Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #9

Youth, beauty, sidelong glances, pledges, covenants, peals of laughter, songs—
Honeyed lips, shy looks, arms like marble—
Here everything is for sale,
O buyers!
Tell me, what will you buy?

Full-swelling arms, sinewed bodies, broad chests of iron—
Wailing bellies, honor in tears, frightened sighs—
Here everything is for sale,
O buyers!
Tell me, what will you buy?

Tongues, hearts, intentions, decisions, bravado, slogans—
These daily tumults, these multicolored speeches—
Here everything is for sale,
O buyers!
Tell me, what will you buy?

Truthfulness, poetry, critique, knowledge and art, libraries—
The miracles of the pen, the vivid images of thought and vision—
Here everything is for sale,
O buyers!
Tell me, what will you buy?

Calls to prayer, conches, sacred stones, schools, beards, sect-marks—
These long rosaries, these heavy garlands—
Here everything is for sale,
O buyers!
Tell me, what will you buy?

Here, bargains for consciences are struck openly—
This is that market where even angels could be sold.
Here everything is for sale,
O buyers!
Tell me, what will you buy?

The world is a marketplace. Here everything is for sale; O buyers! tell me, what will you buy?—except Paramatma. Paramatma is not merchandise upon the stalls. No bargain can be struck for Him. No method exists by which He can be bought. All else you can obtain. But whatever else you get—just as it comes, so it goes. Lines drawn upon water. Palaces molded in sand. They scarcely come into being before they are erased. And whatever you gain, death will snatch away.

Whatever death can seize—know it was the world. That which remains with you even in death, that which does not abandon you in the flames of your pyre—know that alone is Paramatma. Whatever is wiped out by death is not God.

Paramatma means: eternal life; life without end; with neither shore nor boundary, neither beginning nor conclusion. If that life is not found, nothing is found. If that life is not attained, there has only been loss, and loss again. But where in you will the longing for such life be born? How will it arise? Who will kindle that flame within you? Who will remind you? Only one who has found can remind; only one who has tasted can awaken the same thirst in your breath; only one who is awake can wake the sleeping. The awakened one is called the Guru. Guru has no other meaning. Whoever teaches you anything other than Paramatma is a teacher, not a Guru. He who teaches you Paramatma—he is the Guru.

Today’s sutras are very lovely.

I met the Guru—Dadu—weighty as the ocean, a long, sea-wide heart.
Razzab says: I met a Guru whose heart was as vast as the sea. A Guru will be ocean-hearted. In knowing Paramatma, the heart becomes vast. In knowing Paramatma, the knower becomes filled with God. What you know, you become like. Remember this. You become like whatever you know. You become like whatever you possess. One who heaps only wealth and lives among shards will die as a shard. A man’s face holds the tale of his whole life. Look into his eyes and you will catch the depth of his living. In his eyes you will see currency floating, or heaps of gold and silver, or the piled-up grandeur of status. And that is what he has become.

Whatever you desire—desire with awareness. For desire becomes the fabric of your soul. Whatever you ask for, its color stains you. Whatever you keep asking for—little by little, that is what you become. Do not ask for the petty, else you become petty. If you must ask, ask for the Vast, so that you may become vast. If you must long, long for Paramatma. If His dye touches you, fragrance will come into life. If His dye touches you, light will descend.

If people are creeping like insects, the reason is simple: their longing is earthbound. Raise your eyes toward the sky!

Why, in prayer to God, do we lift our eyes to the sky? Why do we stretch our arms upward? For what? Not that some God sits up there. It is a gesture that God is vast as the sky. And one who knows this sky-like Vast will, naturally, in the very knowing, become sky-like vast. We become what we know. The Upanishads say: Those who knew That, became That.

I met the Guru—Dadu—weighty as the ocean, a long, sea-wide heart.
Such a Guru I met—ocean-hearted. Such a heavy Guru! ‘Weighty’—what does it mean? The very word Guru means ‘weighty’. Guru is born of the root that also gives ‘garva’ here: heavy—one who settles in the deepest of depths, who reaches the ultimate depth. If you are light, you cannot know depth. To be deep, weight is needed. Then you can descend into the ocean’s bottomless.

From what does weight come into life? From one thing alone: when you are connected with Paramatma, weight arrives. Otherwise people live upon the surface, and upon the surface they die. Paramatma is not on the surface. He is either the height of heights, or the depth of depths. The surface lies between—where there is neither height nor depth.

And remember: in the mathematics of life, height and depth are one. Two faces of one process. He who becomes deep, becomes high; he who becomes high, becomes deep. Think of a tree: the higher it rises into the sky, the deeper its roots plunge into the earth. The ratio remains equal. You cannot teach a tree with tiny roots the art of touching the sky. Nor can you stop a tree with roots reaching the underworld from touching the heights. The ratio remains equal: as the height, so the depth.

Friedrich Nietzsche has an astonishing saying: Whoever would touch the sky must touch the abyss. So on one side the Guru is sky-like—his height is vast; on the other, the Guru is deep—oceanic! His depth is without end. Yet these are two halves of one event. It is not the Guru’s doing. Whoever is joined with Paramatma becomes thus. It is the magic of nearness to God.

Look at your own life and you will understand. There come moments of vastness—when all doors open, all walls fall, when your little courtyard of mind is no longer small, when it becomes wide as the sky.

Swami Ram used to say: I have seen sun and moon and stars move in the sky of my own consciousness. People think such words are madness; the gentler might call it poetry. But what Ram said was neither madness nor poetry—it was life’s plain truth. When the boundary of ego breaks, you will indeed see the moon and stars moving within—you will, for they are moving within. You will see springs arrive within. Within you will behold the whole expanse of the Vast. You will find all within. But the ego is narrow and does not let you open.

Examine your life. No experience of height in it, no depth, no vastness. Your experience of life is nothing but suffering. No other taste but pain. Your eyes are full of darkness, stung by smoke—and this smoke rises within from your own ego. And that darkness too is born within.

In the sleeping chamber of my dreams, do not make light—
For the dawn seems far away to me.
The contours of life have slipped from my sight—
Clouds thicken on every side.
Where the moon and stars—now not even a firefly—
How transparent the darkness appears to me!
A radiant ray leapt upon my heart—
As if a sword were raised over a sleeping innocent.
A song’s echo made me tremble—
As if a broken anklet had begun to ring.
Even when I lifted my eyelids I found only tears—
What burden of youth could I bear now?
You must have fingered stars in your nights—
I have seen darkness and only darkness in my nights.
You must have arranged gardens of dreams—
I have seen the black flags of circumstance.
You must have heard the twang of the one-string lute—
I have seen desolation nest in songs.
My sharer of grief! my friend! what do you know—
I have lived life like death itself.
Nothing but a spoiled face—
Whenever I sketched the portrait of my conditions.
Some exalted one scorned me—
Whenever I tried to halt the gallop of fate.
My sharer of grief! my friend! what do you know?

Think a little about your life. You will find it so.

Where the moon and stars—now not even a firefly—
How transparent the darkness appears to me!

Around you there is darkness and only darkness. Not the moon and stars—no, not even a firefly floats upon the sky of your mind.

Even when I lifted my eyelids I found only tears—
What burden of youth could I bear now?
You must have fingered stars in your nights—
I have seen darkness and only darkness in my nights.
You must have arranged gardens of dreams—
I have seen the black flags of circumstance—

And in my life I have seen nothing but black flags.

You must have heard the twang of the one-string lute—
I have seen desolation nest in songs.
My sharer of grief! my friend! what do you know—
I have lived life like death itself.

People are living just so—like the dead. They live a dead life. Only the name is life; where is living? For life is known only to those who have placed their hands in the hands of the Great Life. Those who are bound in one current with Paramatma alone know life; the rest know only death. Dying and dying. Daily we die—a little more; death draws closer; the grave draws nearer. What else is our experience?

Nothing but a spoiled face—
Whenever I sketched the portrait of my conditions—

Sketch, sometime, the portrait of your conditions. Look upon your ways and colors. All is faded! All stale! No fragrance anywhere, no color, no dance, no ecstasy, no intoxication. For what do you live? For what do you go on living? On what hope do you go on?

Some exalted one scorned me—
Whenever I tried to halt the gallop of fate—
My sharer of grief! my friend! what do you know?

Man’s life is life in name only. Until he is joined with God, no note of life arises in him. Joined with Him—the anklet begins to ring. Joined with Him—the resonance rises; the one-string lute begins to play.

Today’s sutras are sutras for joining with That. But before one joins with Paramatma, one must find the Beloved of God.

I met the Guru—Dadu—weighty as the ocean, a long, sea-wide heart.
In that very instant of meeting and touch, the heart filled with the feeling of bhajan.

A lovely utterance: In that very instant! In a single moment—eye met eye, and all was done!

In that instant of meeting and touch…
In the seeing and touching—just to see the Guru, and it happened.

Razzab must have been a man of courage. People think for years. They waste themselves in thought. Even if Buddha is found, or Krishna is found, they lose it to thinking. Ever thinking. Doubts without end, questions never finished. Perhaps thinking is an excuse. A method of postponement. In the name of thinking, they push it off—tomorrow, the day after—not now.

The courageous one knows: either now, or never.

In that instant of meeting and touch…
And as soon as the Guru’s wave touched—his music heard; as soon as those eyes looked into Razzab’s…

…the feeling for bhajan filled the heart.

Something that had drowsed through lifetimes rose up. A bud broke! A flower opened! A sitar never touched began to sing. The feeling for bhajan brimmed! If, sitting by the Guru, the feeling for bhajan does not fill you—then you have not sat near. If, sitting by the Guru, you do not sway—then you have not sat near.

What is the sign that you sit by the Guru? One criterion: the feeling for bhajan descends. The inner nada stirs. You are filled with the rejoicing of life. Life is pouring honey from all sides—drink it! Dance!

In that instant of meeting and touch…
This word ‘parsan’ (parsan/parsan) can mean two things—touch, or the Guru’s being pleased.

In that instant of parsan…
Both meanings are apt. When the Guru is pleased—the feeling for bhajan fills. From the disciple’s side, touch happened—blessed the disciple whose eyes met the Guru’s, whose hand fell into the Guru’s, who sat in the Guru’s climate, who swayed in his current. The flute sounded from the Guru, and the disciple danced like a serpent. This is the disciple’s touch. And whenever a Guru beholds a disciple raising his hood and dancing, intoxicated—naturally he is pleased: another flower has bloomed! another temple is made! another Kaaba discovered! another pilgrimage arisen! Paramatma has entered one more heart!

In that instant of parsan…
How could the Guru not be pleased? He overflows with delight. In finding the disciple, the Guru is as filled with joy as the disciple is in finding the Guru. The flame is kindled from both sides. The tune rises together.

In that instant of meeting and touch, the heart filled with the feeling of bhajan.

And if the Guru is pleased, his smile rains upon you, his bliss pours into you—what happens?

…the feeling for bhajan fills the heart.

The feeling was there—sleeping for lifetimes; the right season of spring had not come; the seed was there—but the soil not found. Today the soil is found. Spring has arrived. The season has come. The seed will break; a sapling will rise. Green leaves will emerge. Crimson flowers will bloom.

…the feeling for bhajan fills the heart.

Hearing the true story was possible in the company of the Satguru.

All else that was heard, all else counted and studied, falls away—when the company of the Satguru is known. Only in that companionship is the true hearing—shravan—possible. In the being-with, it is heard. In the company, it is heard.

There are many shastras. But until you find the shasta, the living expounder, no scripture lives. Buddha’s words are collected—read the Dhammapada; Krishna’s words are collected—read the Bhagavad Gita—but something is missing. What? For what Krishna said to Arjuna is written as it is. What is lacking? The speaker is not present. The words are there—the master of the words is not. The heart throbbing behind the words is absent. The emptiness standing behind the words is absent. So what Arjuna experienced cannot happen to you through the Gita. What you experience sitting here with me will not happen to those who, in future, read these same words. The company will be gone. Some primal note will be less. Something will feel empty. The difference is like that between a living man and his photograph, between a living man and his marble statue. The statue looks just the same, yet it has no life. It will not speak, walk, rise.

When a shastra walks, speaks, rises, laughs, sings, dances—then, catch hold! When a scripture is being born, catch hold! This is the meaning of Guru: where scripture is being born; where all is fresh. Later people preserve dried flowers for centuries—but their fragrance does not rise.

Hearing the true story was possible in the company of the Satguru.

Just sitting near the Guru, layer by layer descending, slowly, step by step moving into the inner-most—this is the way.

Since knowing That, since hearing the real tale, since this truth began to be experienced, since these true words entered the heart… no other finds a place in the heart.

No other finds a place in the heart…
This is the sign. As long as any other than Paramatma still fills the heart, the world continues.

No other finds a place in the heart, once That Beyond-the-beyond is held.

Now only the One beyond all beyond is the sole longing. The Transcendent.

…once That Beyond is held.

What is neither in words nor within boundaries, what even the word Brahman is too small to reveal—that Transcendent Brahman, that wordless God, that beyond the beyond of feeling—we have set out to find. Now the One alone calls, the One alone draws. A deep pull! The devotee sets out—bound.

He cut the snares of delusion and becoming; he destroyed all doubt.

What is the Guru’s work?

He cut the snares of delusion and becoming…
This needless disturbance of the world—mistaken by you as meaningful—the Guru simply wakes you and shows what is futile and what is essential. He can do no more; he shows: here is a diamond, there a stone—choose what you will. Does one knowingly choose a stone? You choose stones in the hope they might be diamonds. The Guru does not say: do not choose stones. Nor does he command: choose the diamond. He says: here is diamond, here stone, here the touchstone—test and see. Then do as you wish.

Mahavira said: I give upadesha, not aadesh. Well said. This is the foundation of all true Gurus: counsel, not command. Where there is command—know, a Guru is not there. One who says: you must do this, only this; otherwise you are a sinner—that is no Guru. There a new politics is at work; a leader, not a Guru. A new tyranny is being built upon you; a new slavery arranged; new chains forged; new prisons erected. Beware.

The Satguru only gives counsel—points out: this is stone, this gold. Then your will. Command is unnecessary. Those who cannot open your eyes to distinguish stone from gem—they need to impose discipline. They say: rise at five, chant Lord’s name, eat this, not that, do this, not that—thousands of rules. Why? One thing is missing in them—they cannot open your eyes. The day you see what a diamond is and what mere earth is, will you choose earth? Who would be so mad?

He cut the snares of delusion and becoming; he destroyed all doubt.

Such is the Satguru’s work: to break the webs of your confusion; to dispel the doubts of your mind.

A moth,
Alone,
At dusk was troubled:
How will this loneliness be cut?
Night fell,
And the lamp was lit—
The innocent moth swayed with joy:
Laughing and laughing the night will pass.
Dawn came,
And all saw—
The moth’s ash, drifting everywhere,
Was searching for the lamp.

This is your life! Soon only a heap of ash remains. Remember! Recognize! Soon you will burn upon your own pyre. Soon only ash will lie. And the ash will flutter, searching for the life that was lost. Ash will search for the dreams for which everything was wasted.

A moth,
Alone,
At dusk was troubled:
How will this loneliness be cut?
Night fell,
And the lamp was lit—
The innocent moth swayed with joy:
Laughing and laughing the night will pass—

You too think the same: laughing and laughing, the night will pass! But beyond this night there is no morning—there is death. And with the lamp, not your life but your pyre is prepared.

Dawn came,
And all saw—
The moth’s ash, drifting everywhere,
Was searching for the lamp.

Such ashes are drifting, searching for the lamp. Have you seen dust-whirls in the road? Stand still—watch. That dust-whirl—once it was a body like yours. The dust under your feet—today it is underfoot; yesterday it was someone’s head. Once it was a body. You too will lie as dust. Before all is dust, before dust falls into dust—seek. Seek that which does not perish. Find that whose nature is to remain.

He cut the snares of delusion and becoming; he destroyed all doubt.

As we are living now, it is a weary repetition of futility. The same again and again, infinite repetition—and still we do not wake. Man does not learn from experience, it seems.

Cut down
All the wounded plants—
Do not leave them to sigh without water.
Pluck away
All the restless flowers—
Do not leave them sobbing upon the boughs.
This harvest of hopes, my friend!
It will be wasted again this time.
All the labor of mornings and evenings—
Will go to nothing again.
Into the corners and hollows of the field
Pour your blood as manure again;
Water the soil again with tears;
Worry again for the next season—
When everything will be laid waste again.
If one harvest ripens, you are satisfied—
Till then this is all there is to do.

Just this, you go on doing. Each time you harvest—and each time you are laid waste.

This harvest of hopes, my friend!
It will be wasted again this time.

This life is not your first—it has come many times. This harvest you have grown often. You are not new to this—very old, very skilled in losing yourself. You are expert at self-ruin.

This harvest of hopes, my friend!
It will be wasted again this time.
All the labor of mornings and evenings—
Will go to nothing again.

It will go to waste—because the direction is false. You are trying to squeeze oil from sand—what but defeat will come?

Into the corners and hollows of the field
Pour your blood as manure again;
Water the soil again with tears;
Worry again for the next season—
When everything will be laid waste again.
If one harvest ripens, you are satisfied—
Till then this is all there is to do.

And then again you will be laid waste—again hopes, again ruin, again hopes. Wake now! Harvest something that fills life. Seek such wealth as truly ends poverty—not hiding it, not merely covering it over, but ending it forever.

He cut the snares of delusion and becoming; he destroyed all doubt.

True kin is he who belongs to Ram—join your bond to him.

I found a Guru—ocean-hearted!

True kin is he who belongs to Ram…
He did two things. First, he drew me into relation with himself—true kin is he who belongs to Ram. Until you are related to the Guru, relation with Paramatma is almost impossible.

True kin is he who belongs to Ram…
Before you befriend Ram, befriend Ram’s kin—his friends! They walk here. They are around you. The day you wish, your hand will fall into theirs. The moment your hand is in theirs, the first step is taken.

True kin is he who belongs to Ram—join your bond to him.

First, join your affection to him who is truly kin of Ram; in whom you glimpse Ram a little; near whom you breathe the fragrance of Ram.

He drew me from the whirl of the world’s ocean and brought this dead life to life.

Joined with the Guru, a revolution comes. Till yesterday, what was life becomes death; and a new life—never even dreamt of—manifests.

He drew me from the whirl of the world’s ocean and brought this dead life to life.

That whirl of the world—this and that to earn, this and that to build—the Guru awakened me: futile! No essence will be found in that direction. Do not go that way! No one ever has found there. Without exception, whoever goes there is lost, confused, dead. I too went, says the Guru; I ran those roads you are running, grew tired as you are, fell as you are. Now I have found another direction—where there is rest, cessation, where there is Ram. Remember: where Ram is, there alone is rest, cessation. Other than Ram, where is rest? The running will continue; the bustle will continue.

He drew me from the whirl of the world’s ocean and brought this dead life to life.

He made living natural and easy, bringing me into the company of Truth.

The Guru pulls you out of this mesh of delusion. Drawn by your love for him, you come out—leaving your dreams. The Guru places before you a new vision—more charming, more lovely, more honey-sweet. You leave your petty disturbances, you go behind the Guru, you go with him.

He drew me from the whirl of the world’s ocean and brought this dead life to life.

As if he raised a corpse from the dead—such an event occurs.

He made living natural and easy, bringing me into the company of Truth.

But remember: the Satguru does not change you by force—he changes you naturally. His presence transforms you.

He does not take chisel and hammer to cut you to shape. He does not bind you in codes and fences. He calls you nearer. He invites you to look out through his window. Says: In this heart Ram has taken up residence. Bring your ear near my heart—hear this beating! In this beat, a dear music! Hearing that beat, a blessed frenzy is born in you. Hearing that beat, you can no longer stop. Wings begin to grow! You will fly! You must fly! There is no way now. The challenge has arrived.

The Guru only calls you near and lays down a challenge. Then natural happenings begin.

He made living natural and easy, bringing me into the company of Truth.

And silently—you do not know when—the Guru has transformed your life root and branch. No whisper of it is heard. It happens quietly. No footfall is heard. No hullabaloo. No bands playing. Quietly it happens. Happening and happening, it is done. One morning suddenly you awaken and find: I am not the one I used to be.

The other day, after a year here, a young woman returned home. She had one anxiety: I am going home—will my loved ones recognize me? Will my parents recognize me? Will my husband recognize me? I have changed so much. A single fear haunted her: they will not know me. I asked: when did this occur to you? She said: until the thought of going came, it never occurred. Here everything was happening so silently—so much was happening, how could I keep account? But since the journey home appeared—mother ill—anxiety seized me: will they recognize? Will they accept? My husband will surely not find the woman who left him a year ago.

Great happenings occur silently. Real events happen only in silence. Little events make noise. Flowers open quietly. Sun and moon and stars are born quietly.

He made living natural and easy, bringing me into the company of Truth.

Only then does the disciple know—when companionship with Truth occurs; then he remembers: Ah, what has happened! From where to where I have come! Who was I—and who have I become! The event occurs, and only then it is known. But this is possible only when one simply places one’s hand into the Guru’s—without tug-of-war, without resistance, without creating hurdles or obstructions.

He made living natural and easy, bringing me into the company of Truth.

My birth became fulfilled the very day I placed my heart at his feet.

Razzab says: Now it is becoming clear—I truly became fulfilled on the day my heart fell at these feet. He who rode the horse in the wedding procession—Dadu stopped him and said:

Razzab, you have done a wonder—
Tying the wedding-crest upon your head.
You came to sing the Lord’s name—
And set out toward hell.

In a single moment, all was done. Razzab leapt from the horse. The procession halted. No one understood what was happening. He seized Dadu’s feet. The revolution happened that very day; recognition may take years.

My birth became fulfilled the very day I placed my heart at his feet.

It happened that day—I only now recognize it.

…the day my heart rested at the feet.

The moment the heart was placed at the Guru’s feet, in that very moment the revolution happened.

Even news of a revolution takes time to reach you. You are so unconscious that flowers bloom within you and you do not know. Revolutions happen within and you do not know. Between your unconscious and conscious there is a vast gap—of earth and sky. The event happens at your center; for the periphery to learn takes time. Sometimes many years. Without a Guru—you might never awaken.

Consider: had Dadu Dayal not arrived to stop horse-riding Razzab—within moments he would have entered the world. A long journey would have begun—its end not in your hands. Who knows where it would end? But the Guru stopped him at the very threshold of the world. He was just about to be ensnared—and was halted. But do not think only the Guru’s hand works in this halting. Razzab too possessed great art. He too was a man of courage. It is not easy!

People come to me—seventy years old—and say: How can I take sannyas now! The children are not yet married. One boy remains—let me marry him off, settle him in work, then no worries—I will take sannyas. As if death will wait for you! Death will not ask: are your sons married?

Razzab must have been courageous. What was his age? Eighteen, twenty. Often, the young who dare—the old cannot. The rule should be that by old age all become renunciates. Yet the great sannyasins of the world became sannyasins in youth. Why? Because in old age energy often is gone.

I read a story: a man upon his deathbed. Gita being recited. He is unconscious, and sometimes he raises his hand. Neighbors’ women sit nearby. One says: Look! he lifts his hand to God. One man, watching, said: Nonsense! I know him. He pulled a bidi from his pocket and placed it in the dying man’s mouth—and the man took a few puffs, blew smoke, and died in peace. That was his Ram-naam! Till the last breath, you will not remember Hari. Even if you remember—bidi will arise. If only some lover of the Lord would bring one at this hour! You cannot go yourself; speech is gone. Gita is chanted: Sarva-dharman parityajya mam ekam sharanam vraja. And the hands go up—thinking he has reached the final state! He is where he always was. The Gita is not being heard. He longs for his smoke.

Let man transform in youth—while there is energy, strength, life. For change too needs energy. The sooner the better.

Razzab was caught at the right moment. People must have been angry: is this a time? An ill omen! The procession is going—is this a time to talk of knowledge? A time for God-talk? They would not have forgiven Dadu. People think one becomes a renunciate at the end.

An old man came. His son had taken sannyas—thirty years old. The father, a learned pandit, said: Sannyas is the fourth stage—brahmacharya, then householder, then vanaprastha, then sannyas. How did you give my son sannyas? Where is this written? It is for the last stage, in old age.

I said: Fine—I agree. You take sannyas and I will revoke his. Seventy-five years old—you cannot now say your time has not come. Seventy-five—if you count life as a hundred. With that arithmetic, vanaprastha ends, sannyas time has come. Who lives a hundred? Seventy is average. By that, you should have long since become a sannyasin. I said: Take sannyas. You are right—the shastra is with you. I am not against scripture.

He trembled: I will return later. I said: Where will you go? Whether you return or not—only then will I revoke your son’s sannyas. He never returned. Let the boy go to the winds! He did not return. He hoped to save the boy with scripture; he did not imagine he would be caught himself.

When life is in flow, on the rise—when the iron is hot—then a strike is of great worth.

My birth became fulfilled the very day I placed my heart at his feet.

Razzab says: Ram’s grace descended—I found Dadu as Guru.

The devotees have always experienced this: without His grace, we would not even seek Him. Without His grace, we would not take a step toward Him. Only if He wills do we seek.

The ancient wisdom of Egypt says: When you set out in search of God, be certain—He has called you; otherwise you could not set out on your own.

Razzab says: Ram had compassion. And when Ram pours grace, He cannot do so directly—for directly you will not understand. No bridge is possible directly. Even if He stands before you—you will not see; if He speaks—you will not understand.

Ram poured grace—I found Dadu as Guru.

Such is His grace—that a Dadu was found. If one finds a Dadu, how far can Ram be? He is found. Consider Him found. If your hands fall upon the Guru’s feet, they have fallen upon His hidden feet. The Guru, for you, is the reflection of God; through him Paramatma becomes accessible.

I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram.

When this happens, a new world begins—of ecstasy, dance, celebration.

I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram.

Razzab says: I am dyed in the hue of that color-mad Ram. As soon as the devotee is dyed in God, his language becomes feminine—remember this. There, who is the second male? There is only one Purusha. All others become feminine—meaning receptive, welcoming, non-aggressive—doorways of celebration.

I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram.

Ram is truly rangila—color-intoxicated. The pictures of God painted without colors are false; for all the colors of existence are His. Rainbow colors are His; the colors of flowers, trees, birds—His; butterflies’ hues—His. Every mood and gesture in this world is His.

I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram.

One who is dyed in Him—drenched in all His colors—will his life be of sadness? If his life is sad—whose will be joyful, celebrative? Be sad in the world—the world is sadness; in God there is celebration.

But strange inversions have come to pass. The worldly seem a little cheerful; the spiritual look like corpses. Which means what? It means those so-called spiritual are not spiritual. Otherwise they would sing: I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram. They are worldly—there was some little taste in the world; that too is lost. They wait for death.

The real spiritual person has this mark: with him you will find the abundance of all colors, all sounds. With him you will sense only celebration. If there is no dance there, there can be no dance anywhere. Temples are desolate, mosques empty, churches lifeless because there is no color, no form—no descent of the joy-form of God. Those who have escaped the world sit there by force—angry, irritated, grief-stricken, sad.

I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram.

With the Supreme Person my very breath is bound—intoxicated, melted, drunk with bliss.

This is how it will be. Life becomes brimming with honey.

With the Supreme Person my very breath is bound—intoxicated, melted, drunk with bliss.

When you are with the Supreme Person, will you not enact the rasa? When his flute plays, will you not dance? And when he stands among you wearing the peacock plume—will you stand as pious monks?

Imagine: Krishna plays his flute, with peacock plume—and all the saints—Akhandanand, Pakhndanand—stand there turning their rosaries: Hare Ram, Hare Ram. No—Krishna requires dance.

It is not accidental that Hindus call Krishna the Purnavatar, the complete incarnation. Ram appears a little less—less celebration. With Krishna, celebration is complete, various, without prohibition. The rasa he enacts proclaims the Vast. This very rasa is enacted among sun and moon, among suns and planets—this great celebration of light. Somewhere at the center there is surely a Krishna; a flute is surely playing. Its tunes enter birds’ throats; its colors bloom in flowers; its waves wing butterflies. At the center of the Vast, a flute is certainly sounding.

Hindus speak well: Krishna is Purnavatar. They spoke with courage. Ram has great reverence, but is called only partial—some limit remains. Celebration has no limits. If there are limits—celebration dies. Celebration must be beyond bounds.

I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram.

With the Supreme Person my very breath is bound—intoxicated, melted, drunk with bliss.

Love has clung to the pristine Name; no longer do I count cold or heat.

Now there is no worry about winter or summer; no success, no failure; no happiness, no sorrow. Now the dance with that Beloved is underway. What worry? All is in His hands. What worry? What anxiety?

Love has clung to the pristine Name; no longer do I count cold or heat.

Unshaken, I sit unwavering, having placed my head upon the saw.

What needed to be done for this celebration? Only this: the head had to be cut off. Once the head is offered at the feet, a dance begins without end. And love clings to the One Name.

It is because of ego that you are stuck. Your head is heavy—your head is everything. You calculate, you scheme. You are clever, cunning. There is no simplicity of heart; how can the feeling for bhajan arise? The heart is withered.

Love has clung to the pristine Name; no longer do I count cold or heat.

Unshaken…

When the head is gone—who wobbles? This head wobbles. This skull generates doubts. This ego darts here and there: do this, do that; be like this, like that.

Unshaken, I sit unwavering, having placed my head upon the saw…

Cut off the head—and all is steady; mind stilled, thoughts stilled. Do one thing: if Ram’s grace has touched you and the Guru’s feet are found, do not delay—cut off the head at once. You will lose nothing, for in your head there is only chaff. What is there to lose? Have you found anything more than chaff inside? Even the chaff would fetch no price if sold.

I have heard—such happened. An emperor bowed at any beggar’s feet. His ministers disliked it: Not fitting! You are a great emperor. Any stray fakir, any beggar—you touch their feet? This head—emperors cannot make it bend; this head never bows—victor’s head; crowned with priceless jewels; you bow it before naked fakirs? The emperor said: In time I will answer. One day a man was beheaded—handsome man, condemned for trickery. The emperor had his head cut and told his ministers: Go sell it in the market. They went—everywhere people cried: Away! What shall we do with it? It stinks. By evening they returned: No one will buy it—not even for two coins. The emperor said: Do you think when I die, you will sell my head? Not for two coins. What is in it but chaff? Even chaff sells.

Another tale: bandits caught a Sufi—and thought to sell him in the slave market for a good price. A king’s cavalcade passed; he offered ten thousand. The Sufi told the bandits: Don’t sell so cheap; wait—you don’t know my price. They trusted him. Another buyer offered twenty thousand—the Sufi said: Wait. Later a rich man offered fifty thousand—the Sufi said: Be patient. Then someone offered a lakh. The Sufi said: Not yet. After a while they met a grass-cutter—carrying a bundle. The Sufi said: Ask him what he will give. They laughed, but asked. The man said: I have nothing—only this bundle of grass. The Sufi said: Sell me now! The right price has come. The bandits beat their heads—what madness! But the Sufi was right: the true price of this head is a bundle of grass. Yet we carry it in pride. When it is stiff with pride, it is worth nothing; when it bows, its price is beyond measure. By bowing, it equals diamonds.

My birth became fulfilled the very day I placed my heart at his feet.

Razzab says: Ram’s grace descended—I found Dadu as Guru.

Unshaken, I sit unwavering, having placed my head upon the saw.

With a great saw I cut my head—since then all wobbling is gone, all is still. Insight is at rest.

Where thought comes to rest—there God arrives. It is your ripples of thought that make you miss. You cannot see, cannot hear, cannot experience. Paramatma is ever-present; your waves distort all. It is like this: the moon has risen, but the lake is rippled—no reflection appears; if it appears, it is broken. Silver is scattered over the lake, but the moon is unseen. Then, one night, no breeze, no ripples—the full moon reflects whole. So may God reflect in you—if you become still. But you are caught in argument, doubt, thought—without value. You clutch your illnesses and refuse to let go!

Unshaken, I sit unwavering, having placed my head upon the saw.

In every way I am happy, as Ram keeps me—this is the sweet way of love.

Since the head was cut, one delightful thing occurs: In every way I am happy, as Ram keeps me. Friendship with contentment has begun.

In every way I am happy as Ram keeps me—this is the sweet way of love.

This is the old way of love. The devotee delights in this alone: as Ram keeps me, so will I be. Remember the word ‘as’. Your condition should not be added to it. Happiness—fine, sorrow—fine. Day—His; night—His. Flowers—His; thorns—His.

In every way I am happy as Ram keeps me—this is the sweet way of love.

Servant Razzab says: your wealth is my meditation; again and again I offer myself.

Man becomes rich, meditative—when he bows the head, offers thoughts, drops the ‘I’.

Servant Razzab says: your wealth is my meditation; again and again I offer myself.

Then only His remembrance remains—His is the single inner voice.

Servant Razzab says: your wealth is my meditation; again and again I offer myself.

And then one delights in offering oneself again and again—every moment a new offering. This is worship, this is prayer, this is adoration.

Difficult to tell what happens in the moment when one is dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram—how clouds of beauty rain upon you; how sun—countless suns—illumine your darkness; no word suffices. How an unparalleled beauty is felt; how currents of bliss begin to flow within—beyond telling.

Like, in a bud brimmed with dew—
The tinting of a butterfly’s wings,
Like a peacock’s dance in a forest,
Like a lamp’s flame in a gust of wind,
The fragrant tresses upon your shoulders—
Like, in the scented season of rain,
A dusky song of a cloud,
Like the flight of bees in a garden,
Like sandal smoke in a temple—
These young contours of your form—
I cannot praise them.
Your sharpened beauty—
Within which the wisdom of balance abides—
You are a Chughtai painting—
The color of your scarf
Has become the hue of my tomorrow’s dream.

Even ordinary love defies definition—how then the love of the Lord! If common beauty resists words—how can the Formless be bound in form?

These are a poet’s words, to his beloved. He says:

Like, in a bud brimmed with dew…
And a butterfly passes near—the color of its wing reflected in the dew-drop—

Like a peacock’s dance in a forest…
Like a lamp’s flame dancing in the wind…
Your fragrant tresses upon your brow…
Like, in the scented season of rain,
A dusky song of a cloud…
Like the flight of bees in a garden…
Like sandal smoke in a temple…
These young lines and contours of yours…
I cannot praise them—
Even ordinary beauty eludes praise—
Your sharpened loveliness I cannot extol—
Beauty with balance within—
You are a Chughtai painting—
All the dreams I dreamed till yesterday—
They are dyed in the color of your scarf—
But to say more is impossible.

If ordinary beauty resists praise—how to describe the Beloved’s beauty? And the intoxication that descends when one finds His company—how to express the wine that pours into the soul? Look at the devotee’s life—you will glimpse it in his walking and sitting, in his eyes and hands; in his devotion, his worship, his prayer, his aarti—you will catch a glimmer. Praise is impossible; words cannot bind; no colors can paint. But from the devotee’s prasad, a fleeting glimpse can be had. Like—

In a bud brimmed with dew,
The tinting of a butterfly’s wings;
Like a peacock’s dance in a forest;
Like a lamp’s flame in a gust of wind;
Like, in the scented season of rain,
A dusky song of a cloud;
Like the flight of bees in a garden;
Like sandal smoke in a temple—
These young contours of your form…

Paramatma is very near; you remain far from Him for no reason. An incomparable treasure is ready to shower upon you—hold out your bowl! But you keep your bowl closed. Everything can be found—and you are seeking nothingness. A mine of diamonds is near—and you rummage in the garbage heap!

All is very near—a matter of extending the hand—so near! But your hands grope in wrong directions. You grope in darkness. You have shut your eyes. You have hardened your heart. You have arranged to live by mind alone. This is the accident of your life. Offer this mind. Find some feet—by some pretext, offer this mind. Once the mind is offered, suddenly you find! Light descends! Color descends! Fragrance descends! And for the first time you know the meaning of life.

Life is precious—do not squander it so. Life is a great gift of God—do not let it slip away like this. Most allow it to pass. Learn something from Razzab!

I met the Guru—Dadu—weighty as the ocean, a long, sea-wide heart.
In that very instant of meeting and touch, the heart filled with the feeling of bhajan.
Hearing the true story was possible in the company of the Satguru.
Since then no other finds a place in the heart, once That Beyond is held.
He cut the snares of delusion and becoming; he destroyed all doubt.
True kin is he who belongs to Ram—join your bond to him.
He drew me from the whirl of the world’s ocean and brought this dead life to life.
He made living natural and easy, bringing me into the company of Truth.
My birth became fulfilled the very day I placed my heart at his feet.
Razzab says: Ram had compassion—I found Dadu as Guru.
I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram.
With the Supreme Person my very breath is bound—intoxicated, melted, drunk with bliss.
Love has clung to the pristine Name; no longer do I count cold or heat.
Unshaken, I sit unwavering, having placed my head upon the saw.
In every way I am happy as Ram keeps me—this is the sweet way of love.
Servant Razzab says: your wealth is my meditation; again and again I offer myself.
I am dyed in the color of the color-intoxicated Ram.

Enough for today.