wondered, “Who will understand something so clear? How will tangled, complicated people understand?” He sat silent. He could not find a way to express something so plain.

Philosophers speak in difficult terms; the more difficult the statement, the more false it is. Difficulty is the intimate companion of untruth. Lies must be complex. Have you seen lawyers’ documents? So convoluted, clause upon clause, that you cannot understand what is being said; they twist language so much that you cannot catch the point—because if people understood, the lies would not hold. Philosophers write so that you never grasp them; page after page you read and nothing remains in your hand—but you feel as if something profound is being said. And you remain empty. The day you finally understand, you are surprised: there was nothing—just verbiage, a net of words—beautiful words without a soul.

But the words of saints—the words of the experienced—are different. Straight and clear. Here the line is very simple: “If You call me, Rājjab will come; as a kite rises on the touch of wind.” Rājjab says: “On my side—what can I do? My hands are too short. You are far—who knows where? Far or near, even that I cannot say. You have left no address—where shall I seek? In which direction shall I call? What is Your name? What is Your abode? I do not even know Your name—if You suddenly meet me on the road I would not recognize You, for I have never seen You before.

If You call me…
There is only one way—You call me. If the coming is left to me, I will not be able to do it. I have been searching for births, groping, wandering—even the more I search, the more I lose my way. I cannot do it.” This is the fundamental formula of devotion: only if God calls does anything happen.

The fundamental formula of meditation is: by my doing, it will happen. The fundamental formula of devotion is: by His doing, it will happen. Meditation trusts oneself; devotion trusts grace, compassion, the gift. That is the difference. Here there are only two: I and Thou. Two ways are possible: either I descend the stairs of the “I” and go deep into it—that is meditation; or Thou—let His compassion rain—that is devotion.

Rājjab is a devotee. He did not attain God through effort, austerity, or practice. He attained by calling, by weeping, with tears—like a small child. He did not go out to find God; God came seeking him. There must be a call. Just as a baby begins to cry—what else can he do? He lies in the cradle; he cannot climb out, cannot get up, cannot walk. He is hungry—what can he do? He cries, wails, makes a commotion.

Do you understand an infant’s commotion? It has only one meaning: that the mother’s attention be drawn to him. The mother may be in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot, sewing, sweeping, chatting with neighbors, in the garden—busy somewhere—the baby can do nothing else; he doesn’t even know his mother’s name; he cannot yet call out “Mother”; he cannot go to her; he has no means—he is utterly helpless. But he knows one thing—as if by nature: he raises a ruckus, cries, wails. All he can do is attract the mother’s attention—if she is anywhere.

If You call me…
The devotee does that: he calls like a child. The knower, the meditator, is like a mature man’s experiment; devotion is the experiment of a childlike simplicity. Therefore you will find in devotees an innocence that meditators may not have. A simplicity and guilelessness that others do not have. In the devotee there is a de-egoed state—pride cannot exist. How can it? Nothing happened by his doing—everything came through grace. Even if there was a trace of pride, grace washed it away like a flood.

If You call me, O Rama, Rājjab will come.
I am ready, he says; just call me! Let Your signal, Your hint arrive; let me sense just a little in my experience—of the direction You are in, where You are, Your hue, Your manner—let a whisper reach my ear and I will set out. But only if You call does the journey begin!

The meditator has his own world. He says:

The lovers of heart make their own age;
We are not those whom the age makes.

He says:

Perhaps I must take the oars into my own hands—
What kind of helmsmen are these who cannot reach the whirlpool?

He says:

If these hands are mine, I will become my own cupbearer now;
May God so ordain that my lips never touch another’s cup.

I will be the drunkard and my own cupbearer,
The tavern too, the wine too—drinker and pourer both.

If these hands are mine, I will become my own cupbearer now—
May God so ordain that the rim of my cup never be moistened by another’s hand.

The knower’s entire journey is an inward, self-journey. Self-study is his method; he descends within.

O masters of destiny, this is the miracle of the hand of action:
Is the shell I picked a pearl or not?
We are not deniers of tradition, but—O Majrooh!—
Is our path separate from all and everyone, or not?

The knower makes his own path, walks his own way, chooses his own foottrail. He does not walk the highways built by others.

Let whoever finds that pleasing, do so. It is a long journey. Of a hundred knowers who start, one or two succeed. Of a hundred devotees who start, ninety-nine succeed. Those who have known God through devotion are many more than through meditation. Because the meditator is completely alone—no support. He searches by himself. The devotee has support; he has assurance; he has taken refuge. He trusts Existence. He says: we are limbs of this Existence; Existence cares for us. If we call, some force will rise from Existence to guide us.

If You call me, O Rama, Rājjab will come.
As a kite rises to the sky on the support of the wind.

Have you seen? Supported by the invisible wind, a kite rises into the sky. The wind is not seen.

As a kite rises to the sky on the touch of wind…
The kite rises on the invisible wind. This sutra is precious. His grace is invisible—like the wind. The devotee travels great skies on that support.

As a kite rises to the sky…
He receives the support of grace. The hand is not visible, yet it comes into the devotee’s hand. Others cannot see it, yet the devotee begins to feel the touch. One who flies the kite feels the wind’s force on the string, in his fingers. No one else sees the wind, but the kite-flyer knows the strength of it. Exactly so, the devotee begins to feel God’s power. Another cannot see it; even if the devotee wants to show it, he cannot. But he experiences that “His hands have come into my hands.” Things begin to go right. The steps fall on the true path. Joy deepens. Coolness and peace increase moment by moment. Bliss wells up. The devotee knows: “I am on the right way. His hand is in mine.” And he feels the touch. Remember—within, he feels clearly: “I am no longer alone—Someone is always with me.”

It happened this way. Enemies were chasing Mohammed. Climbing a mountain, he hid in a cave. With him was a disciple—a philosopher, a great thinker, a scholar. Both sat hidden. The hoofbeats of the enemy’s horses drew near; fear increased—but Mohammed sat at ease. The philosopher was beside himself, sweating—though the air was cold, the cave was chilly—yet he perspired. Mohammed sat untroubled. The disciple said, “Master, you seem very calm—don’t you hear the hoofbeats? Death is not far. This is not a time to sit quietly. We are two; the enemy are at least a thousand. There is no chance.” Mohammed said, “Two? We are three.” The philosopher peered about in the cave—was someone else hiding in the dark? There was no one. “What are you saying?” he asked. Mohammed said, “You will not see him; even if I want to show you, I cannot. That is why I am at ease, and you are not. God is. Our being or not being is of no account—His being is all. If not a thousand but ten thousand enemies come, it makes no difference. The Friend is with us. And His friendship alone avails; nothing else avails.”

But the philosopher was not reassured—nor are you. Such talk is fine in poetry, but here life is in danger—what use is poetry? Here we need swords. The hoofbeats neared—the path ended in a chasm; the cave was the last place. The enemy, too, would have to stop at this point and would surely see the cave. And yet in a little while the hoofbeats grew faint; the enemy turned to another path and did not reach the cave.

Mohammed laughed and said, “You see? Did you see the third?”

It is like the wind—but the devotee begins to experience it. The capacity to experience is earned by weeping, by longing.

If You call me, O Rama, Rājjab will come.
As a kite rises to the sky on the touch of wind.

“I am nothing—paper kite. Yet a kite rises into the sky with the wind’s support. Give me Your support—what would be impossible then? Liberation will not be far; heaven will be in my hand. Without You there is only suffering; with Your support, everything is transformed.” There is only one revolution in this world: the realization that you are not alone—God is with you.

What are your worries? Why was Mohammed at ease, and the companion anxious, though the situation of both was the same? The companion could have said, “First change the situation—then sit quietly. What is this talk of a ‘third’? The enemy is here—first find a remedy; such talk will not help.” But their inner state was different. One kite lies on the ground because the wind’s support is not there; another rises because it is. Both are kites. There is no difference between a devotee’s kite and yours—except that his has support from an invisible force. Seek that support. That seeking is prayer. Call for that support. Weep for it. Wait for it.

Beyond the horizon I would go to spend life’s desolate moments—
If you could stand by me, I would even call out to Death.
I live as if carrying my own corpse,
Give me a little support and I will lay down this burden of existence.
The centers of life have shifted—what circling of temple or shrine now?
If your gathering still remains, I will fly to it like a moth.

Just let me glimpse your light, and I will come like a moth. How to gain that glimpse? Who receives it? Whoever calls. If you have not received it, you did not call. Or if you called, you called with a half heart. Or you called without trust—“Who is there to answer? The sky is empty.” If you call like that, you have not called. The call bears fruit only with trust. The call must be total—your whole heart dissolving into it.

Rājjab says:

Whatever good or bad I have done, I have become accordingly—
This much is mine; but I am yours—why won’t you be mine, Beloved?

He says, “Grant that I am not worthy to be heard or weighed or sought by You. I claim no merit.” This is an essential part of devotion. The knower claims merit; the devotee proclaims unworthiness. He says, “Who could be more unworthy than I? When I looked, I found none worse than me.”

Whatever good or bad I have done, I have become accordingly—
But good or bad—still, I am Yours. This cannot be denied. This is the devotee’s claim. Not the claim of merit—only this: “I am Yours. Whether good or bad, beautiful or ugly, saint or sinner—these are secondary. Fundamentally, I declare: whatever I am, I am Yours.” This you cannot deny, nor is there any reason to deny it. If I did bad, I became bad; if I did good, I became good—that is my doing, my responsibility. But I am Yours even prior to my deeds. Before my doing arose, I was Yours; when all my deeds are finished, I will still be Yours. Do not put obstacles in the way because of deeds.

The knower, the meditator, is karmic in outlook: “As you act, so will be your fruit.” The devotee has a unique view: “Yes, by my acts I become what I become—but what difference does that make? I am Yours—this remains the same.” A good son or a bad son—both are sons. Jesus went so far—and he is a great lamp on the path of devotion—as to say: often the father worries more about the wayward son. The one who is fine needs no thought. The mother is more anxious about the wayward child. The saint can be forgotten; how can the sinner be forgotten? The healthy can be forgotten; the sick cannot.

Jesus’ famous saying: A shepherd returns at dusk counting his sheep, and finds one lost on the way. He leaves the ninety-nine in the dark forest—in danger, where wolves and leopards and lions are—and goes in search of the one that went astray. And not only that—Jesus said that when he finds it, he carries it back on his shoulders. This is the experience of devotion.

Another famous story of Jesus: A father had two sons. The elder was capable, virtuous, of good conduct, deeply respectful; the younger was debauched, a gambler, drunk, had no respect for his father, listened to no one, rebellious and troublesome. One day the younger said, “Divide the property; I don’t want to hear this nonsense every day about ‘Do this, don’t do that.’ I will do what I want; be what I want. Divide it.” The father too thought there would be turmoil after his death—these two are headed in opposite directions—so he divided it. The younger took his share and went to the city, for what can you do with wealth in a small village? Only in the city are there ways to use it. As soon as he had money, he left. For ten years he did not return. News came that everything was squandered in gambling, liquor, brothels. Later came news he had begun to beg. Then that he had grown infirm, his body shattered, at death’s door. The father was greatly troubled, slept poorly, worried constantly.

One day news came that the son was returning. The son had been turned away while begging at a mansion; seeing it, he remembered his own. He had had such a house, such servants—now he begged and was chased off. He thought, “Let me return. I will ask forgiveness and tell my father, ‘I am not worthy to be your son. Do not take me back as a son—keep me as a servant. You have many servants; let me remain as one of them.’” He set off home. When the father heard, he ordered delicious food prepared, invited the whole village—“My son is returning!” Bands were called, music arranged, lamps lit, flowers hung. The elder son had gone to the fields; returning at dusk he heard the commotion and asked, “What is the matter?” Someone said, “The matter? The injustice! You spent your life pressing the feet of this old man; you have served him faithfully, yet there were no banners, no drums, no feasts for you. Today the prince returns—your younger brother returns—having ruined everything! And this is the honor? The arrangements are for him!” The elder was hurt—it was a simple, arithmetic hurt: injustice. He came home angry: “I never raised my voice to you, but today you have crossed the line. You must hear my complaint. This is injustice.” The father said, “You are heating up for nothing. You are mine; we are one. I never worried for you—you gave no cause. So I never ‘welcomed’ you—no need. Your welcome is constant. But the one who went astray is returning. Do not call it injustice. His return deserves welcome. If he enters this house as a beggar, it will be inauspicious. He has lost his honor; I must restore it. I must return his self-respect; otherwise he will enter dishonored.”

“Yes, he squandered everything—I know. The village says the same: that this is improper. But I see something else. This honor will rebuild his inner pride; he will stand on his feet again. And he will know one thing for sure: good or bad, it makes no difference to a father’s love. Love is unconditional.”

Remember Jesus’ story.

Whatever good or bad I have done, I have become accordingly—
This much is mine; but I am yours—why won’t you be mine, Beloved?

Rājjab complains: “I am good or bad, but I am Yours—and I keep calling You, and I have taken You as mine. When will You take me as Yours? Why don’t You meet me, Beloved? And I do not insist on being worthy.”

Understand the difference: the insistence is not “I am qualified—meet me.” The insistence is: “You are Rahman, Rahim—full of compassion. What has happened to Your compassion? I, good or bad, still remember You; why have You not remembered me? Why have You not called me? I call You—even though these lips are not worthy to speak Your name. Why have You not called me? Why don’t You meet me, Beloved? If You but look at me once, flowers will bloom, deserts will turn to gardens.”

If my destiny has not awakened by this, then my destiny never awakens;
To awaken me, the tyrant devised a thousand plots.
This world always smiles at the grief-stricken;
We, too, have learned to smile casually at ourselves.
Many buds burst open, many blossoms scented the air—
The garden smiled whenever He smiled.

Smile just a little—let me see your lips smiling; let me know Your eyes look upon me. If You raise Your eyes toward me, it is enough—I ask for nothing more.

If You call me, O Rama, Rājjab will come.
As a kite rises to the sky on the touch of wind.

I know nothing—not even the address of my own home; how would I know Yours?

Give me some sign of the nesting-place—
O morning breeze, I have even forgotten my own.

Such is the devotee’s cry. He speaks, questions, even answers. The path of devotion is an inner dialogue. In the beginning the devotee must do both—speak from his side and from God’s—but soon an event happens: one day it becomes clear, “I am no longer speaking for God—God is speaking.” The taste is different—indescribable but distinct. “These are not my hands in my hands—Another hand holds mine.” Waves of energy spread through life, flowers bloom with fragrance everywhere.

To whose eyes I gave the gifts my eyes had brought—
Whom shall I ask how far those messages reached?

One cannot ask anyone whether the prayers are reaching or not—“Am I only playing with my mind?” This question arises often. People ask me: “Is this not just the mind’s game?” In the beginning it is. But if you go on playing—letting yourself be saturated in it—one day suddenly the play becomes reality. One day your voice from here meets another voice from there. And that voice is so different from your own you will recognize it without doubt. No worry, no thought, no doubt. Because with that voice, revolution begins within your life: where there were thorns, flowers appear; where there was darkness, lamps are lit; where death stood, clouds of nectar gather; where there was only noise, OM resounds. How will you not recognize it? When you have a headache, you know; when the pain goes, you know—though if someone asks, “What proof do you have that the pain is gone?” you cannot give any. But you know.

When I was a child, we had a Muslim teacher—very strict. Whatever happened, he never granted leave. When he began class each day, he would say, “Don’t even tell me about headaches or stomachaches! If you have a fever, you may say so. Pains I do not accept—what proof is there? Maybe you just want to go and play.” A few friends went to a village vaidya and begged him for something we could put in “big mister’s” food—so he’d get stomachache once. The vaidya first hesitated, then liked the idea once I explained: “He always says, ‘What proof?’ There can be no proof but one.” We got the medicine. A cook was in his house—he had never married—we bribed the cook and he mixed it into the food.

The next day during class he curled up with a wrenching pain. I asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “Stomachache.” I said, “We don’t accept it. What proof?” He realized a plot had been hatched. “I suspected as much,” he said. “But you did right—since I never knew stomachache, I did not accept it.” I asked, “And headaches?” He answered, “We will find a way for that too.” From that day he stopped saying he would not accept such pains.

Experience alone is proof—and when it happens that His hand falls into yours, you will know at once. This realization is self-evident. Until then, the devotee must keep coloring the mind with prayer.

We keep offering hospitality with our tears—
When he comes in thoughts like a guest.

Until then, welcome him with tears; awaken the tones of love. Do not worry that it is the mind’s game. In the beginning it will be—because we stand in the mind; first steps must fall on the mind’s ground. Slowly, slowly, walking, you will go beyond. Use the mind as a stair.

Like the shadow at the bottom of a well—never coming out—
Rājjab says, keep the mind and longing immersed in Hari like that.

He says: lodge God within as the deep shadow that never leaves a deep well. Outside the noon blazes; down in the well the shade is dense and cool. But you cannot bring that coolness out. Scientists say if a well is deep enough—say two hundred feet—you can see the stars by day. If you go that deep, the shadow blocks the sun and the stars become visible. The stars have not gone anywhere at noon; they are lost in the sunlight. Put enough shadow between your eyes and the sky, and you will see the stars by day.

Like the shadow at the bottom of a well—never coming out—
Rājjab says, keep the mind and longing immersed in Hari.

Keep calling to Hari in your deepest, most intimate state. Let him permeate every pore, every heartbeat. Take the remembrance as deep as you can—this is the process of bhajan.

There are four levels of bhajan. First: on the lips—Rama, Rama. Second: the lips are still; only the throat hums—Rama, Rama. Third: not even the throat moves; only the mind repeats—Rama, Rama. Fourth: even the mind is still—no word, no voice, no tone; only a feeling—deep devotion. In that fourth state you have reached the bottom of the well—there Rama is anchored; then no one can snatch him from you. Until then, it remains a mental connection; there it becomes beyond-mind. That japa is called ajapa—chantless chanting: the remembrance remains, words are gone.

Learn patience from a dog—choose wisely:
He sits at one door; you go door to door, the many.

Rājjab says, “Learn even from a dog.” The dog chooses one home, one master. Have that contentment: choose One—the One. For everything else is many. Men are many, women are many, positions and reputations are many; One alone is God. Though man is so foolish he has even made God many: mosque-God and temple-God. That is why the mosque-bearer burns the temple and the temple-bearer burns the mosque. Absurd. God is One. In this world everything else is many. Rājjab says: even a dog chooses one master and sits content at his door.

Learn patience from a dog—choose wisely:
At least do this much; use this much wisdom—grasp the One. For births you have chased the many.

He sits at one door; you go door to door among the many.

How many relationships have you made—wives, husbands, sons, daughters? If you had the ledger of all your births, you would be frightened; the numbers would be unmanageable. You formed ties and they vanished like lines drawn on water. How many hands did you fold, how many bowls did you stretch? What did you get?

What are you asking here? Each person begs love from another—and love is found only from God. Love comes from One, not many. Around many there is conflict, quarrel, anger, hatred, rivalry, jealousy—not love. What are you asking of one another? The husband asks the wife, “Fill me—I am empty.” The wife asks the husband the same. But no one can fill another—except God. Without Him you will remain empty, however much you beg, fold hands, fall to your knees. Hence the quarrels. You ask, and it is not given—then you think the other is stingy. Between all lovers a quarrel goes on: “I am not receiving love in proportion to my need.” Each thinks the other deceives. No one deceives anyone—think: if the other had it, would he ask you? It is quite a spectacle: two astrologers showing hands to each other in the morning—“Brother, will business go well today?” or two beggars holding out bowls to one another—what will they receive?

An astrologer was brought to me in Jaipur—his fee was one thousand and one rupees. He told me so. I said, “Fine.” He read my hand, very pleased—rarely does he find anyone who will pay. When he finished, he asked for his fee. I said, “When you could not see that this man is not going to pay, what can you see? You tell my future, but you do not know your own—that five minutes later this man will give you not a single coin. Look at your own hand at home before you go out.”

When you ask love from someone who is asking it from you—if it were in him, would he be asking? And then you get angry, accuse the other of injustice. No one is unjust; here all are beggars, all are empty. Only the Full One can fill you—and here no one is full but God.

Remembrance is soap; satsang is water.
All merit makes the limbs clean.
Rājjab says dust falls away thus;
The soul’s sky appears incomparable.

“Remembrance is soap.” Satsang—being in truth’s company—is water. There is a deep point here. First satsang frees you from what is bad in you; then it frees you from what is good in you. It frees you from illness; then it frees you from the medicine as well. That is why it is called water. If a cloth is dirty, you rub soap; it removes the filth—but then you are stuck with soap. You need water to remove both dirt and soap. Satsang does both: first frees you from the world, then from the desire for liberation. First from evil, then from good; first from sin, then from virtue. Only when you are free of both are you truly free. Otherwise you drop one chain and get caught in another. If sin is an iron chain, virtue is a golden chain—but a chain is a chain. If sin is third-class prison, virtue is first-class—reserved for big leaders—but both are in jail. Sometimes the sinner awakens sooner—discomfort awakens—while the virtuous sleep on comfort. Sinners have sometimes reached God in a moment; the virtuous take a long time.

Have you heard a story like Valmiki’s or Angulimala’s about a virtuous man? Angulimala was a murderer; one glance from Buddha and he was free. Valmiki was a thief, a killer; he met Narada and was gone—he chanted “mara, mara” and was liberated. Have you heard of anyone who built hospitals and temples, who established rest-houses, who was liberated in a single instant? I have not. It does not happen—virtue becomes a bed. “I have built a dharmashala—what more?” If Buddha himself came, he would not look—his dharmashala stands in between.

When Bodhidharma went to China, Emperor Wu said, “What is the fruit of my merit? I have built thousands of Buddha temples, many dharmashalas, monasteries for monks; one hundred thousand monks are fed daily from the palace. What is the result?” Bodhidharma stood firm, looked hard at Wu and said, “Nothing—you will go to hell.” The emperor was shocked. All the monks before had sung his praises: “Blessed! Great merit! Seventh heaven awaits—apsaras will fan you—golden throne” and so on. This strange man from India says, “No fruit—hell.” And, “The sooner you drop this merit, the better.”

That is what a true master does. Satsang is that. The emperor missed; the virtuous have pride. He turned away and left—did not even bow. Bodhidharma left the capital, saying to his disciples, “There is too much disturbance of virtue here; I will live on the mountain.” When Emperor Wu lay dying he remembered—and saw within that his merits helped nothing; his virtues were ornaments of the ego. “I missed Bodhidharma because of pride; people report that whoever goes to him is transformed.” He suffered. He sent a message: “Come once more!” But by the time it reached, Bodhidharma had already left China for India. Yet strangely, Bodhidharma had left a message for Wu: “Even if by the time of death you become free of merit—that is enough.”

The only use of virtue is to free you from sin—but then who will free you from virtue? That happens in satsang. The true master frees you even from virtue. Otherwise illnesses go and people cling to medicine bottles. All merit is no more than medicine. People cling to methods and cannot let them go.

Hence the lovely saying: “Remembrance is soap; satsang is water.” Which means: even remembrance must one day go. With the master’s presence, remembrance itself drops. If you keep chanting “Rama, Rama” you will get stuck. It is the beginning, not the end. In the end, only ajapa remains—free of chanting.

All merit makes the limbs clean.
Rājjab says dust falls away thus;
The soul’s sky appears incomparable.

Right now you are only dust—attached to the body. Satsang means where you are reminded you are not the body. The body is of this earth and will remain here; within it something invisible is hidden—recognize it; relate to it.

In satsang the garment of the soul is cleansed and revealed. The body is left behind; attachment to it falls away; you experience the untouched, unattached consciousness. And where you remember “I am consciousness, nectar, sat-chit-ananda”—there is temple and pilgrimage. Otherwise the temples and tirthas you have built are borrowed and stale.

A Hindu will attain the same as a Muslim—
The mercy of the Merciful falls where He wills.

This realization has nothing to do with being Hindu or Muslim—it is one. Whoever receives His grace attains. And grace falls where one weeps and calls.

O sheikh, your God’s mercy
Loves every sinner.
He does not love “me” as much
As He loves the wine-bibber.
Friends too, dear enemies too—
He loves not only the rose but the thorn.

He loves thorns too, loves the wicked. Do not think God is only for saints and gentlemen. He is for all. Not only for humans; for animals, birds, trees, mountains. From wherever the call rises, His energy rushes there. Just call—from the heart—and you will not remain empty.

Rājjab says: leave Hindu and Turk; remember the Creator.
Why quarrel with partialities—who ever crossed over by them?

Drop bias. It is not a matter of doctrines but of prayer. What have tears to do with doctrine? It is a matter of calling—what has calling to do with Hindu or Muslim?

No one has crossed with partialities; they only drown in them. Be impartial—only then pure. One who has no stance of “I am Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist”—who says, “I am His creation; He is my Creator”—who bows in temple and mosque, sings the Quran’s verse with joy and the Gita’s too; who keeps no divisions but breaks them all—who joins with the Infinite—only such a one calls rightly. That is what we are arranging here—a confluence. There are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists, Parsis, Sikhs, Jews; perhaps no religion lacks representation. Here we work to be free of biases. It is hard—since from childhood we have been strapped into them. But one who is not free of bias will not cross. No one has known God as a Hindu or a Muslim; those who have known discovered, “I am empty within.” What fills an empty vessel with God’s water is emptiness itself. Those full of Quran, Bible, Gita remain empty; those empty become filled. Rain falls on mountains and lakes; mountains remain empty, lakes fill—because lakes are hollow and mountains are puffed up.

Hindu and Turk—both water-bubbles:
Whom will you call Brahmin or Shudra?
All are made of the five elements:
Who is Brahmin, who Shudra?

Blood is blood, bones are bones. In the cremation ground, can you tell which bone was Brahmin’s and which Shudra’s? Here, who is Brahmin, who Shudra? People are entangled in petty things and miss the vast—preoccupied with the useless, they are deprived of the meaningful.

Rājjab says: wisdom teaches equality.
All this is the play of the five elements.

This is all a game of the five elements—where then Hindu and Muslim, Brahmin and Shudra?

Narayan’s city has many paths, says Rājjab:
Come from any direction—the final place is one.

There are many roads to one town—and many to Narayan’s city. Come by any direction, any vehicle—horse, chariot, on foot, on a golden carriage or a bullock-cart—what does it matter? What clothes you wear—what does it matter? The final destination is one. Keep that in view. Otherwise, the road has many distractions; a hundred set out, one or two arrive—the rest get entangled on the way.

Mullah—kill the mind,
Give up the taste of the senses.

“Mullah” means the pundit. Kill the mind—let it dissolve. The pundit fills the mind, strengthens it—decorates it daily with scriptures.

Mullah—kill the mind,
Give up the taste of the senses.
All forms are the Lord’s—O heedless one, do not cut throats.

It is this mind that says “I am Hindu, you Muslim,” “I am Brahmin, you Shudra.” Let the mind go—these are only social conditionings. You were born knowing nothing of who you are; born in a Brahmin home, you were taught you are Brahmin; had you been raised in a Shudra home, you would think you are Shudra. This is only mind’s imprint—not you.

Give up the taste of the senses. The senses drag you outward. The master sits within, and we run outside; the eye says, “See forms”—while the maker of forms sits within; the ear says, “Hear music”—while the music of musics is within. The hands say, “Touch the lovely”—while the one touch that will satisfy forever stands within, waiting: “When will you come?” All the senses carry you outward—and you run after them.

Rabia sat in her hut. A fakir, Hasan, was staying with her. Morning came; Hasan stepped out—sun rising, birds singing, a beautiful dawn. He called out loudly, “Rabia, what are you doing inside? Come out—the Lord has made a beautiful morning!” Rabia answered words that made Hasan bow his head: “Hasan, you see the outer beauty—morning, sun, birds; I am seeing within the One whose hands made this sun, who painted this beauty, the Artist who spread these colors on the sky. You come inside! We have seen the sun rise and set for long. Now see a Sun that neither rises nor sets. Come within! See the Master Creator.”

Two things to do: free the mind of conditioning, and still the senses’ outward rush. Close the eyes, ears; let the hands be at rest.

All forms are the Lord’s—O heedless one, do not cut throats.
One player exits after his dance, another ties his belt and comes on.

This is His play. One goes after his performance; another arrives ready. The play goes on, but behind it is One Person. He comes and goes—recognize Him. Do not get caught in costumes. Sometimes one actor plays many roles and you cannot recognize him—once with beard, once with turban, once with shaved head—so you are lost in garments. One alone plays this game—within you, within me, within all; within those who have gone, those who have come, those who will come. This world is a stage.

One player exits after his dance, another ties his belt and comes on.
Rājjab says: The Lord has staged a wondrous game.

But in truth, the One comes and goes—the same One.

Recognize the Player behind the play. Recognize the formless permeating form. Slowly connect with the inner. Do not remain entangled in the outer. Call out. Pray. Weep. Dance. And remember always: by your doing alone nothing can be done.

If You call me, O Rama, Rājjab will come—
As a kite, touched by the wind, rises to the sky.

Your kite can rise. The sky is yours. Spread your wings and fly. But without His wind, it cannot happen. His wind is invisible; to make it visible—recognizable—do as the kite does: surrender yourself to it.

Ramakrishna used to say there are two ways to cross a river: one—take the oars in your hands and row. That is the way of the knower, the meditator. The other—no need of oars; unfurl the sails and His winds will carry you across. When His winds are ready to carry you, why toil with the oars?

God is ready to take you to your destiny; it is you who have not let go. You have not surrendered.

The essence of devotion is one word—surrender. Surrender takes you where practices cannot—or if they can, it is by very long detours. Practice is like reaching your ear by wrapping your arm over your head. Surrender is straight. What Rājjab has said is not a philosopher’s thesis; it is the language of an experiencer, a devotee. It is not scripture or doctrine, but the outpouring of a lover. Receive it that way. Do not argue. Rājjab is not arguing for or against anyone; he is giving hints to those who truly want to attain God.

And let me end with your question: Do not sit thinking, “There is too much suffering in the world—how can I be devoted, how can I pray?” Or you will sit forever. Suffering will continue—it has always continued. You can free yourself, personally. This prison will go on, but prisoners can be free. The prison will not vanish—but if you are freed, you can become a cause of freedom for others. If prayer flowers within you, others too can taste a little of its sweetness. If a lamp is lit in you, its light can reach others.

Pray. Soak yourself in devotion. Perhaps through you a few drops of joy may fall into other lives. Other than that, there is no way to serve another. Attain sat-chit-ananda—then service will happen. Service cannot be “done”; when God becomes dense within, it overflows.

I know only one revolution—the inner revolution. All others are false. Do not be deluded, or you will waste this life—many have been wasted already. Become alert. Do not waste this precious opportunity. Once lost, who can say when such a chance will come again?

Awaken and call Him. Do not look for excuses to avoid it.

Enough for today.