Sapna Yeh Sansar #1

The hem of your compassion and grace—
so lovely, as lovely
as the autumn dawn on washed earth under an open sky.
Your compassion is like the honey
of a laughing cluster of lotuses
in the pure lake of Sharad after the rains have passed.
Your compassion whose slightest touch
has made my verses alive today.
Your compassion—
in the cool shade of softened motherliness,
huddling there for a brief moment,
this mind, scorched by the world’s blaze, tired and worn,
finds peace.
Your compassion—
that if I close my eyes for a moment
and take a glimpse of your form illumined within,
then the inner current of life’s waters begins to ripple and glow.
What fear can remain now,
for in that inner current my little boat,
O compassionate one,
will one day reach your farther shore.
The hem of your compassion and grace—
so lovely, as lovely
as the autumn dawn on washed earth under an open sky.

There are two paths toward Paramatma: one of jnana, one of bhakti. Those who move by jnana must practice dhyana. The fruit of dhyana is jnana. When the flower of dhyana opens, the fragrance of jnana rises. When the lamp of dhyana is lit, the radiance of jnana spreads.
But dhyana will not suit everyone. Fifty percent can be attuned to dhyana; fifty percent will attain through love, through bhakti.
Bhakti means: to drown, to be utterly drowned; to be drunk with divine intoxication, carefree and abandoned. Dhyana is awakening, remembrance; bhakti is forgetfulness—absorption, engrossment. Dhyana is awareness; bhakti is being lost in that awareness. Dhyana first finds the self, and from the self experiences Paramatma. Bhakti first finds Paramatma, and then, in Paramatma, glimpses itself. This world is a balance of opposites—half day, half night; half female, half male. A harmony abides in contraries. That harmony is the eternal law of this world. That is what Buddha calls: 'Esa dhammo sanantano'—this is the eternal law, that this world is woven of opposites.
When a tree rises toward the sky, it must, at the same time, send its roots toward the depths of the earth. The higher it goes, the deeper it must also go. Then there is balance, then the tree can live. If it goes only upward and forgets to go down, it will fall—fall badly. If it goes only downward, forgetting to rise, there is no point, no meaning to its going.
In opposites there is no opposition; there is music.
The supreme opposition is between jnana and bhakti. And one must understand rightly where one’s own taste lies. Will you be able to go by jnana, or by love?
The path of jnana is austere, somewhat dry—masculine. The path of love is steeped in rasa, drenched in juice; green and lush; there are the babblings of waterfalls, the songs of birds. That path belongs to the feminine heart, the feminine soul.
On the path of dhyana you are your only support. No other prop. On the path of dhyana, resolve alone is your strength. You must go alone—utterly alone. You must drop the clinging to companions. Hence Buddha said: Appo Deepo Bhava! Be a lamp unto yourself. There is no other lamp; no other light; no other way. The search, on the path of dhyana, is solitary.
But on the path of bhakti there is surrender, not resolve. On the path of bhakti, the feet of Paramatma are available; his compassion is available. You have only to bow, spread your begging cloth, and you will be filled with his compassion. On the path of bhakti, the hand of Paramatma is available—only stretch your hand a little. You are not alone. On the path of bhakti there is company, there is companionship.
On the path of bhakti you must become a vine; you must twine yourself round the tree of God. On the path of dhyana you must become a tree, not a vine. And between these two one must choose decisively—choose clearly. For if by mistake a bhakta tries the path of dhyana, he will keep missing. Dhyana will not come to fruition. The mind will fill with melancholy. Dhyana will not come within grasp. And if a dhyani takes to the path of bhakti, he will lift a lamp and arrange an aarti, but there will be no companionship of the heart. He will sing, yet the life-breath will not hum—only the lips will repeat. He will arrange incense and lamp, he will prepare the platter of worship, but it will all be mere formality; the dance of the life-breath, the absorption of the soul will not be possible. Everything will be hollow.
If a bhakta tries to be a dhyani, everything turns into a burden—like a mountain—and yet no fruit. And if a dhyani tries to be a bhakta, it is but formalism, hypocrisy; all on the surface; the life-breath untouched. The soul will not be drenched; tears will not flow; the feet will not dance. Yes, if you force it you may produce a kind of exercise, but not dance. If you force it, water may fall from the eyes. But there is a difference between water and tears. If you force it, pretence will arrive; but no revolution is ever born of pretence.
And the greatest misfortune in this world is that, by accident, people have chosen their religions. Someone was born in a Hindu home, someone in a Jain home; the one born in a Jain home keeps talking of dhyana, even though his original capacity may be of bhakti. And one born in Krishna’s lineage talks of bhakti, though his capacity may be of dhyana.
Palatu’s world is the world of the bhakta—remember this first thing. Therefore Palatu speaks the language of the bhakta. The first aphorism in the bhakta’s language is: the compassion of Paramatma. Nothing happens by our doing. It happens by his doing. It is enough if we do not create obstacle. His grace upon us is enough that we do not obstruct, that we do not come in the way. Do not become a barrier between yourself and Paramatma. Leave everything to his will.
The hem of your compassion and grace—
so lovely, as lovely
as the autumn dawn on washed earth under an open sky.
Your compassion is like the honey
of a laughing cluster of lotuses
in the pure lake of Sharad after the rains have passed.
Your compassion whose slightest touch
has made my verses alive today.
Your compassion—
in the cool shade of softened motherliness,
huddling there for a brief moment,
this mind, scorched by the world’s blaze, tired and worn,
finds peace.
Your compassion—
that if I close my eyes for a moment
and take a glimpse of your form illumined within,
then the inner current of life’s waters begins to ripple and glow.
What fear can remain now,
for in that inner current my little boat,
O compassionate one,
will one day reach your farther shore.
The hem of your compassion and grace—
so lovely, as lovely
as the autumn dawn on washed earth under an open sky.

The bhakta has no worry. Once he has left his boat in his ocean—on his trust; he is the boatman—once the boat is left to his will, even amidst storms, then there is no worry. Whether the shore is reached or not, the one who abandoned everything to his support has already reached. His support is the shore. Then whether the boat is saved or sinks makes no difference. One who left it to his will attains the shore even in drowning. Midstream itself becomes a shore.
Karuna means: this existence is not indifferent to you. This existence is not neglectful toward you. This existence takes note of you. This existence is eager, keen, to support you. You are not the only one seeking Paramatma; karuna means that Paramatma too is seeking you. This fire is not lit one-sidedly. This love burns on both sides. Paramatma is the supreme lover. You are the beloved. Or you are the supreme lover, and Paramatma the beloved—as you wish! The bhaktas have accepted both forms.
The Sufis say: Paramatma is the beloved, we are the lovers. The bhaktas of this land have said: Paramatma is the lover, we are the beloved. He is Krishna, and we his gopis. But one thing is settled: the fire is lit on both sides. This search is not alone-alone. You are not the only one seeking—he, too, seeks. This is the meaning of karuna. His hand too is groping for you in the dark. If only we were seeking alone, we might or might not find; but he too seeks—hence the assurance that this union shall be, must be.
Palatu says: that which comes in the form of the saints is his hand itself, feeling for you in the dark.
'For the sake of others, the saint took incarnation.'
In the bhakta’s language, avatar has great significance. In the language of the jnani-dhyani, avatar has no meaning. Remember: the word 'avatar' does not occur in the Jain scriptures, nor in the Buddhist. It cannot. Avatar is not their language. Whose avatar? For what? The Jains say: Mahavira is a tirthankara, not an avatar. A Jina, a Siddha, a Buddha, not an avatar. Avatar means a descent—from above to below. Tirthankara means an ascent—from below to above. Siddha, Buddha means: an ascent from below to above. Buddha means: like a lotus that rises out of the mud. And avatar means: like moonlight that drips from the moon. Yes, sometimes there is a meeting of the lotus and moonlight—that is something else. Moonlight showers on the lotus; the lotus dances with the moonlight—that is something else.
Something of that kind is happening here. My effort here is that lotuses bloom and the moon also rises; that descent happens and tirthankaras awaken. Because if moonlight pours and there are no lotuses, something remains incomplete; and if lotuses bloom and there is no moon, again something is incomplete. And if it is to be done at all, do it complete—why half-done?
Until now, all religions on earth have been incomplete. Either they caught hold of the path of jnana or the path of bhakti. Hence my words seem a little puzzling. One day I speak of jnana, another day of bhakti. Until yesterday we spoke of jnana, of dhyana; from today the talk of bhakti begins. From today we enter another realm. From today Buddha and Mahavira no longer suffice; from today Meera, Chaitanya, Palatu, Kabir, Nanak will suffice. Yet my effort is to satisfy you with both. Let some blossom like lotuses, let some shower like the moon—that the thing be complete.
The earth awaits a total religion—a religion whose temple has all doors; a religion that can be mosque, temple, church, and gurdwara—one such temple must be built. Without such a temple there is no future for humanity.
'For the sake of others, the saint took incarnation.'
Palatu says: do not take the saint to be merely a man, else you will err. The jnani too says: do not take the saint to be merely a man, else you will err. But the jnani says: the saint is a Siddha—still human, but one who has attained his full development; awakened; renounced all impurity, all taint; cut away all darkness; lit the lamp of dhyana; became self-possessed. But the bhakta says: the saint is not only man—he is the very hand of God reaching out to those lost in the dark.
A Siddha too becomes a way, but in a very different sense. He too becomes a gateway for many, but in a different way—he shares his own bliss. Yet, however high he is, in the language of the jnani the Siddha is the last link in our chain; in the language of the bhakta, the Siddha is not the last link of our chain, but the last effort of Paramatma to find us.
Think of it like a glass half filled with water. One says: half empty—true. Another says: half full—also true. Both are right, and yet neither has the whole. The complete statement would be: the glass is half full, half empty.
Concerning the saint, I want to say: half full, half empty. Half is man’s supreme attainment; half is Paramatma’s supreme compassion. Paramatma has not abandoned you to wander endlessly. He calls. He has not given up hope. On seeing you, he ought to have given up by now; but his hope is infinite.
Rabindranath wrote: whenever a new child is born my heart fills with gratitude to God. For in that newborn I see that he still has not given up hope in man. He is still creating man. He still trusts that flowers will bloom in man. He has not despaired and stopped creating; he is still crafting new children. The gardener has not sat down in gloom; he is still sowing seeds.
Rabindranath’s song is important. Every new child brings news of God’s compassion. Every new child is a proof that however much you wander, his compassion has no end. He is Rahim, he is Rehman, he is maha-karunavan. Your wanderings, your mistakes—his compassion will not run short. Your sins are too small—his compassion is vast.
The jnani keeps accounts of his sins. Each sin must be countered by virtue. The path of the jnani is of accounting, of intelligence. Whatever evil has been done must be offset by the good. The inauspicious must be undone by the auspicious. Where there is darkness, light must be kindled. Where there is unconsciousness, awareness must be brought. The jnani keeps track to the last grain—very cautious, very alert. Thorns are at every step, and one must avoid them.
The bhakta is not concerned with this bookkeeping. For the bhakta’s fundamental view is: my sins—how great can the sins be of my tiny hands?—in the flood of thy great compassion, all will be carried away. Therefore the bhakta does not count his wounds; he calls upon thy balm. He does not worry about his thorns; he invites thy shower of flowers. He is not overly concerned with his thirst; he trusts in thy ocean—thy infinite ocean.
'For the sake of others, the saint took incarnation.'
'Having taken incarnation, the saint sets the world upon the Way.
He teaches bhakti, gives jnana, and makes one hear the Naam.'
What is the entire process of a saint’s life? People are astray—badly astray. People are walking backwards. They are not what they should be; they have become something else. Artificial, false. A hypocrisy has settled upon every soul. The saint shakes you awake, pulls you onto the path, lures you—plays the flute, plucks the ektara, sings; he devises a thousand devices, finds a thousand methods—to bring you somehow to that place where Paramatma is near; to that place where your strings connect with the strings of God; to that place where you can again become attuned, and music returns to your life, and dawn again.
What are his devices?
'He teaches bhakti...'
Essentially he teaches the consummation of love—bhakti. The lowest form of love is kama; the highest form is bhakti. Love is the middle; kama is the lowest pole and bhakti the highest.
People wander in kama alone. They spend life in lust. Their hands gather only ashes. Very few fortunate ones come to know love. Very few who can free the lotus of love from the mud of lust; whose love is desireless; whose love has no demand; whose love is unconditional.
And then, even fewer rise to bhakti. Bhakti means: those who press perfume from the lotus; who distill attar from the blossom; when from mud, the lotus is born, lust has become love; and from the lotus, if fragrance alone is extracted—only aroma remains—this is bhakti. Bhakti is attar, pure fragrance. It cannot be seen, it cannot be bound in the fist, but it is experienced. Love still has a slight touch; it can be seen a little, hazily. Love is twilight—neither night nor day. Kama is the dark night. Bhakti is the radiant noon, and love is twilight—intermediate. Some darkness, some light—an admixture.
Those who do not understand the science of life want to jump straight into bhakti—and they miss. They start extracting perfume, and they have no lotus. They begin to squeeze fragrance without having cultivated the rose. Their attar will remain imaginary. First turn the soil into roses. First, let lotus bloom from the mud. First let roses open in life.
Therefore I say: do not be afraid of love. For hidden in love is the seed of bhakti. Do not even run from kama, do not escape. Those who flee in fear remain stuck in lust. No revolution has ever come from fear. And who would not want to flee?
The world is strange, astonishing; observe it closely and you will need no other entertainment. This whole world is entertainment upon entertainment. Those who stay at home stay out of fear. Those who leave home for the forest also leave out of fear. One does not run, for fear of what people will say: what if the wife finds out that I have slipped off to the woods! The children will not let me go so easily; they will file a report with the police! Somehow, just a few more days remain—let me drag along! For so few days, why run away? And some run away for fear.
Whenever Mulla Nasruddin sees a truck, or hears a truck’s horn, he begins to tremble. I asked him: Nasruddin, I have seen many mental ailments, heard of many—no psychiatrist has ever mentioned this—what disease is this? The truck horn blows and you begin to shake! Freud catalogued almost every psychological illness, but there is no mention of this. Nasruddin said: better not ask. I insisted: still, for how many days has this disease been troubling you? He said: it has been twenty-five years. You did nothing? He said: nothing can be done. Beyond my control. The horn blows and my chest collapses. I asked: what is the matter? When did it start? He said: do not ask! But I kept asking. Finally he said: as you will not relent, I will tell you. Twenty-five years ago my wife eloped with a truck driver. Since then, when a horn sounds, I am afraid she might be returning. At once my chest sinks—now she comes!
People stay from fear, people run from fear. But fear cannot be a foundation for life. Fear destroys, it does not create. And your so-called mahatmas keep teaching you—run away; become deserters. No—there is nowhere to run. Awake—do not run. Understand, and bring revolution! But who ever brought revolution through fear? Revolution comes through awareness.
Understand kama and you will find within it the hidden seed of love. And then understand love; within it you will find the hidden seed of bhakti. One who ascends the steps from lust to love to bhakti reaches the gate of God. Where bhakti is, there is Bhagavan.
People ask: where is God?
There was a Hasidic fakir, Balsen. Some other Hasidic fakirs had come to meet him. A great philosophical discussion arose: where is God? Someone said, in the East, for the sun rises in the East. Another said, in Jerusalem—because the Jews are God’s chosen people, and by Moses God led them to Jerusalem—surely God is in Jerusalem, in the Temple! And someone said something else, and someone else... Those who could take a higher philosophical flight said: God is omnipresent; he is everywhere; what are you talking—Jerusalem, East! God is everywhere. Balsen remained quiet.
He was an astonishing fakir—like Palatu, like Kabir.
All then asked Balsen: you are silent; why do you not speak—where is God? Balsen said: if you truly ask, God is where man lets him in. A wondrous answer! If you do not let him enter, what can even God do? Let him into your heart—then. But who will open the door for him? Where there is bhakti, there is Bhagavan.
People ask: where is God? People even come to see God—they come to me and ask to be shown God. As if a blind man wanted to see the light; as if a deaf man wanted to hear music; as if a mute wanted to sing. Without any concern that I am blind, that I am deaf, that I am mute. A lame man wants to go participate in the Olympics—without any concern that he is lame. People ask: where is Ishvara? I tell them: do not ask that question. First tell me: is there bhakti? They say: how can there be bhakti? First we need to know God—then we will practice bhakti.
Note this distinction well.
He who first demands proof of God, and then says he will practice bhakti, will never practice bhakti. For knowledge of God comes only through bhakti. Only the eyes of bhakti can see him. Only the hands of bhakti can touch him. In the heart brimming with bhakti, his wave arises. Where there is bhakti, there is Bhagavan.
Only the bhakta knows that God is. Others merely talk. The pundit-priest weave nets of words. The bhakta knows. The bhakta has seen. The bhakta’s eyes have met his. The bhakta has placed his hand in his. The bhakta has circled the sacred fire with him. Kabir says: I am Rama’s bride. The bhakta has taken the seven rounds with him. The bhakta knows. The bhakta has spent the nuptial night with him. The bhakta knows.
But to bring you to bhakti, you must free the love hidden in lust, and free the bhakti hidden in love. The entire teaching is of bhakti.
'He teaches bhakti, gives jnana, and makes one hear the Naam.'
The saint has three tasks: to teach bhakti... Understand the word 'upadesha.'
It has a very sweet meaning. Upadesha means: to draw near, to seat beside. Does it mean lecture, discourse, discussion? No. Discussions and discourses have their place—perhaps they are all excuses to draw you near. Upadesha means: to bring close. 'Desha' means place; 'upa' means near. Nearer, and yet nearer. To bring one as close as possible—so close that you begin to hear the Master’s heartbeat; so close that your breath falls into rhythm with his breath; bound in the Master’s embrace—this close.
What 'upadesha' means, 'upavasa' means the same; and 'Upanishad' too means the same. All three words carry one meaning.
Upavasa means: to stay near him. This is the effort from the bhakta’s side. This is the disciple’s word—upavasa: to be by his side. The disciple draws nearer and nearer—this is upavasa. Upadesha means: to draw close—this is the Master’s effort, to pull the disciple in, not to let him wander, not to let him waste time. And Upanishad means: when the disciple has drawn near—become an upavasi—and when the Master has brought him close—has given upadesha—then the event that transpires between them, the supermundane that becomes possible, the impossible that becomes possible—that is named Upanishad. The Master does not speak, and the disciple hears—this is Upanishad.
The Upanishads are the supreme expression on earth of the nearness, the intimacy, the satsang of Master and disciple. They are proclamations. The Master has given in totality; the disciple has received in totality. Neither has the Master been miserly in giving, nor the disciple hesitant in receiving. The disciple has spread his begging bowl as wide as the sky, and the Master has poured himself out entirely. As a river descends into the ocean, so has the Master descended into the disciple. That incomparable event is named Upanishad. The reminiscences of that event are what the Upanishads hold.
'He teaches bhakti...'
And as the Master brings you close—teaches love, kindles bhakti, draws you near—just then, jnana is given. This jnana is very different from that which comes through dhyana.
Through dhyana, jnana arises within you. You dive into yourself, deeper and deeper, until there is a dawn of jnana in your very Atman—self-awakening. But the jnana that happens in bhakti is poured by the Master—like monsoon clouds gathering in Ashadha, like peacocks beginning to dance, like clouds thickening, lightning flashing, and the thirsty earth waiting—when the disciple, like the thirsty earth, waits near the Master, or dances like a peacock near the full cloud of the Master, then from the Master a stream begins to flow. It is not the Master’s—it is Paramatma’s.
'For the sake of others, the saint took incarnation.'
Therefore Palatu says: nothing there is of the Master’s own. He is only a medium—the hollow reed of bamboo through which God sings his song, hums his tune. But only if the disciple’s ear is close will that song be heard. This song is very subtle; soundless, without vibration. It is the song of shunya. This music is the music of the void. The Master lets it descend—but the disciple must be that close—closer and closer, as close as possible—only then will the resonance reach his heart. Then his life-breath will become intoxicated and dance.
And this is the very moment: when this rain of jnana falls, through the Master Paramatma grants his darshan. 'He makes one hear the Naam.' He gives recognition. Recognition happens. In the field of bhakti, jnana showers. In the rain of jnana there is the seeing of God, remembrance of him. We had forgotten. Now remembrance returns—recollection.
To whom shall I tell the ache,
you who pulled your arm away and went—
whose shade shall I hold?
Within and without is emptiness,
on all sides desolation.
The fish of my quick eyes writhes,
thirsty in full waters.
Moments and nights pass into days and nights,
months into years.
I keep gazing the path in vain—
I lost, you won.
How long shall I guard this burden—
this treasure of life?
Who knows when love will run out,
when the wick will go out?
How long shall I suffer, burn
in this fire of separation of yours?
Let the world call me today shameless,
call me unfortunate—
but someday he will call me
blessed among the blessed.
Whom shall I look to? Only
fulfill my own dharma.
Dear to me is separation,
more dear the fire I burn in.
You have given me a child of sorrow—
shall I revel then in joy?
To whom shall I tell the ache,
you who pulled your arm away and went—
whose shade shall I hold?

In some unknown moment, after who knows how many births, my hand slipped from his. In some error, some misstep, the knot with him came undone. Hence, when remembrance of Paramatma arises for the first time, it does not feel as if something new is known; it feels ancient—known again.
The Upanishads say: remember! Remember, remember again! As if we once knew and forgot. As if the matter sits upon the tongue—this near is God. Sometimes it happens—on the road you see a face and it seems familiar; the name feels to be upon the tongue, certain you know the person, certain you know the name—no doubt at all—and yet the name will not come. Somewhere it is stuck. Somewhere wandering in some far unknown. There is some entanglement of the mind. It does not rise to consciousness; buried in the unconscious under some stone, some rock.
In the Master’s presence—since he has remembered—the hint of his remembrance awakens your sleeping memory. Since he has known, by looking into his eyes your forgotten remembrances begin to return.
And his compassion is great. If you move one inch, he comes a thousand miles toward you.

Compassion is auspicious abundance—
the earth’s burning, the sky’s solace;
the victory-shout of new clouds bringing new rasa.
This melting, this dissolution, drop by drop—
it is not in vain, like tears.
Seeds fallen here and there, wasted—
not in vain; stone is becoming tender with creation in them.
Something new within them
aches to sprout.
Like the earth I endure and burn, beloved, unceasingly.
I remain laid at thy feet, my life offered as a pranam.
In some day’s vastness all bonds will open.

Keep trust! Be assured!
Seeds fallen here and there, wasted—
not in vain; stone is becoming tender with creation in them.
Something new within them
aches to sprout.
Like the earth I endure and burn, beloved, unceasingly.
I remain laid at thy feet, my life offered as a pranam.
In some day’s vastness all bonds will open.
Compassion is auspicious abundance.

His compassion is great. Bonds will open. Memory will return. Be assured; do not fear.
The jnani grows very fearful—because he must do everything himself. He must build the boat, carry it, row it, bear the oar—he is the boatman, he is the passenger. The shore is far. The journey unknown. Storms are many, gales immense. The possibility of drowning greater; of arrival less.
But the bhakta has no fear. The boat is ready. The boatman sits with oar in hand, calling: come!

Compassion is benediction.
In the ray of dawn that carries hope, what misfortune can be?
If clouds have gathered, they will rain; parched earth will rejoice.
Encircled by what encircles, each breath will be moistened.
Even if darkness has fallen today, what fear of that?
By grappling with the dark, life grows.
On this very new-moon night, the dawn will awaken—thrill will fill.
This is the victory of the mind that lives by hope.
Why is the heart again restless today, why does pain wake?
Let me restrain the surf of life that rises with the beloved gone before my eyes.
Whatever is, is the Lord’s work; the Lord is ever compassionate.

Even if the bhakta has gone astray, he says: in this, too, is his hand. Surely hidden in this curse there is some blessing. This is the bhakta’s sentiment, the bhakta’s language, the bhakta’s sadhana—that he sees flowers hidden in thorns; he does not forget fair days in foul. Even on a dark new-moon night, the full moon remains remembered. In his soul it is forever full moon; outside there may be any darkness.

'They increase love in the world, they make the earth dance.
Even if they speak harshly, their words are nectar.'
The saints increase love in the world—such love that people dance upon the earth. The saints dance in love—and they make others dance. Whoever comes near them is filled with dance.
And however harsh their speech may sometimes seem, however much it falls upon the head like a stone, those who know, know that even when they appear harsh, their voice is nectar. If they pick up chisel and hammer and fall upon you, it is only so that the hardness in you be shattered, the deadness in you be broken. If they break upon you like sculptors, it is only that the rough stone may become a deity.

'What desire could they have? They bear immense pain.
They wander much to ferry beings across.'
They have no desire to hurt you. What could they want? Nothing remains to be gained; having attained God, what remains? Nor is it that they are hard because they are in any suffering—and a suffering man gives suffering to others. Not so. No one can cause them suffering. However much suffering is poured upon them, by the time it reaches them it becomes bliss. You throw a thorn; nearing them it becomes a flower. You hurl abuse; upon reaching them it becomes a song.
A single fixation abides in them—not theirs, but God’s: to awaken, to rouse the sleepers; to free those lost in dream, in nightmare, from their dreams.

'Palatu, upon finding the Satguru, became a servant without remainder.'
The day I found the Satguru, says Palatu, that very day my nirvana happened. Then there was no other nirvana left.
'Das bhaya nirwar'—nirwar has two meanings: certainty, and nirvana. Both point in the same direction. Upon finding the Satguru, certainty dawned that God is. Belief is no more—shraddha has arisen that Ishvara is. If there is Satguru, there is God. Upon finding the Satguru, such certitude was born, such faith awakened, that that very faith became nirvana. Nirvana means: there remains nothing to gain. All that was worth gaining has been gained.

What vision has thrilled my heart?
As if this ordinary dawn carries a different hue today.
The new sun has brought a new light;
why are earth and sky so tremulous, by whose attraction?
What vision has thrilled my heart?
The mind has descended the path of the eyes; a turning has come.
The ring of darkness is melting inside and out.
All unfamiliarity has melted into friendship, into intimacy.
What vision has thrilled my heart?
What transformation of nature’s setting have I seen?
Like the pure milky line of a sleeping jewel’s smile upon the lips—
assuming a new form, it has entered into every ray.
What vision has thrilled my heart?

The day the Satguru is found, the heart is thrilled. That darshan is not only the Satguru’s darshan. The Satguru is a window. Through the window of the Satguru, Paramatma peeks.
What vision has thrilled my heart?
After that vision, the entire world is transformed. For one who has seen God through one window, he begins to be seen in all windows—even in those that are closed. One knows: within is the Lord. Through the open window of the Satguru he was seen; now even passing on the road, the same is seen in all. Granted their doors are closed, but within the same Owner hides.
As if this ordinary dawn carries a different hue today.
The new sun has brought a new light;
why are earth and sky so tremulous, by whose attraction?
What vision has thrilled my heart?
It is all the same in one sense, and yet nothing is the same. The sky is new, the sun is new, the earth is new. New eyes—a new world. New vision—new creation.
The mind has descended the path of the eyes; a turning has come.
The ring of darkness is melting inside and out.
All unfamiliarity has melted into friendship, into intimacy.
What vision has thrilled my heart?
Upon finding the Satguru, the door is found. The boat reaches shore. Assurance and safety arrive. With the Satguru, there is a future; with the Satguru, meaning and rhythm enter life.
What transformation of nature’s setting have I seen?
Like the pure milky line of a sleeping jewel’s smile upon the lips—
assuming a new form, it has entered into every ray.
What vision has thrilled my heart?
Then each ray of the sun brings his news. The gusts of wind carry his message. Trees dance—he dances. The one who has seen him in the Satguru begins to see him everywhere. The first experience is difficult; thereafter, experience after experience; gates upon gates open of themselves.
'Palatu, upon finding the Satguru, became a servant without remainder.
For the sake of others, the saint took incarnation.'

'He who calls Hari and the Hari-jan two—such a man goes to hell.'
Palatu says: whoever calls God and God’s devotee two, goes to hell. Be alert! The devotee becomes God. Do not say two. There, duality does not remain.
'He who calls Hari and the Hari-jan two—such a man goes to hell.
Such a man goes to hell; there is no difference between Hari and his devotee.
As fragrance is in the flower, so abide Hari and the Hari-jan within.'
As fragrance is in the flower—unseen, yet experienced—so, too, in the Hari-jan, in the one who has found God; so, too, in the Satguru. You may not see, may not touch; but if you come near—if you become an upavasi, if you take upadesha, if you allow the Upanishad to happen—you will be filled with fragrance; the invisible will surround you.

'In the form of saints he descends himself; he teaches bhakti, leads the world to the Way.'

The dust of your holy feet—
I hold it in my heart, I bear it in my arms as an offering.
I worship it with closed eyes, gather it in my adornments.
I offer the flower of my tear-moistened longing.
In open eyes, with the dance of pupils,
sometimes it paints unique colors in memory;
sometimes it rocks me in the swings of my eyes that ache.
Will my wanderer not return someday
to the doorway of this courtyard?
Will the beloved tryst not be arranged?
Will this error of mine not be forgiven someday?
The dust of your holy feet.

Surely all is forgiven. This is the trust of bhakti. Nothing is unforgivable. Only the capacity to take the dust of his feet is needed. All becomes forgivable.
The dust of your holy feet—
Will my wanderer not return someday
to the doorway of this courtyard?
Will the beloved tryst not be arranged?
Will this error of mine not be forgiven someday?
The dust of your holy feet.

It surely will be, certainly will be. It happens, and has always happened. This is the law—the eternal law. Whoever bows at his feet... But where will you find his feet? Today the eyes are blind, the hands inert, the sensitivity numb—where will you seek his feet? Seek the Satguru.
Who seeks Paramatma seeks in vain. Who seeks the Satguru is left astonished. In seeking the Satguru, the Satguru is not found—Paramatma is found. And one who seeks Paramatma finds neither Paramatma nor Satguru.
Satguru means simply this: the very Paramatma now manifest in body; standing now in form and figure. The formless you cannot recognize as yet. Befriend form a little first.
The dust of your holy feet—
Become dust at the feet of some Satguru—for now. All will be forgiven.
'He teaches bhakti, leads the world to the Way.'

'And even as he bears incarnation, he remains bound to the three gunas.'
A very sweet saying.
Palatu says: in that sense all are avatars of Paramatma. For we have come from there; we have descended from there. We are all his descents.
'And even as he bears incarnation, he remains bound to the three gunas.'
All are avatars—then what is the difference between the Satguru and others? Just a little difference. The rest are avatars bound by the tri-guna—tamas, rajas, sattva. They are tied. Life is woven like a rope of three strands.
'When he descends in the saint’s form, he remains free of the tri-guna.'
This is the only difference—you are bound by the rope; the saint is free. You are fettered; the saint is unbound. God you are; God he is. You sleep; he is awake. Your hands wear chains; his hands are free. You have built walls around you—of maya, moha, mamatā, lobha, kama, krodha; he has pulled down the walls and come under the open sky.

Palatu says: Hari explained this much to Narada—again and again. For even Narada does not grasp it. Narada sings God’s glories, not man’s; he heads toward the heavens, playing his vina. Palatu says: I tell you, even Narada was explained by God that there is no need to make such a fuss and such long journeys; I am present there, present in all. If even Narada cannot grasp it, do not be surprised if the ordinary cannot.

'He who calls Hari and the Hari-jan two—such a man goes to hell.'
Even by mistake, do not call Hari and the Hari-jan two. Even by mistake, do not think Satguru and Paramatma two. If you imagine even a slight duality there, you will keep wandering—that wandering is called hell. You will keep suffering—that suffering is called hell.

'Your robe has grown old—it may tear today or tomorrow.'
Be careful! It is getting late. Much has already been delayed. Evening is coming on—morning long gone; afternoon passing; the sun about to set.
'Your robe has grown old—it may tear today or tomorrow.'
The garment is worn to shreds—who knows when it may tear—today or tomorrow. Who knows when death will come to the door, when it will knock—who can say!

'Today or tomorrow it will tear—yet you still crave.
All three stages have passed—you did not learn the secret of bhajan.'
You will die today or tomorrow—and yet you do not remember death. You still crave; you still run after things. All will be left behind—everything will remain lying when the fakir sets out. And how long has one? Who knows when the order will come?
Childhood has passed... If only humanity could free itself a little from politicians, pundits, and priests, the secret of bhajan would be known in childhood. As easily and as quickly as a child can know the secret of bhajan, never again will it be so easy. Each day it becomes harder. Knowledge will increase, understanding increase, stiffness increase, ego increase. Layer upon layer of experience, dust upon dust will gather. The mirror will grow grimy each day. The child has a pure mirror. If the secret of bhajan is known then, it is most beautiful. But we do not let the child know the secret of bhajan. We are afraid he will fall into the company of sadhus—then he will be of no use. He must earn money, run the shop, attain position, fulfill our incomplete egos by placing the gun upon his shoulder.
Your fathers fired the gun from your shoulders; their fathers from theirs; you will keep firing from your sons’ shoulders. And the gun is such that it never fires! Perhaps there are no cartridges—or if there are, they are wet—made in Hindustan!
A soldier kept firing in the war with China—but the gun would not fire. He pulled out a cartridge. He was astonished! Had it read 'Made in India,' it would have been understandable—if it fired a miracle; if it did not—Indian, pure desi! But it read: 'Made in U.S.A.' He slapped his head. He told his companion: this is too much! We thought if it were made in our land—well and good; if it did not fire—Indian! But this says 'U.S.A.!' The other said: fool, do you know what U.S.A. stands for? Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association. What is not made in Ulhasnagar! And what can Sindhis not make! And what a name for a place—Ulhasnagar! So U.S.A.—Ulhasnagar Sindhi Association! You cannot even file a legal case.
The gun never fires. The ego is never filled—and cannot be. You did not fill it. Now have compassion; do not hand this stupidity to your children. But all three stages pass—childhood is spent in play, in geography and history—which are all useless. The most meaningful thing is that the child should come to know the secret of bhajan. The rest can follow. I do not say: do not study mathematics, or history, or geography—but all that is secondary. It will give you a livelihood, not life. First learn the scripture of life. A child can drown in bhajan as no other can. The mind is still fluid, pure; he has just come from God’s home; the memory has not yet wholly faded—somewhere the echo remains; there is still a little aura of heaven. That is why every child appears so dear, so heavenly. What depth in his eyes; what purity; what innocence! These are the moments to teach bhajan. If humanity gains some understanding, the first thing for every child will be: teach the secret of bhajan.
Childhood passes in toys. Youth passes in other toys—chasing men and women, gathering wealth, position, building big houses; and all the while you know all will be left behind; and you know well that whatever you wanted—if you got it—you still got nothing; the hands remain empty; the race continues. People do not know the secret of bhajan even in old age—seventy, eighty years—and still rooted in Delhi! They will not budge. Astonishing is how even after death they leave the chair!
I have heard of a man with a terrible constipation. Two months passed—no movement. The doctors were baffled—pouring medicines and injections and everything possible. News came from Germany of a new medicine—no matter how severe the constipation... This man cannot be given an ordinary dose—two months holding on—such a master of restraint! So the entire bottle was given. No news the next day; none the third. The doctor went to see: what happened? Did even the German medicine fail? He asked at the house: how is he? They said: he has died. But he has not left the lavatory yet—evacuation is still going on. The medicine was German... The man died, but first let the evacuation finish—then we will set the bier. We sit with the bier; he sits in the toilet.
Almost this is the state of your leaders. Astonishing—how even in death they leave the chair! They grip so tight—pull as you like, they will not let go. Someone pulls a leg, someone an arm; jostling and shoving; three are seated on a chair made for one!
The years pass, but understanding does not dawn.
Palatu says: there is one understanding in this world—the secret of bhajan. The bliss of bhakti. The art of dancing, absorbed in bhakti, steeped in rasa.

Life has been cut away living on hope—
where now shall I go, leaving thy feet?
You went at dawn; now day is setting.
The fierce sun of age burns without you.
Sometimes I found tidings of you; the heart rejoiced—
clouds gathered upon the sky—but empty clouds.
My eyes keep watching the road—my eyes are tired.
Sharad passed; winter passed; the spring has come.
I hear your restraint and calm have blossomed, borne fruit.
My letters of trust have always been returned empty.
My branch now trembles with sighs.
All the sap is dry, stiffened long ago.
You have met the Lord as if all merits saved;
I remain the only one poor and deprived.
I ask you, humble, eyes filling with water:
will my account remain a zero only?
How long shall I keep such patience?
Life has been cut away living on hope—
where now shall I go, leaving thy feet?

Delusion does not leave—of maya, mamata, moha. And if delusion does not depart, the secret of bhajan eludes. Entangled in the nonessential, we will remain empty, void.
Lift your eyes a little toward the meaningful! Call upon him! Look at the stars a little. Make a connection with the sun. Rise a bit above the petty. Drop toys and playthings. And if somewhere there is one who has attained the sky, do not miss the chance; come into his company; take upadesha; practice upavasa; let the Upanishad happen.
'All three stages have passed—you did not learn the secret of bhajan.'

'From head to toe you have grown white—yet you do not awaken.
You keep piling wealth, you slit others’ throats.'
Even now you keep cutting others’ throats. What are you doing? Gathering wealth. Dying to sit as a serpent upon it, hood raised.

'What will you do then, friend? Death has sent its summons.
No strength will work when the appointed hour arrives.
Palatu says: even then maya and moha will seize you.'
Do you not know that death comes? Every day it comes. Every day a bier is raised; every day you carry someone to the cremation ground—do you not know that yours also will come? The queue grows shorter; those ahead move forward; your number too will arrive. Ten years later or twenty—what difference does it make? As you wasted the rest of your life in stupidity, you will waste the remaining twenty as well.
Whether water or mirage—
what deception can befall me, if there is no deception in my mind?
If the reins of mind are in hand, what then is lacking in company?
How can he be with lord who is not lord of himself?
Wherever my Lord abides, let this heart be his temple.
If thirst is under sway, how will the mind wander?
Will the thorn trouble one who longs to walk the path?
Flowers and thorns are equal provisions for the journey of life.
How can I renounce this world? It is not unworthy of me.
The world is mine—what is there in the world that is not my due?
Let the body be delicate, the mind tender, the feet not fickle.

A small thing must be mastered—that the feet be steady, not staggering like a drunkard; that the body be sensitive, fluid; that the mind be tender; the limbs not restless. A little music must be born in one’s life—and the incomparable event begins. But you keep running after the futile. You have no sense of the meaningful. As if you have no news of the essential. Will you remain with the inessential? Awake!
'Your robe has grown old—it may tear today or tomorrow.
Palatu says: even then maya and moha will seize you.'
Recognize death rightly. Death leaves none. There is no exception to death. Whether it comes late or soon—what difference?
'Your robe has grown old—it may tear today or tomorrow.'
Some hour or other, this body will fall. What provisions are fit to be carried along—what earnings? Or did you only lose, only lose, in life? Did you remain in darkness, or did you taste the dawn? Did you drink the rays of the sun, or did you feed only upon darkness?

Dawn has come—
a ray has awakened in my beloved’s heart, as if it has suffused the particles of the world.
Darkness has been washed away;
The doors of light have opened.
The flame of the wind has become playful;
In the hems of honeyed breezes—
the weight of forms, of water and land, has been gently rocked away.
Shaking the sleeping earth awake—
dawn has come.
The night of loves has passed;
of hues and songs;
of my night’s dewdrops;
of storms and darkness—
the unmanifest falsehoods have gone by.
In the eyelids of dreams, awareness has entered—
dawn has come.
The bud has cracked and given fragrance;
the birds have woken, chattered;
petals of the day have opened;
the face of the sorrowed, separated beloved—
in the heart a meend has formed, the inner fire has flared.
But losing everything, I have gained everything—
dawn has come.

Will you be able to say this at the moment of death?—
But losing everything, I have gained everything—
dawn has come.
A ray has awakened in my beloved’s heart, as if it has suffused the particles of the world—
dawn has come.
If you can say this, you are blessed. If not, unfortunate.
Go blessed! You can go blessed. Learn the secret of bhajan. Bhajan alone is wealth; bhakti alone the treasure—for by that alone Bhagavan is found. Otherwise, all else is a dream. This world is but a dream!
If you become a little alert, you too will be able to say—
Dawn has come—
a ray has awakened in my beloved’s heart, as if it has suffused the particles of the world.
Darkness has been washed away;
The doors of light have opened.
The flame of the wind has become playful;
In the hems of honeyed breezes—
the weight of forms, of water and land, has been gently rocked away.
Shaking the sleeping earth awake—
dawn has come.
The night of loves has passed;
of hues and songs;
of my night’s dewdrops;
of storms and darkness—
the unmanifest falsehoods have gone by.
In the eyelids of dreams, awareness has entered—
dawn has come.
The bud has cracked and given fragrance;
the birds have woken, chattered;
petals of the day have opened;
the face of the sorrowed, separated beloved—
in the heart a meend has formed, the inner fire has flared.
But losing everything, I have gained everything—
dawn has come.

Enough for today.