Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #5

O saints, my mind is drowned in rapture.

The path of love is the path of intoxication—of ecstasy, not of cold awareness; of self-forgetfulness, not selfhood; not of calculated meditation, but of absorption; not of watchfulness, but of total immersion. Yet, within love’s divine swoon a lamp of awareness burns in the inner chamber. For that lamp no method is required—its flame is love’s own native light, not a contrivance.

And though on love’s way there is self-forgetfulness, there is no small “I”—there is God. The petty “me” dies; the vast “I” is born. When the vast is born in you, why cling to the little? Why seek support in the trivial? One who has tasted being submerged in Paramatma has no reason to clutch at the straw of ego, to try to survive. Ego is the urge to save oneself; egolessness is the art of losing oneself.

Bhakti is immersion, the art of losing oneself. And from Bhakti, a great intoxication blossoms. The more the devotee dissolves, the fuller the cup becomes; the emptier the devotee, the more he is brimming with God. By losing himself, the devotee loses nothing—by losing, he attains. Unfortunate are those who never taste Bhakti—they keep accumulating, yet only lose; they gain nothing. The devotee, by giving himself away, finds himself. And we—saving and saving ourselves—one day vanish into the mouth of death. What have we attained? Our hands are empty. Our life-breath is empty. And the irony—through lives upon lives we kept busy trying to fill. The devotee has seen: by filling, it never fills. Then another key comes to his hand: by emptying—it fills.

O saints, my mind is drowned in rapture.

The way of Bhakti is not dry, not juice-less. It is not the road of gloom, despair, defeat, or pessimism. Bhakti is celebration, a festival of bliss. It is the way of spring—endless flowers, endless songs. In its ultimate state, Bhakti is nothing but a grand festival. Bhakti means this festivity: that we are, and God is—what more is needed! Our being is in Paramatma—what greater benediction! Thus the devotee drinks to the full; he dives again and again into the nectar. The taste of Bhakti is the taste of bliss.

So if someone talks of Bhakti yet is joyless, know that it is talk, mere talk. If someone speaks of God and is sad, know it is all nonsense. If someone speaks of Moksha, but you cannot feel the current of freedom flowing through his life, know that he may know scriptures, yet he is far from Truth—he does not yet know the art of living.

Often I have felt this about myself:
All my life I lived—yet I never learned to live.

Living is hard to learn. Life is given to all; the art of living is known to few. To those who learn to live, Paramatma comes. Do not mistake life itself for living. Life is but an opportunity to live. You may live—or you may waste it. Most waste it; very few truly live. Most are born and die; a few live. Between birth and death, life rarely happens. When it does happen, its glory is boundless. When it happens, divinity descends; then God walks upon the earth. In the stream of the devotee’s rasa, God’s feet once again touch the earth. In the devotee’s intoxication, God’s song descends again. In the devotee’s disappearance, in his self-forgetfulness, he becomes a flute—and the divine notes begin to flow through him.

You are filled with yourself; even if the Beloved would make of you a flute, how could He? Become a hollow reed—empty, open, void—so that His song may pour through you. He is eager to play—but you are filled with yourself. Empty yourself a little—and then see! Look again at life—and you will find an altogether different life is given. The life you have known as suffering—you will be astonished to see it as an ocean of bliss. The life where you found only thorns—you will find suddenly laden with flowers. Thousands upon thousands of lotuses are in bloom. When your vision changes, creation changes.

But you do not change vision; you create the illusion of vision—you clutch philosophies. Vision is yours; philosophies are borrowed. One holds to Jain philosophy, one to Islamic thought, one to Hindu doctrine—what will grabbing doctrines do? Seek vision, the seeing eye. Philosophy blinds. Layers of words gather upon the eyes, and the mirror shows nothing.

O heart! Your true abode was far from temples and mosques—
Why did you deceive yourself into lingering here?

People are entangled in temples and mosques. A strange blindness! On this earth there are thousands of churches, and in every church there is at least one thing—the Bible. Turn the Bible’s pages—and again and again it proclaims: do not seek me in temples made by human hands. This world is astonishing. In temples are placed books which say: do not seek me in man-made temples—I am not there; seek me in my creation; do not seek me in man-made images, nor in man-made doctrines. But who reads the Bible? It is an object of worship.

It is as if you could not see. Someone gives you spectacles to help you see—and you set the glasses upon a tiny altar, ornament them with gold frames, stud the lenses with precious stones; every day you offer flowers, bow your head. What will worshipping the spectacles do? This is what is happening. I show you a window and say: look into the sky—and you get stuck at the window. You exclaim: what exquisite carving! What precious window! Such colored glass! And then you make the window an altar—offer flowers daily, smear it with sandalwood, stud it with gems—and forget that the window was never an object of worship; it was a means. You had to look through it. The window was an eye to see with. You had to pass beyond. Far beyond, in the sky beyond the window, the full moon has risen—yet you are worshipping the window! This is what is going on. In the church the Bible is worshipped—and the Bible says: do not seek me in temples made by men or in images fashioned by men; seek me in my creation. This whole universe is His creation. And you too are His creation.

So before you go searching outside, at least search within. There He is most intimate—within you. Outside—if you go to a tree—you must walk a few steps. To see the Himalayas—thousands of miles. To reach the moon—further thousands. But to go within—not even an inch. There Paramatma is nearest to you. First find Him there.

Why is the inner search not happening? We are entangled in theories and scriptures—who will go within? Mantras, yantras, tantras have trapped us—who will turn inward? We have lost the very remembrance of going within. Bhakti is the descent into the innermost. And it descends dancing. The meditator also descends, but without dance; the devotee descends in dance. If you can, be a Bhakta. If you cannot, be a meditator—that is second best.

O heart! Your true abode was far from temples and mosques—
Why did you deceive yourself into lingering here?

Rise a little beyond temples and mosques, beyond words and doctrines—and Paramatma is eager to take you on a journey far beyond—where you have never even imagined going.

Your gaze today carries me there—
Where even my own gaze does not recognize me.

He longs to pour ever-new life into you. His decanter is forever eager to fill your cup. But empty the cup! Clean it! Scour it! That is all Bhakti is—nothing else.

Today’s sutra from Rajjab is wondrous. Yesterday I told you: this is not a temple—it is a tavern. Today’s sutra declares it.

O saints, my mind is drowned in rapture.

Day and night, ever the same one flavor has taken hold; I have pitched my tent in the marketplace.

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries; I sit close by the distillery.

I know nothing of caste or creed; whom shall I call “other”?

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others—this conviction has become my dwelling.

Bring, bring—that very rhythm has seized me; I drink the strong “flower.”

That nectar is never gotten by begging—even at the price of the head, only then.

Servant Rajjab has given body and mind—has become the rich One’s servant.

These are astonishing words. Engrave them upon your heart as with a line on stone. They are not for the intellect’s analysis—they must be taken into the heart. If you approach them only with the mind—you will miss. Here awareness will not help—here divine intoxication will. Let each word sink deep in the heart.

O saints, my mind is drowned in rapture.

Magan—intoxicated—means: so lost in ecstasy that yesterday’s whole arrangement of life is overturned. There was status, propriety, family, society, niceties, etiquette—everything shattered. As one drunk on wine forgets—no accounting remains; the whole setup of the conscious mind falls to pieces; the conscious breaks—and something rises from the depths and floods the drunkard. So too the devotee is drowned by the wine within. The devotee is a drunkard.

O saints, my mind is drowned in rapture.

How has this rapture arisen? What is the process? From where has this intoxication come?

Day and night, ever the one flavor has taken hold…

It has happened out of a single remembrance—of the One. That wine is distilled from the continuous remembrance of the One. That remembrance is the grape from which the juice is pressed. You too remember—but of many things. Your ledger of memories is long. Sit someday and write down how many things you remember—you will see: thousands upon thousands. Hence no one remembrance brings intoxication. You are divided by your remembering—fragmented. You remember wealth, position, love, prestige, and countless other things. You are filled with memories. Your remembering lacks one-pointedness. It does not become fire—does not become incendiary.

Think of it this way: sunlight falls everywhere; bring a magnifying glass, gather the rays—the dry leaf below was not burning; but concentrated by the lens, the rays converge at a point—the leaf bursts into flame. Those same scattered rays carried no fire; gathered into one, they ignite.

That is the key. The day your remembrance becomes of the One alone, your total life-energy becomes unified. From that gathered energy, intoxication arises; ecstasy is born; the inner winehouse opens its doors. And it is not that you have never had glimpses of this—small, momentary tastes you have known…

You fell in love with a woman—and a delicate sheen of intoxication arose. What happened then? Whether you understood it or not—the same science: for some days, though not for long—because the object of your love was itself transient—during those days you remembered nothing but that woman. Falling asleep—her memory; waking—her memory; last thought at night—her; first thought in the morning—her. Though the mind moved through a thousand tasks, inside a stream of her flowed, her face revolved within. Another woman passed by—you remembered her. A song was sung—you remembered her. You were ready to remember—any excuse sufficed: the cuckoo called—and she came to mind; the papihā cried—and she came to mind. Do not think the cuckoo or the papihā had anything to do with it—you were filled with remembrance; any knock was enough, and the memory surged. Then you knew a taste of rapture. For a few days you were intoxicated—a dance entered your walk; sweetness touched your speech; a sparkle came to your eyes; an aura surrounded you—not a lasting aura; it came and went—but the key was the same.

In love one has a small experience of Bhakti. Those who understand, learn from love’s glimpse the journey into Bhakti. What happens for a moment in love becomes eternal in Bhakti. The difference is only this: love’s object is fleeting—a woman, a man, a thing; Bhakti’s object is eternal—the Paramatma, existence itself.

Day and night, ever the one flavor has taken hold…

Whether night or day, the mind keeps tasting the one; one tune takes hold; the heart hums one refrain; again and again, like a hidden spring, remembrance wells up—standing, sitting, walking—His remembrance. The world’s tasks go on—they must—but inside, the underground river flows.

Day and night, ever the one flavor has taken hold; I have pitched my tent in the marketplace.

Though one lives in the bazaar—Dariba means the market—the tent is in the market… wherever you go, the world is a bazaar: buying-selling, crowds, noise, give-and-take, snatching, competition, struggle, violence, politics. The bazaar means all this is happening—but amidst it the devotee keeps to the one taste; within him one tune continues.

Have you seen the one-stringed lute in the hands of Bhaktas? Ever wonder why they chose the ektara, not the veena? It is a symbol of the one flavor. Only one string—while the veena has many, the sarangi many—they cannot symbolize Bhakti’s oneness. The ektara plays one note—the remembrance of One. In the devotee’s hand is not only an ektara—his heart too has become an ektara. Day and night—good or bad, victory or defeat, day or night—the remembrance flows. And remember: even a single drop, if it keeps falling, can carve stone. The rope, coming and going, leaves its mark upon the rock! Let the remembrance of One continue, continue—and it will change you, intoxicate you. You have the full capacity for ecstasy—but you have shattered it into fragments; you are disordered, without inner continuity—like a mirror smashed upon the ground into a thousand pieces.

You must be put together. Who will join you? How will you be joined? You need something that threads through all your fragments—so that your body, your mind, your life-breath—all call out to it. One thread through all your flowers, so that you become a garland. Then there will be rapture—only rapture—so much that even if you try to share it, you will not exhaust it.

Whenever the night of separation has come,
It has arrived as death to life.
Whenever those lips have moved,
The whole cosmos has broken into dance.
What we thought was the pride of day—
Such a night has also come…
O keeper of dervishes, steady your burning threshing floor—
A wedding of drunkards has arrived!

Steady the jars, O master of the tavern—
A procession of drinkers has come.

I am raising just such a wedding of drunkards—these orange-robed drinkers are being led to that place where, one day, they can say: steady your jars, O tavern-keeper—the revelers have come to loot your wine!

And do not think the owner of the tavern will be upset. He has been waiting long for you to come and plunder. His joy is in being looted—in sharing, in being distributed. But you cannot gather your energy; it leaks into a thousand directions. One part of you goes west, one east, one south, one north—how will you arrive? Your hand goes one way, your feet another, your head another, your heart elsewhere—how will you reach? You will not reach the tavern. The most secret bliss of life will remain unknown to you.

O saints, my mind is drowned in rapture.

Day and night, ever the one flavor has taken hold; I have pitched my tent in the marketplace.

Then there is no worry that one sits in the market. For the one whose heart is fixed in That—where is the market? And you may sit in a Himalayan cave, but if your mind is in the market—where is God? In a cave you can still calculate bargains; you will worry what is happening in the world. And you can be in the bazaar with no concern for the world—only one concern: what is happening in the tavern, in the inner house, at the source and the destination—wherefrom all life arises and whereto it returns. What is happening in that deepest depth? Let the mind be one-pointed in That.

Day and night, ever the one flavor has taken hold; I have pitched my tent in the marketplace.

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries…

They must be dropped. These tiny accountings do not work there: that I am Hindu, I am Muslim, I am Brahmin, I am Shudra—these stupidities don’t function in the tavern.

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries…

Nor does it work: I am noble, I come from a high lineage, my ancestors were famed, I am no ordinary man—extraordinary!

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries…

Boundaries—like the earthen ridges around fields, “this field mine, that yours.” Whatever separates into me-and-you is a boundary. Only one who drops all boundaries attains this rapture. But you clutch boundaries—and you clutch them tightly—and decorate them as if they were treasures; you cannot let go.

Some days ago a woman from the West came. Six months she stayed—afraid to meet me. She gathered courage and came, but said: I cannot be in your company, because I am a Catholic Christian. How can I be with you? I cannot leave Christ. I said: foolish one, who asked you to leave Christ? If you leave me—you will leave Christ; if you hold me—you will find Christ. She would not listen. She went on: it can never be, I cannot leave my religion—Christianity is the highest religion.

Such a woman will turn back from the very door of the tavern. She says: I cannot enter—because I am Christian. Whoever is Christian cannot enter Paramatma. Nor the Hindu, nor the Jain. Whoever clings to boundaries cannot enter God. Paramatma is boundless.

And the irony: Hindu scriptures say—God is boundless; Muslim scriptures say—God is boundless; yet we make boundaries out of everything. We are enamored of prisons, attached to chains—we take chains as ornaments, stud them with gems. Having invested life in them, how to drop them now? We say: no no, these are not chains—this is my essence. Brahmin is my essence, Shudra my essence—this is not my boundary. Then what is a boundary?

What are human boundaries? Petty things like these. He who drops all pettiness drops boundaries. And one who drops boundaries declares—by his being—that God is boundless. Writing it in a book does nothing—the declaration must be your very existence.

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries; I sit close by the distillery.

Rajjab was a Muslim. He fell into the orbit of Dadu—Dadu was a Hindu. He never for a moment thought: I am Muslim, Dadu is Hindu. Dadu seized the bridle of his wedding horse—Rajjab’s wedding procession was passing—and said: Rajjab! You have done something astounding—tying the wedding crest upon your head! You came to sing Hari’s name and are headed to hell! Two burning eyes, a great hush—the band must have stopped, the procession frozen, fear all around: what now? Rajjab leapt from the horse, fell at Dadu’s feet. He did not say: you are Hindu, I am Muslim. Certainly the Muslims were angry—he was a pure Pathan.

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries; I sit close by the distillery.

Bhathi—the furnace where wine is distilled. To sit near the Sadguru is to sit by the still.

The world laughed: he is mad; that Dadu was mad, and now this Rajjab too. Muslims were surely upset… Ask Krishna of Muhammad, ask Radha of Muhammad—Muslims are upset! Christians fall in love with me and Christians are upset.

Yesterday a young woman told me: a Christian missionary in Nepal warned me—go anywhere, but if you go to India, do not go to Poona. The man sitting there is an incarnation of the Devil. She wanted to come to Poona—yet she got frightened—childhood conditioning. The priest opened the Bible: look what Jesus says—one will come who is very clever, and he will lead people astray. He said: that one is the man in Poona.

Naturally—Christians will be angry, Jews angry, Jains angry, Buddhists angry. And the irony: what I say is Buddha’s word, Mahavira’s word, Krishna’s, Muhammad’s—and their followers are upset. Why? Because I break boundaries, I upset everything, I bring anarchy—divine anarchy.

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries; I sit close by the distillery.

Surely people will say: you have gone mad; you are not in your senses—what intoxication is this? Have you drunk wine? It is wine! And rapture will arise! The source is within. Outside are only devices which awaken the sleeping intoxication within. When the sun rises, it does not give fragrance to flowers; the fragrance is already within—at the sun’s signal, buds open, the fragrance is released. The sun gives nothing—its presence is enough.

The Sadguru’s presence is enough. Sit near his furnace—and your inner wine starts to be pressed. The Sadguru is only the still.

…He sat near the distillery. Few sit so—he was a true Pathan. Therefore he sat in such a way. He never left Dadu’s side. As long as Dadu lived, Rajjab remained near. When Dadu died, Rajjab closed his eyes and said: now I will not open them. What was worth seeing has been seen. The one worthy of vision—beheld. Now this world holds nothing. For years he lived like a blind man. With eyes that had seen one like Dadu—what more to see? To look elsewhere would be betrayal. The peak has been seen—what point in looking at small hills? The ultimate epiphany of beauty has been seen—why chase lesser beauty? After Dadu died, Rajjab did not open his eyes—a true Pathan. Therefore he could break tradition.

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries; I sit close by the distillery.

I know nothing of caste or creed…

In wine’s intoxication—what caste remains? Caste belongs to temples, not to taverns. Temples and mosques divide—“One unites—the tavern.” Hence I said: this is no temple, this is a tavern. Only those who dare sit near the furnace are invited here.

I know nothing of caste or creed; whom shall I call “other”?

Whom to call stranger? All are one’s own. One who knows Him within sees Him without—nothing else remains visible. When God is seen, the whole becomes God-suffused.

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others—this conviction has become my dwelling.

Understand this well:

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others—this conviction has become my dwelling.

Through births one learns: as long as you hope for joy from others—you get sorrow.

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others…

Hoping in others has never fulfilled it. You asked the wife, the husband, the son, the brother, the friend; you asked wealth, position, prestige—you went on asking. Until the lotus of renunciation blooms in your life—you are a beggar—poor or rich beggar, makes no difference—you go on asking; your trust remains in asking—in hopes of others. A larger house—then everything will be fine; a bigger car—then okay; more money in the bank—then what is the obstacle? Everything has always been “almost” okay—just about to be. If I get that woman, that man; if a son is born—everything will be fine. When has anything been fine? Here nothing can be fine. The world promises—but never fulfills. God gives no promises—and fulfills.

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others…

The thirst is within. This thirst can turn two ways: either you hope in others—that is the world: begging. Will joy ever be found by begging? And what is gotten by begging—can it be joy? “Unasked—pearls; asked—not even flour.” Begging may bring alms—not kingdoms. Else beggars would be emperors. It is the reverse: by giving one may gain a kingdom—not by asking. Hence we bowed to Mahavira when he became a beggar; to Buddha when he dropped his kingdom and took the bowl—then we fell at his feet. Strange! We should have bowed earlier—when he had the great kingdom. Our measure is different. When all was there—he was a beggar; when nothing remained—he became emperor. Through long seeking, humanity has forged this scale.

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others…

The thirst is within—this is the fact, man’s reality. Two approaches: with this thirst you can roam with the bowl at others’ doors—that is the world. Or, follow the thirst to its source—go down into it, search wherefrom it arises. You will be amazed—he who descends into the center of thirst finds fulfillment. In this very thirst Paramatma is hidden. Do not mistake this thirst and rush outward—it calls you inward. It says: come within—there is the lake. This thirst is only the provocation to come to the lake. It is God’s hand pulling you inside. You think someone outside pulls you—you go in search. It is God’s call: where are you lost? I wait for you, I call you.

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others—this conviction has become my dwelling.

Once this understanding becomes home, all is attained. The Guru gives only this: that what you seek is within; outside you seek—therefore you never find.

Rabi’a, the Sufi mystic, at dusk searched outside her hut. Neighbors came: old mother, what is lost? My needle dropped. They began searching. One said: dusk is falling—tell us exactly where it fell; the road is long—we will not find it like this. She said: do not ask where—because it fell inside the house. They stopped: are you mad? And making us mad too? If it fell inside, why search outside? She said: inside it is dark; I am old—cannot see; outside there is a little light—so I search outside. Within is darkness; I cannot afford a lamp. And besides—this is the world’s custom: lost inside—search outside.

Rabi’a was mocking them—or hinting: this is how the world works—lost within, searching without; so I thought to follow the same logic. If you call me mad—consider what you do. The thirst is within, the question within. Saints say: do not search for the answer—descend into the question itself. Consider the question a well—go deep, dig, dig—and you will be amazed: at the very center of the question is the answer. At the center of thirst—Paramatma.

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others—this conviction has become my dwelling.

Since the secret within is known, there is no question of begging from anyone—now the call is inward:

Bring, bring—that very rhythm has seized me; I drink the strong “flower.”

“Phool”—“flower”—in Rajasthan is the name of homemade hooch—a fierce country liquor, distilled at home. A sweet name—flower. Within too such liquor is distilled—“country,” self-distilled in one’s own land. No outer apparatus is needed—your own being is enough. But it is potent—once it rises, it never subsides; hence “strong.” True wine does not wear off. The connoisseurs drink that which does not fade.

Even those who drink ordinary wine do so in hope of this wine; they are seeking the same—searching outside. Their hope in others has not died.

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others…

We seek the wine of God—the intoxication—but not knowing where to find it, we look without; that is how we land in outer taverns. There for an hour or two one becomes tipsy—dances, sings, becomes unburdened of cares—but that intoxication will pass. It is chemical, not spiritual.

“Flower” is a beautiful name. Within, a flower blooms that never withers—the flower of your consciousness, its ultimate fragrance. The rapture then is eternal, timeless.

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others—this conviction has become my dwelling.

Bring, bring—that very rhythm has seized me; I drink the strong “flower.”

That nectar is never gotten by begging—
Even at the price of the head, only then.

Those who truly want it must pay with their head. The head symbolizes two things: first, the ego—hence we say, “he bowed his head.” When we respect someone, we bow. The head is the symbol of “I,” of selfhood. This must go—else you cannot be intoxicated. The “I” will not let you be. It creates anxieties; it is the source of tension, grief, sorrow. The “I” is hell. That must be dropped.

Second, the head is the symbol of thought, of cleverness. The clever do not become intoxicated—childlike innocence is needed. The clever become cunning, calculating, dishonest; they even try tricks with God; they think they can outwit divine law. Such schemers have manufactured religions of every kind. You sin? The trickster says: don’t worry—bathe in the Ganges. Whom are you deceiving? God too? You sin—and the Ganges will wash you? If it is so cheap, then why the Ganges—any river will do. The subtler ones say: if the mind is pure, even a bowl of water is Ganga—why go anywhere? Do it here—ring the bell, offer flowers, smear sandalwood.

What have you taken God to be? Your morning “worship” is flattery—stuti. You say: I am poor and lowly; you are the purifier of sinners. Do you truly mean it? If a newspaper printed: this gentleman is poor and lowly—you would sue for defamation.

It happened with Tolstoy. At dawn he slipped into the church—darkness still. The richest man of the village was praying: O Lord, I am a great sinner—he enumerated his sins, exaggerating them; in Christianity, confession is considered great virtue—and man always magnifies—otherwise where is the taste of ego? If you say: I killed an ant—God would say: why wake me for this? Do something big! So even if you killed an ant—you declare an elephant. Tolstoy heard all. When light came, the man saw Tolstoy—he grew uneasy: forgive me, I prayed thinking none was present. If you have heard, forget it. If I hear this in the village, I will file a case for slander. Instantly he changed. He was deceiving God. Slyness.

That nectar is never gotten by begging—
Even at the price of the head, only then.

Drop the slyness—and it will pour, abundantly. So much that you cannot drink it all; your vessels will overflow; the infinite will rain. But if cunning remains—it will not descend.

Every bud would fall into a trance of dream,
Every leaf would become a rose—
Had You but cast Your wine-shedding glance—
Even dew would have turned to wine.

His eye is forever upon you—God’s gaze is upon you every moment. All scriptures say: He is the eternal witness—yet you have closed your eyes. The veil is on your eyes—not on God. Remove the veil. Your sophistication is the veil. Become simple, natural, innocent like a child—and at once you will see: He was always available; you yourself had made yourself unavailable. You had slipped your hand from His; His hand was always outstretched.

Who can stop the burning tears? Who can chew pieces of fire?
O you who would explain us—who will explain you?
On life’s dark path, the one who walked with you—
Beware—lest that tender hope break into tears.
People in this world bear their own sorrows—
Who will buy another’s illness, adopt another’s pain?
Alas, my disappointed hopes—woe, my failed intents—
I learned neither how to die nor the art of living.
On love’s dark paths, reason’s lamp will not burn—
O wise ones, tell your wisdom to come to its senses.

In love’s dark lanes only love’s lamp will burn. Love belongs to the heart, not the head. Descend from head to heart—that is the meaning of offering the head.

That nectar is never gotten by begging—
Even at the price of the head, only then.

Servant Rajjab has given body and mind—
Has become the rich One’s servant.

How to lose this “all”? Where to lose it? Because only by losing will God be attained—so you cannot lose before God, for He comes only after the losing. You must find a “rich one”—Dadu Dayal appeared—rich in that wealth. “Rich” is exact here—only such people possess wealth; those who have the Atman are the wealthy. In the saints’ tongue, “wealth” means the Atman; the poor are the “self-less.” He who has found God is rich.

Servant Rajjab has given body and mind—
Has become the rich One’s servant.

At Dadu’s feet he laid everything. What was placed at Dadu’s feet arrived at God’s feet. Place it anywhere—only drop it. But at once you may not drop it at God’s feet—you do not know those feet yet. If you can find feet that awaken such trust that you can lay your head there—then the work is done. The journey begins with the Guru, is fulfilled in God. The Guru is your first experience of God; God is the Guru’s ultimate experience.

The Lord of Life has not come; the bride of longing is distraught.

Until this rain of wealth descends—there is great restlessness.

The Lord of Life has not come; the bride of longing is distraught.
If we die without seeing Him—life dies un-lived; do not delay, O Beloved!

To those whom freedom met before death came—
We remember those fortunate prisoners.

Fortunate are those prisoners who were freed before dying—who knew freedom before death—who recognized the Atman.

To those whom freedom met before death came—
We remember those fortunate prisoners.

We remember such prisoners—call them Buddha, Krishna, Rama, Rahim—who broke their chains before dying.

If we die without seeing Him—life dies un-lived; do not delay, O Beloved!

The devotee passes through deep moods—he weeps, he burns. Ecstasy comes—but before ecstasy, many tears are needed to cleanse the way. Without tears, the path to rapture is not cleared. Tears cleanse the chalice of the heart—then the wine can be poured.

Among Your lovers, this lowly servant—
Not worthy of Your majesty, yet still—exists.

The devotee keeps telling God: I am not worthy—what is my status?

Among Your lovers, this lowly servant—
Not worthy of Your grandeur, yet still—exists.

I do not claim to be worthy—I only remind You that I am. Be it the last, the smallest, the worst—still, I am. I too am eager. The yearning to find You lives in me—the seed You Yourself have sown, the thirst You Yourself have kindled—fulfill it.

The Lord of Life has not come; the bride of longing is distraught.

In days of separation, the devotee suffers.

Love blows its fire behind the curtain—
This burning is not visible.

No one else can see it—only the devotee knows the fire that smolders within. Other devotees may recognize it—therefore Rajjab addresses these words to saints: O saints, my mind is drowned in rapture! Those who know—who have wept in Bhakti, laughed in ecstasy; who have burned in longing, danced in union; who have known Bhakti’s darkest night and the dawn of rapture—only they are addressed.

People ask me daily: why is everyone not allowed here? Because the call here is for those who will understand—whose eyes are filled with tears, whose souls are full of thirst, who are ready to be intoxicated. This is not entertainment—it is the undoing of the mind. Here heads are cut.

To make lightning laugh—
I set my own house on fire.
Though the heart weeps—
I still smile to smile.
He has stolen my wings to fly—
May my nest be set aflame.

Says the devotee: when there is no way to fly, no sky, no wings—what shall I do with this house?

To make lightning laugh—
I set my own house on fire…

What to do with this life? There is no flight here, no sky, no taste of beauty, no vision of Truth, no sense of nectar—what use is this life? Only those ready to burn their nest in their own hands will understand these words. These are not ordinary verses—they are burning coals. One must have the capacity to take and endure them.

The maiden of longing is distraught, her hair disheveled—
Day and night she passes in pain;
Like the night-blooming lotus without the moon,
She withers without the Beloved’s face.

The devotee weeps. In that weeping, the devotee becomes feminine.

The maiden of longing is distraught, her hair disheveled—
Day and night she passes in pain;
Like the lotus that opens at night only when the moon rises—
Without the moon, it droops.

So does the devotee live by the Beloved’s hint: if a glimpse comes—he dances; if not—there is only weeping. Sometimes a flash arrives—the ocean of rasa surges; sometimes a dark night falls—the desert spreads. The seasons change around the devotee; in his inner sky, now the sun, now clouds, now rain. Therefore the sayings of Bhakti speak much of the states of viraha.

If in my garden there is no spring—
Then let lightning strike the heart of every thorn.

Says the devotee: if no flower is to bloom in this life, let the thunderbolt fall—what is the use without You?

Like the lotus without the moon,
The heart withers without Your sight.

Sometimes the devotee weeps, sometimes he laughs, sometimes falls silent.

The eyes go dry, the lips fall silent—
Thus too I have wept in someone’s remembrance.

Sometimes without a word he weeps; sometimes he speaks and weeps; with words and without—his talk of separation continues.

Every moment the poor one is scorched—
Longing’s ache, the body’s pain.

In every moment—one burning fire.

In an instant I would perish—
Like a fish without water.

Take a fish from water—see it writhe.

In an instant I would perish—
Like a fish without water.

Prisoners we became, the nest burned, lightning fell—
What then of the garden—who knows?
So long we yearned for spring—
We did not know we would be looted in spring.
The winds are fierce, the storm is raging, the shore is far—
What will be of my boat—even the boatman may not know.
No solace, no comfort, no kindness, O friend—
If this is the beginning, who knows the end?
If you ask of pain’s sting—it is measureless;
If you ask of the heart’s wound—words cannot tell.

What you thought was your garden—the devotee burns it. What you thought your nest—the devotee abandons. The things you chase—the chase ends.

Prisoners we became, the nest burned, lightning fell—
What then of the garden—who knows?
So long we yearned for spring—
We did not know we would be looted in spring.
The winds are fierce, the storm is raging, the shore is far—
What will be of my boat—even the boatman may not know.

Whether there is a boatman is uncertain; whether there is a shore—uncertain; only storm upon storm. Viraha is a stormy state. But as after every storm a profound peace descends, so after longing’s fire flows the stream of nectar.

In an instant I would perish—
Like a fish without water.

In separation it seems only night; one cannot trust that dawn will come. Even when dawn comes, doubt lingers.

Which dawn will this be?
The windows are open—
Yet the light does not enter.
For this morning we left the moonlight’s lure—
For change, life turned its road;
This dawn became a question, dim for those—
Whose homes no ray of light can touch.
The light does not enter.
It seems the prayer has not changed the boon;
If the target was never there, what use the arrow?
The old song’s scale has altered entirely—
Yet life sings listlessly.
The light does not enter.
Which dawn will steal this darkness—
Who will gather the tears of eyes filled with dreams?
What name shall I give to such a life—
Which here cannot live, and cannot die?
The light does not enter.

Thus hangs the devotee in darkness—like a fish without water. Only night. The test of viraha: though there is no experience of dawn, to trust that dawn can come—that trust is Shraddha. If there is thirst, there must be water—this trust is Shraddha. If there is search, there will be fulfillment; if there is seed, there will be a flower; if there is longing, there must be light somewhere. Where you find a “rich one” who awakens this trust—bow there—place your head. Kabir has said: whoever leaves his home—let him come with me. It is the talk of laying down the head. That house is yours—your mind has made its dwelling there. From the heart you pulled up your tent long ago—you never go there.

Let tears flow gently—so you begin to arrive at the heart. Let thought slowly be transformed into feeling—then Bhakti will surge.

Calling “Beloved, Beloved”—I have become gaunt with longing—
O Swati-like rain, now descend!
The oceans, the rivers are full—
But the chakor cares not for them.

Calling and calling, I am wasted—now come! O Swati rain, now fall!

The seas are full, rivers and lakes brim—but the chātaka’s eyes are fixed on the sky. An extraordinary longing has seized him—he will drink only the Swati drop. The devotee is like that chātaka. Is there a lack of beauties in this world? But he longs for God’s beauty. Is there a lack of wealth? He longs for God’s wealth. He has seen, through much experience, that here everything appears—yet nothing is; all is illusion. He will not be deceived again. He will die thirsty—but will not drink muddy waters. He will drink only from Manasarovar. He will not graze on grass—he will taste God alone. When such intense longing is born—man becomes religious. Not by visiting temples or mosques, or by performing rituals. Life itself must become a yajna. It becomes so when:

Calling “Beloved, Beloved”—I have become gaunt with longing—
O Swati-like rain, now descend!
The oceans, the rivers are full—
But the chakor cares not for them.

Without Your vision, poor and pained—Rajjab is distressed for the wealth.

Without Your darshan I am destitute—without Atman I am bereft, without You I am undone. I have tried all else—and this beggar’s bowl does not fill. Fill it now.

Without Your vision, poor and pained—Rajjab is distressed for the wealth.

The lips and cheeks yearn,
The body’s love yearns—
You are close to the heart—
But the eye yearns for the vision.

Paramatma is not far—He is closer than the heart—yet the eye longs to see. We can see what is far—but miss what is nearest. We are adept with the difficult; we miss the simple. Skilled with falsehood; defeated by Truth.

Without Your vision, poor and pained—Rajjab is distressed for the wealth.

Through grace, grant me the vision—and all afflictions will be gone.

“Grace”—a precious word. Rajjab says: I have no qualification—I make no claim. The renunciate and ascetic claim qualification: so many fasts, so many vows—You must come. The devotee says: nothing I do is of value—only if Your compassion flows will You be mine. I can weep, call, burn, watch You like a chātaka, and let my life fall crying “Beloved”—this is all my capacity. Only Your grace can make You mine.

This is the basic difference between Yoga and Bhakti. Yoga trusts effort, discipline, method. Bhakti trusts Prasad—His compassion.

Through grace, grant me the vision—and all afflictions will be gone.

Even weeping is a kind of smiling—
We have smiled through tears.
We are proud of our empty robe—
For we have seen Your merciful glance.

When grace comes, the devotee says: now I am glad of my pain—

Even weeping is a kind of smiling—
We have smiled through tears.
We are proud of our empty robe—
For we have seen Your merciful glance.

The more I wept, the more Your eye fell upon me. The more unworthy I was, the more Your grace arrived. We found You by weeping, by calling. When the devotee finds God, he says: blessed were the days I cried! Blessed the nights I burned—like a fish without water! Looking back, the whole journey is honeyed. Every tear becomes a flower; every lament a song; every pain an extraordinary treasure. But while passing through the pain—it is difficult.

Remember: many will try to console your pain. Beware of them. It is through the intensification of pain that God is found. If someone consoles you, shows sympathy and “fixes” you—they have deprived you of God. This pain is not to be treated; this ache is such that, if allowed to deepen, it becomes the remedy itself.

Your cruelties—what of them?
Even Your fidelities wreaked havoc.
The world envied my state—
Whenever You smiled upon me.
He who receives the touch of Your glance—
Even a speck will dare to meet the stars.
This sorrow is a most delightful health—
God, save me from the consolers.

Save me from those who would console—

This sorrow is a most delightful health—
God, save me from the consolers.

Whenever friends deceived me—
I remembered my enemies.

All those places where you were wounded—return and you will find: all were useful. Without those sufferings, you would never have reached God. Without those thorns, these flowers would never have bloomed.

Hold this in your heart. In the deep night of longing—do not seek consolation. Let the anguish deepen—so deep that you break, dissolve, end—so that nothing of you remains. Let longing’s fire burn you to ash—and upon your ashes arises the new life. Upon your ashes the temple of God is raised. Your ashes become its foundation. Then—great intoxication! Then—boundless nectar!

O saints, my mind is drowned in rapture.

Day and night, ever the one flavor has taken hold; I have pitched my tent in the marketplace.

I have abandoned family prestige and all boundaries; I sit close by the distillery.

I know nothing of caste or creed; whom shall I call “other”?

I thirst for the nectar; I have no hopes in others—this conviction has become my dwelling.

Bring, bring—that very rhythm has seized me; I drink the strong “flower.”

That nectar is never gotten by begging—even at the price of the head, only then.

Servant Rajjab has given body and mind—has become the rich One’s servant.

Become a servant to some “rich one.” Attain it yourself. The road is not easy—it is arduous. You must pave it with tears. This path is not walked by the feet—but by tears. It is not traversed by doctrines and scriptures—but by a simple call. Everyone has the capacity for a simple call. Everyone has the capacity for ultimate thirst. Within you, the life-yajna is ready to be lit; only a little provocation is needed. Stir the flame—and it will seize you. In those very flames the temple is raised. And beyond those flames—the taste of the nectar—the wine whose intoxication, once it takes you, never subsides.

Today, only this much.