Sapna Yeh Sansar #13

Cuckoo-like you call,
and pour sweetness into being;
or, in the heart’s deep valley,
with a restless cascade of feeling
you open, peerlessly, a few meanings of the Void.
Who are you?
Vast as the sky
within which, spreading my own wings,
I fly unbound, untiring;
I cross, like a royal swan, without fatigue,
your love-tinged Lake of Mind,
bewildered and enraptured.
What is this fire of longing
that keeps burning, ceaselessly, in the heart,
spreading wider and wider?
What is this rapture that has risen today
from my inner-veena,
that the whole world has begun to glow?
I know: this is the fire you have kindled;
I recognize: this is the raga of love
you have awakened in me.
But when I search for you
in the ocean of the world,
I cannot find the depth;
I cannot find the path
that leads to your divine destination.
Upon consciousness
you rain like a boon of nectar,
and in the heart,
soaked in the sweetness of feeling,
you become music, ever-fresh and lush;
you have hidden yourself
in the creation you yourself composed—
like a mystery no one can untie—
who are you?

The Divine is more manifest than the manifest, more unmanifest than the unmanifest. Nearer than the near, farther than the far. If eyes are open, He is near; if vision is absent, He is far. And we have no eyes. The sun dances at our very door with his seven-colored rays—how will the blind come to know? Or if one sits with eyes shut, with doors fast closed, how will he experience anything? There’s no lack from the side of the sun: no miserliness. The miserliness is ours. We even hesitate to open our eyes. Even if God knocks at the door, we pretend not to hear. And even if we hear, we ignore.

It is not that He has not knocked. There is no door upon which He hasn’t. Not once—again and again. Not many times—innumerable times. Morning, noon, dusk, night. In every state of feeling He shakes you awake: at times in the sun’s rays, at times in the moonbeams; in gusts of wind, in the fragrance of flowers, in birdsong—how many forms He comes in! Our trouble is: we’re unwilling to contain His infinity. We have made little idols. We want Him to come in the form of our idol. We have set conditions—only if You come like this will we accept You. He is not compelled to accept our conditions.

He cannot. If He were to bow to our petty terms, He would cease to be the vast. Our expectations cannot be fulfilled; we must drop expectations. Then suddenly the whole mystery opens. And when I say, “the whole mystery opens,” do not think you will receive answers to all your questions. You receive no answer—not even to one question—but all questions drop. When I say the mystery opens, I mean: all questions fall away. The very questioner dissolves, melts, is absorbed. The mind itself—the soil in which questions sprouted—melts down. That root is cut. Questions fall, and a questionless silence descends. Only in that questionless silence is the What known.

Who are you?
In the mango orchards of life-breath
you call like a cuckoo
and pour in honey;
or in the heart’s deep valley
with a surging spring of feeling
you unveil some peerless meanings of the Void.

No answer will be found to “Who is He?” But the question will fall. And the falling of the question is the whole point. Answers do not help; every answer births fresh questions—ten in place of one. The real joy is when no question arises within you—when even the trace of questioning disappears. That state, devotees call bhajan: where no trace of questions remains. Meditators call it samadhi: where no trace remains. Where questionless, rippleless consciousness is, there all is known.

And let me repeat: when I say all is known, do not imagine you will become very learned, very scholarly. No. When you know all, you become utterly innocent. Erudition will not be found anywhere near you. There will be simplicity—an effortless, spontaneous consciousness will manifest. A sky will open without shore or end. But you will not become the knower; knowledge will not sit in your fist. You won’t remain at all—what remains is a sweetness, a taste of nectar. In every pore will reverberate a soft sound, a sweet tone—the anahata, the Omkar. But you will not be a “knower.” When no answers are possessed, how can you be learned? Where the mystery is experienced, there one becomes innocent. Or, if one becomes innocent, the shower of mystery descends from God’s side.

And remember: the days are few. Time is short. Find the path to become innocent. Find the way to be joined to His mystery.

I cannot find the depth,
nor the path
that leads to your divine abode.
Perhaps we search in the wrong direction. We search outside; hence we do not find the way.

You will have to descend into yourself—that is where the path lies. Down the inner steps of your own heart. Into the well of your own consciousness; the path lies there. Knowing the self is knowing Him. Self-knowledge becomes His knowledge. Yet we search in the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible, the Dhammapada, the Zend-Avesta—where not? We search dead books while He sits alive within you—as your very consciousness. He sits in the seeker as the seeking. He is not a distant target for which you must become an arrow and reach. He is within you—your most interior, your very nature. So long as you search outside, you will not find. When you look within, even if you wish to lose Him, you cannot.

Those who searched outside wandered in vain. Those who searched within laughed at their own and others’ folly: What madness! The treasure lay at home; where all didn’t we roam? At whose doors didn’t we spread our begging bowls? Where weren’t we driven away—“Move on!” Wherever we went: “Move on!” Our hands became beggars’ though we were born emperors.

But time is so little. You must meet this emperor within.

Paltu says:
Life is four days,...

We begged a long life—four days—from the Giver of life, from destiny’s Lord.
We got four days of life:
Two were spent in craving and two in waiting.
Two in desire—sowing seeds of lust and craving; then two waiting for the sprouts, the plants, the flowers, the fruits. People pass life thus: half in desire, half in waiting for desire to ripen. We are all Sheikh Chilli.

You’ve heard the story of Sheikh Chilli!
He slipped into a field to steal. Bajra cobs were ripe; their fragrance was in the air. The farmer was nowhere in sight. Sheikh thought, This chance should not be missed. The plants were tall; he could hide among them. He hid and gathered cobs; filled his bag, delighted. He thought: I’ll sell them in the market, get so much money, buy a hen; she’ll lay eggs daily, soon I’ll buy a cow, then a buffalo... the journey kept extending. Still in the field—just gathering cobs—his mind traveled far. He even thought: With the buffalo’s milk sold and calves raised, I’ll buy this very field. It’s lovely—I’ll buy it. Then fear arose: What if a thief enters my field? What if someone steals my cobs? He said, No one must dare steal from my field! I’ll roar so loud it will carry for miles. And he stood and shouted, “Beware!” The owner arrived; the thief was caught with all the cobs.

The farmer was puzzled: Theft I understand—some theft happens—but why did you stand and shout “Beware”? If you tell me the secret, I’ll let you go, cobs and all. The thief said: Better not ask! Punish me as you like, but I cannot reveal this secret—there’s great foolishness in it. The farmer insisted, so the story had to be told. That is how we know the tale of Sheikh Chilli. Nothing had happened, and the mind had raced from one thing to another—desire sprouting desire.

Two days we spend in craving. No desire’s seed yields the desired fruit. Only when desire’s seed is burnt does the desired come. Yet after sowing, we wait: Now... now spring will come, the season will turn. The craving folk have fashioned proverbs: “In His world there is delay but no denial.” Delay is abundant; since there is no denial, fruit must be coming soon! “When He gives, He tears the roof and pours.” Two days vanish in craving, two in waiting. And we have only four days. In truth, not even four!

Study a human life closely and you’ll find it true: “Life is four days”... Four is symbolic.

In this land, we divided life into four parts—suppose a hundred years. First twenty-five, student—education in gurukul or university. Second twenty-five, householder—shop, marriage, children. Third twenty-five, forest-dweller—aspiring to go to the woods after duties end, children grown. Fourth twenty-five, renunciation—remembering God between seventy-five and a hundred. But who lives a hundred? Even tomorrow is uncertain. Those who think they will renounce at the end will miss. Moreover, those three earlier days you lived wrongly will not leave you easily; they become habit and pursue you to the end.

Hence Mahavira and Buddha wrought a great revolution in this land. There are no more luminous names in our spiritual history. They shattered many things. The division of four ashramas—they cut it to pieces. They said: There are neither four ashramas nor four castes. No Brahmin, no Kshatriya, no Vaishya, no Shudra—all are Shudra; who knows Brahman is Brahmin. And since the future is not assured, renunciation is not tomorrow but today. Not an hour later—now.

India’s priests and pundits have not forgiven them even today—understandably. If renunciation is today, the priest is useless today. What has a sannyasin to do with priests? As a householder you needed priests: thread ceremonies, sacrifices, Satyanarayan tales, festivals—offerings to priests. But if you renounce, absorbed in meditation, what can you give a priest? Renunciation means joining the saints; for one joined to saints, priests are worthless toys. Mahavira and Buddha, by declaring renunciation now, pulled the ground from under the priests’ feet. No wonder the Brahmins’ resentment remains, even after twenty-five centuries.

For twenty-five years as a student, you remained with the pundit—who else would teach grammar and Sanskrit? For twenty-five as householder, again the pundit—birth to death: horoscopes, rituals, marriage. At fifty, counselor to become forest-dweller. And at seventy-five, even your renunciation would be under his guidance—though he himself knows nothing of renunciation.

Mahavira and Buddha broke this math. They said: The foundation of India stood upon the four ashramas and four varnas—break it. But priests did not yield. After Buddha and Mahavira passed, they spread their net stronger, more securely, so no one might break it again. In twenty-five centuries, many tried—Kabir, Nanak, Paltu—but the net did not break.

India’s greatest misfortune is that she lies in the hands of pundits; thus we cannot be freed from the past. Life is short, and the priest’s net vast.

Life is four days—do your bhajan.
Do not postpone to tomorrow. If you wish to remember God, do it now. If one says “tomorrow,” one says “no.” If one says “not now,” one says “never.” God cannot be deferred. Does one defer love? Love longs for now.

What is bhajan? Sitting with cymbals? Repeating “Ram-Ram”? An unbroken reading of His Name? No. Not by such formalities. Bhajan means: your life-energies become drunk with the Beloved; a tune continues within day and night; sitting, rising—a constant remembrance; an undercurrent flows—of God. Whatever you see—see Him in it. Whatever you do—see Him in it. Wherever you go or sit—experience pilgrimage; for He is all-pervading. The earth on which you walk is His; the ground upon which you sit is His.

The whole world is sacred, hallowed—filled with God.
When you speak, speak to Him; when you hear, listen to Him. Let the wind passing through trees remind you of His voice; when the cuckoo calls from afar, feel it is He who calls in the cuckoo’s form. The density of such recognition is bhajan. To sit and mumble set lines is not bhajan; it is parrot-talk, a counterfeit.

Remember: fakes are cheap, free. Bhajan is a rare alchemy; it colors your whole life anew.

If history has reached “it is finished,” then hold to “neti,” O mind!
Having heard “this, and that, and this too,” pay no heed, O mind!
If on imagination’s wish-fulfilling tree no original flower blooms,
likely there is some fundamental mistake with the root;
from root to garland craft a new stair, O mind!
If the nightingale’s throat is nailed by thunderbolts in mango groves,
do not stare at the thunder—become a seed and melt in depths;
from dissolution ask creation’s boon again, O mind!
If the distant swan-call fades, if only echoes come and go,
if heaven is torn and the earth below grows stony and sad,
then in the heart of the void, hear the song of the bottomless, O mind!
No unheard cry remains unheard; the Unseen listens
whenever some instrument sobs;
when there is nothing left to resound,
then practice the solitude, O mind!
...Hold to neti, O mind!

The first process of bhajan: neti-neti—“not this, not this.” Whatever you have valued as valuable—withdraw value from it. Money—say, not this. House—say, not this. Relations—say, not this. With neti-neti, pull out the foundation-stone from the edifice of false values you have built. The day all your so-called, fake, artificial values collapse, you will discover iti-iti—“this, this.” What remains, when man-made values drop, is nature itself: that is it.

“Not this, not this”—is the negation of human valuations. When they’re all negated, what remains—what you did not make; what was before you, is while you are, will be when you are gone; what is both within and without—when only that remains, pure nature, then a resonance rises within: “This indeed, this indeed.” Sarvam khalvidam Brahma: All this is Brahman. That day, it is experienced: all is That.

If history has finished, hold to neti, O mind!
Having heard the endless “this and that,” close your ears, O mind!
If no original flower blossoms upon imagination’s tree,
then surely you have erred at the very root.
From the root to the garland craft a new stair, O mind!

We will have to build a new ladder. The art of building it is called sannyas. You built a world; somewhere a root-mistake happened. You wanted joy, you got sorrow. You wished for flowers, found thorns. As days pass, thorns grow larger, pierce the chest. You hoped for cool shade; you get the scorching noon, rains of fire. You dreamt of sky-flowers; hot embers rain instead.

Look at your own life!
What you think and what you get are opposite. You seek honor; receive insult. Seek song; receive abuse. Somewhere, a basic error. You sow neem and hope for mangoes; neem will yield neem; bitterness will spread, not sweetness.

From root to garland craft a new stair, O mind!
Sannyas means: pull down this house you’ve built. Patching, propping, painting won’t do. Build a new temple of life; change the very foundations. Your present foundations are lust, thought, desire, fantasy; set the foundation on meditation. A temple on meditation’s base is sannyas; a house on thought’s base is the world. Walls of desire will drown you—become tombs. If only you could build with compassion, you’d raise a temple of the Eternal.

If the nightingale’s throat is nailed by thunderbolts in mango groves,
do not stare at the thunder—become a seed and melt in depths;
learn to dissolve—you have learned only to survive. People are busy securing themselves, walling themselves in iron. In the obsession with safety, you have wasted life. Life belongs to those who know how to melt—like a seed. Only when the seed dissolves does it sprout.

From dissolution ask creation’s boon again, O mind!
Blessed are those ready to be immersed. He who dissolves himself in the great energy, who merges like a drop into the ocean—great creativity flowers in his life. Whatever he touches becomes gold. As you are, whatever you touch turns to dust.

If the distant swan-call faded, if only echoes came and went,
if heaven has been rent and the earth has grown stony and sad,
then in the heart of the void, hear the song of the bottomless, O mind!
Bhajan means:
in the heart of emptiness, listen to the song of the unfathomable, O mind!
Bhajan is not to be done; it is to be heard. Become empty, only a listener—and bhajan rises. From your own depths a music will arise and envelop you. From within, flowers will bloom, and you will be drenched in fragrance.

No unheard cry remains unheard;
the Unseen hears whenever some instrument sobs.
But a dry bhajan goes in vain. It needs moistness—the wetness of love. Tears of joy and love are needed in the eyes. When a hymn is sung upon your moist instrument, it is surely heard—the Unseen listens.

The Unseen listens whenever the instrument sobs;
when nothing remains to resound,
then practice the solitude, O mind!
Seek the solitude. There is nothing to say in bhajan. What have we to say? Let us weep. Words cannot say it—tears can. Dance can. Eyes can. Silence can. The still flow of consciousness can. The state of rippleless feeling can. How else?

But people have memorized bhajans like parrots: Hare Krishna, Hare Rama—repeated mechanically. No resonance of feeling; the heart is absent; the skull echoes—dry, not moist.

Life is four days—do your bhajan.
Offer body, mind, and wealth to the saint.
People are ready to offer body-mind-wealth to God—because He neither appears nor demands. “We have surrendered to His feet,” they say, while remaining as they are. High-sounding words are used as crafty cover. They won’t love a human; they love “humanity.” Where is “humanity”? What appears before you is always a human. They say they love the “nation,” “Mother India”—but cannot love their mother; she raises hassles. “Mother India” raises none.

Paintings hung in homes: Mother India seated on a lion, tricolor in hand—as if in a circus! One mother’s love will test you; Mother India demands nothing. Theses of “humanity,” “nation,” “God” are hollow covers.

Paltu puts it straight:
Offer body, mind, and wealth to the saint.
If you wish to relate to God, you must catch hold of Him in a tangible form. That is the touchstone. The saint is God made visible: where Truth has taken a body—where it can be seen, touched, heard; where dialogue and relationship with Truth are possible.

Only then know your bhajan has meaning; otherwise it is hollow chatter. And do not save back anything. The wonder is: the saint wants nothing—not your body, mind, nor wealth. What do you have to give? The saint wants to give you all—but only to those ready to give all. Though in truth you have nothing to give, your readiness is everything.

Gurdjieff’s life records this. He was one of the great masters of the century. A rich man’s wife became his disciple. Formally she said, “I place everything at your feet.” Gurdjieff said, Think it over! Everything? A little frightened, but having said it, she nodded. He said, Bring all your jewels—diamonds, pearls, rubies. Now she panicked—she had spoken as a courtesy. But Gurdjieff took it literally. Sleepless, she confided in a woman resident: “This is going to be costly—millions worth of jewels!” The neighbor said, “Don’t worry. When he told me to give all I had—mine weren’t millions, a lakh or two—I tied them up and gave. Next morning he returned them.” The millionaire’s wife relaxed.

She bundled up everything, brought them that night. The next morning, and the next... nothing returned. She grew anxious. She asked Gurdjieff. He burst into laughter: “Yours will not be returned. Hers were returned because she truly gave; without any expectation. I had to give them back. Yours—where have I received them? You haven’t given—why should I return?” She was aghast: “I gave—and you say you haven’t received?” But Gurdjieff was right.

If you can truly give to the Master, all returns—perhaps a thousandfold; often no giving or taking is needed—the spirit suffices. But dishonesty won’t do.

At last Gurdjieff threw her out: “This is no business. We are engaged in inner revolution. Come when not a trace of expectation remains—not even the hope of return. And even then, I do not promise to return.” She never returned.

Offer body, mind, and wealth to the saint.
The sun is harsher, shade is scant—
at last, this season too has come!
The spell of sleep is broken;
no dream remains beside me.
Much there is to say,
and yet—no real thing to say.
All night what kept opening,
the same veil blushed at dawn.
Dim are the byways of stars,
the roads of sin gleam bright,
thorns remain as ever,
the faces of flowers are pale.
Fragrance wanders, battered,
every limb of the grove is shy.
Up to the door of dusk
the paths of day forsook us;
over the settlement are stretched
black arms like serpents.
Deeper than death’s hue
is the shadow of fair men!
Those who trade in songs
know not the price of pain.
Who will go and tell them
mad lovers are never for sale!
In the palace of darkness,
when did any sun ever fall asleep!
The wheels of time spin too fast—
speak of stopping—how can we?
What broke along the way,
shall we think of it with moist eyes?
Come, let us gather our things—
it’s late; this city is alien now!
We are in a foreign land.
It’s late; this city is alien now!
Come, let us gather our things.
Life is four days—do your bhajan.
Offer body, mind, and wealth to the saint.

Everything comes through the saint; he who wants, the saint can do it.
Ah yes, Paltu says: God hangs upon the saint; God is afraid of saints.
What an astonishing word! You’ve heard: Fear God; become God-fearing. Paltu says: We saw God fearing the saints. We saw God trailing behind saints—like a shadow behind a man. Or say: the saint is God’s visible form—one and the same: the saint is the form; around him, the formless aura.

So, at the saint’s feet all is possible—but only for one ready to dissolve, to surrender wholly.

They are enemies to powers and miracles; saints shun them.
Mark this: how to recognize a saint? Don’t fall for showmen. The first sign of a saint: he has no taste for siddhis or ridddhis—occult powers. He will not produce ash from thin air or “Swiss-made” watches!

Even if powers come to their door, saints drive them away: “Be gone! No need here.”

The Sufis tell:
A fakir attained supreme meditation. An angel descended: “Ask a boon; God is pleased.” The fakir said, “Take the road! When I had needs, where were you? Now I have none—why come? Don’t waste my time or yours.” The angel insisted: “Ask, if not for yourself, then for others: let the blind see at your touch; the sick be healed; the dead rise—people will gain faith, devotion will surge.” The saint said, “Sounds right—but there is danger. Pride may arise: that I restored sight; that I raised the dead. My neck may stiffen.” The angel wouldn’t give up. The saint said, “Then grant the boon to my shadow—let my shadow heal, not I; let me never know.” It is said that from then he kept running—lest he see what his shadow did. The dead rose, dry trees blossomed, the blind saw—but the saint never knew, for he never stopped to look.

This is the mark of the fakir:
They are enemies to powers and miracles; saints shun them.
He knows Indra’s throne and heaven itself as filth.
Offer incessant bhakti; thirst only for the Name.

Their entire attention is in one thing—what heaven, what Indra’s throne! An unbroken stream of joy flows within; a dance and song go on. Heaven must be yearning to enter them—why should they yearn to go to heaven? Indra’s throne longs to touch their feet—why should they care for it? For them there is only one tune—Hari’s Name. One thirst.

Ah yes, Paltu says: Saints desire not liberation—of what use is such a trifle!
Here devotees surpass meditators. The meditator desires moksha—freedom from bondage. The devotee says: If the bonds are Yours, why should I worry? If You have given them, I am content; even Your fetters are beloved. Wherever You place me, I am content. Liberation is trivial; Your given bondage is great.

Ah yes, Paltu says: Saints desire not liberation—of what use is such a trifle!
Scriptures speak, not saints...
Dear words! Meditate well upon them; let their juice pervade your every pore.

Scriptures speak, not saints...
Saints have nothing to do with scriptures; Agama-Nigama are useless to them. Vedas, Quran, Bible hold no essence. They are maps; maps are not the land. A map of India is not India; a picture of the Himalayas is not the Himalayas. The saint has found the Real—why care for maps?

Scriptures speak; flatterers recite them.
Scriptures are the trade of bards and pundits who exploit tradition, inflate your ego with praises of the past. The saint’s very being is scripture: silent—scripture; speaking—scripture; walking—scripture; sitting—scripture.

Saints do not dispense medicines; that is the physician’s work.
Yet in this land a delusion is rife: people go to saints for illness, for jobs, for business!

Just two days ago a young man said to me: “Only two boons I seek—both material prosperity and spiritual prosperity.” Others were present, so I said nothing; otherwise I’d have told him: looking at your face, you will get neither. If forced to pick one, he would choose material first; spiritual he added only to please me. His very face bore the grime that clings to money-lovers—like the dirty currency notes that change a thousand hands.

Note—currency circulates. T.B. patients, cancer patients, flu—people cough and sneeze on the notes they carry; notes pass hand to hand. What can be dirtier? And those who love money become like those notes—faces lose the freshness of flowers. If flowers are the freshest thing in the world, money is the filthiest. Those who love flowers, a little of that freshness appears in their faces.

Yet in this country people think they are spiritual—they visit temples and so-called saints, while their intentions are grossly material. If you call Indians materialistic, they are offended; but their demands betray the truth.

Paltu says:
Scriptures speak; flatterers recite them.
Saints do not dispense medicines; that is the physician’s work.
Charms and talismans are the exorcist’s craft.
Ah yes, Paltu says: Without a saint, all “Rama-Name” is pretense.
Without the saint, your calling “Rama” is futile. Only in the presence of one who knows Rama does remembrance become meaningful; otherwise not.

Preening, this is how an owl speaks today to a royal swan:
“Listen, son! I speak blunt truth, always.
In royal mansions I dwell daily;
you—today—you search in ponds.
Perhaps in some bygone age
you pecked real pearls;
now even wax pearls fetch high prices.
You carry whose vehicle I trade in him;
all printing presses are mine,
all libraries mine.
Into my hands are sold all seekers of speech;
all learned men bow to my tongue.
Whose vehicle I am—that one rules the world today;
the wise society dances to his signals.
You too become a courtier of crows and cranes;
why do you, simpleton, dream of Manas lake?
Become the bard of my clever mistress now;
better to sing her glories
than to rot in village ponds.
All strings of speech today sing her praise:
listen, son—hail, hail my goddess without end!”

Owls lecture swans!

Pundits and priests are blind like owls even in daylight; yet they teach the world: do as we do; perform our rituals; memorize our scriptures; join our chorus; abandon your dreams of the Lake of Mind!

But your life-breath cannot be satisfied by owls’ talk. It will dream the Manasarovar. Keep dreaming it. If ever you find one who knows that Lake—cling to his company. In his presence your journey toward the Divine will begin.

Ah yes, Paltu says: Without a saint, all “Rama-Name” is pretense.
Without a guide who has arrived, you will not reach. Many will mislead and obstruct—because your being lost serves their interest. Only one without self-interest can help you arrive—when self is gone, what self-interest remains?

A little respect—and you go mad!
A little money—and you lose control!
A little knowledge—and you learn to preach!
A little fame—and you mock the world!
A little beauty—and you smash the mirror!
A little power—and you ruin others!
Thus,
your whole life
you kept filling water with a sieve—
and thought you did great work!
The pundit’s life is like filling a sieve. Much effort—but a sieve holds no water. The intellect never becomes intelligence; intelligence flowers in the heart. And the door to the heart is not logic nor scripture, but love and bhajan.

The child of God and God are one in the essence of the Word.
If within you the essence of the Word resounds—if the Omkar becomes audible—then you will know. It is always resounding, but the market-noise of thought drowns it. Remove scriptures and words; then the essence of words, the essence of essences, becomes available.

The child of God and God are one in the essence of the Word.
That day you will know there is no difference between the saint and the Divine. What is ocean in God is a drop in the saint—drop and ocean are one.

In the saint’s court, whatever he wills, he does.
What Buddhists call the Buddha-field of energy, fakirs call the “saint’s court.” Emperors’ courts trade in trifles; fakirs hold true courts—for the real treasure that once found is never lost: thieves cannot steal, fire cannot burn, death cannot snatch.

In the saint’s court, whatever he wills, he does.
He unites you with the Name at once—if you are ready, in a single stroke.

Ah yes, Paltu says: The redness of henna hides within the leaf.
As the henna’s redness hides in the green leaf—unseen until you grind—it is so with Hari within each person. Grind a bit!

In the saint’s court you are the henna leaf. He grinds you—melts your ego, burns your rubbish, refines you into pure gold. The hidden redness begins to show—if you are ground.

Ah yes, Paltu says: The redness of henna hides within the leaf.
God is not far. He is hidden within your leaf—upon every leaf His signature.

The world’s trade is compound interest.
Priests run a business in the name of religion; and no business runs so easily as religion’s—because it deals in the invisible. You cannot see or weigh it; scales may be empty, yet you are made to think your bag is filling.

The world’s trade is compound interest.
They are immersed in illusion—using devotion as a pretext.
They haven’t known a whit of dispassion.
Ah yes, Paltu says: A rogue son is born, and he stains the lineage.
Wake up from religious business! Those who haven’t known are breeding others; those who haven’t received are “bestowing” upon others; those who have nothing, “instruct” on borrowed authority.

Swami Ram returned from America—one of India’s rare gems in this century. In the West he was revered; people went mad with love—there was something: a deep taste. Back in India he thought to begin at Varanasi. What happened shocked him. After five-seven minutes of speaking, a great Kashi pundit stood up: “Stop! Do you know Sanskrit?” Ram did not. Born in Punjab, educated in Lahore—he knew Persian and Urdu, not Sanskrit. The pundit laughed; the audience laughed. “No Sanskrit—and you prattle Brahma-knowledge! First learn grammar!” Ram was so dismayed he abandoned the idea of touring India—went to the Himalayas, even shed ochre robes—what value have ochre robes in a land where Sanskrit is thought equivalent to knowing Brahman?

This happens often—people value the irrelevant: language, grammar, logic, numbers. Knowing is something else—experience.

That day,
I went to the riverbank—
who knows what seized the water—
the water drank me
drop by drop,
and I,
drinking the water,
danced in its waves
all night long,
along with the waves
read the signs of the stars!

You need the art of diving—so that not only you drink the Divine, the Divine drinks you.

And I,
drinking the water,
danced in its waves
all night long,
along with the waves
read the signs of the stars!
What Vedas, what Quran! Signs are in the stars; in your every breath. But those who have no sign of devotion, no color of love—who don’t even know worldly raga properly, who ran away half-baked. Like pots escaping the kiln before firing, our so-called sannyasins are unbaked. A splash and they melt. Without raga ripened, how will vairagya be born? Vairagya is raga’s final flowering. Buddha became dispassionate because raga ripened him; Mahavira, too. All twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras were princes—well-cooked by raga. It seems paradoxical—but life’s law is thus: without fire, gold is not purified.

A donkey
wearing a tiger-skin
is just a proverb—
a lie.
But even if I strip your clothes,
inside I see, clearly,
snakes, jackals,
wolves and vultures...
“The jungle wearing a human skin”—
that is the truth!
Donkeys don’t have the sense to don tiger-skins—but men do. They wear the robe of scholarship. Yet even in a tiger-skin the donkey brays; all is exposed. Scratch a pundit—out leap the beasts. A whole jungle is concealed within.

Why? Because we run from the world unripe. Hence I do not tell my sannyasins to leave the world. I say: vairagya will come—wait a little; be brave; pass through the fire of raga—only then vairagya ripens. Raga’s ultimate consummation is vairagya. Without raga, there would be no Buddha.

Last night,
I
would surely have become Gautam Buddha—
ignorant as I was,
I would have become wise and awakened—
but I could not.
I could not wear exile
as a garment—
I was not Siddharth,
only ordinary.
In body-mind, in matter-spirit,
there was no ultimate truth.
I could not leave home,
for I had not that much grit.
At noon
I sat at leisure upon my chariot,
and, like some accidental renunciate,
set out upon Pataliputra’s royal road.
Instead of horses my senses were yoked,
instead of a charioteer my self-interest sat.
As we crossed a crossroads
a long shining car,
a cloud of dust—
beyond the veil of dust
deodars and kachnars smiled like gods.
My inner self filled with temptation—
Alas, when will this be my lot?
Charioteer, turn my chariot back!
I have nowhere to go.
First, go home and eat,
then hurry to part-time tuitions,
get the puncture fixed, open a bank account.
Charioteer, turn my chariot back!
I have nowhere to go.
In the evening
dragging my tired, worn-out existence,
petting and beating the horses,
consumptive, weak and limp,
I returned
toward my palace.
Along a path beside the road
on the school ground’s lane,
a healthy, handsome youth
with a well-built body—
his strong hands, legs and neck,
his contours and growth—
I burned with envy:
Alas, when will this be my lot?
Charioteer, turn my chariot back!
I have nowhere to go.
First to Doctor Pahade
for medicine,
then to the gym for exercise.
Charioteer, turn my chariot back!
I have nowhere to go.
At night,
in milk-white clothes with a few jewels,
jasmine garland around the jewels,
eyes drunk with a bottle or two,
passing the brothels of Bhindi Bazaar,
grazing on scenes with roving eyes,
seeing two naked stone idols of the Stone Age
revealed in darkness,
their deeds exposed—
I drowned in lust:
Alas, when will this be my lot?
Charioteer, turn my chariot back!
I have nowhere to go.
First go to the in-laws and fetch Yashodhara,
have her jewels made,
get salwars stitched,
kurtis cut,
and
enroll Rahul in school.
Charioteer, turn my chariot back!
I have nowhere to go.
So last night,
I
would surely have become Gautam Buddha—
ignorant,
I would have become wise and awakened—
but I could not.
I could not wear exile as a robe—
I was not Siddharth.
And lest I someday become—
if my eyes stay open—
therefore
I have put on dark glasses,
and
lest I run away at night,
I have locked the door from inside.
No—without knowing raga well, becoming its witness, vairagya does not descend. Your runaway sannyasins cannot show you dispassion.

They haven’t known even a touch of dispassion.
Ah yes, Paltu says: A rogue son is born, and he stains the lineage.
These false, unbaked runaways have stained the very name of sannyas. Sannyas has to be given freshness again, health again—because sannyas is the supreme flower of this earth. The day sannyas leaves, nothing remains worth living for. Sannyas is poetry, dignity, glory.

But one must pass through the fire of raga for vairagya to ripen; through the difficulties of the world for the flower of sannyas to bloom. Only by weathering tempests does the boat reach shore. Storms are the touchstone.

He took off a turban worth six or seven coins,
and received a shawl worth sixty rupees!
Touch the ground with your head; give a little; shave your head—
Ah yes, Paltu says: If you need an occupation, search for this one!
A grand business runs in religion’s name. People “renounce”—what do they have to renounce?

He took off a turban worth six or seven coins—
removed a six-anna turban,
and—
received a sixty-rupee shawl!
I knew a man, a homeopathic doctor. Practice didn’t run; I never saw a patient there—only neighbors came to read newspapers. One day he renounced. He had nothing to renounce—no wife, no children; he hadn’t the money to marry; parents dead; the clinic failing. Years later I met him—he was “highly respected,” and at every turn: “I kicked away lakhs.” After others left, I said: At least not before me. I know your clinic. You had sixty-two rupees in the post office—how you managed even that, a miracle. You speak of lakhs! He scowled; truth is not tolerated. Since then he speaks against me whenever possible—and keeps saying he kicked away lakhs. People give respect in proportion to the renunciation they imagine.

Look at the sadhus at Kumbh—did they have anything to renounce? Yet by renouncing two-paisa things they become great renouncers.

Shaved the head—what great art is that? Kneel and pray—so what?

Ah yes, Paltu says: If you must do business, this is the business to seek!
It costs nothing and pays rich dividends. No investment, no interest—only know how to talk. People take chatter for Brahma-knowledge. Learn a few couplets of Tulsidas, a little Gita, some puranic tales—you’re a sage.

No labor could be done, so he shaved his head.
Now he eats for free, without effort.
When he saw how much respect this yields—after giving up nothing—men even give up clothes. Perhaps they were torn and borrowed anyway. They go naked—because naked sadhus get great honor: “supreme renunciation.” We have such foolish notions. Fast long—great renunciate! Stand naked in the sun—great renunciate!

We have made renunciation uncreative. Let someone create a song, pluck a veena, awaken the anahata—no one cares. We care how many fasts he has done. We don’t care how many hearts were lit by his music, how many lamps in the soul he kindled. We care if he is clothed or naked, whether he filters water, whether he eats or not. Cunning men have given us these yardsticks—because they can fulfill them. To play Deepak Raga is not easy—only a Tansen; to awaken the sleeping soul—not easy—needs a Buddha, Kabir or Nanak—or Zarathustra, Jesus. But to starve, stand naked, shave the head, cross the legs—any fool can do that.

We must redefine sannyas. Because of thin definitions, thin people are honored; those worthy of honor remain invisible to us. Wherever creativity flowers, where life and world are made more beautiful, where rainbows are brought down from sky to earth; where there is dance and celebration—there honor should go. Where inner richness overflows, where in someone’s presence God shades you; where love showers; where the tavern of the mystics stands open—there we must bow. Only then can we restore sannyas to its true glory.

Ah yes, Paltu says: With blows and threats they force-feed as “sons of Rama.”
Have you seen sadhus at your door? They clash their tongs loudly—spreading fear, with tales: if you refuse, a curse—like Durvasa’s wrath—your births will be ruined. Better give two rotis and be rid of him. Such beggar-sadhus have made you lose the eyes to recognize true sannyas. These are not sons of Rama but blemishes. Rama’s sons are rare—you must pass through fire to be one.

O you who sway on scent and honey,
and hum only on the pollen’s fringe!
You know only this:
that touched by the sun’s delighted rays,
at dawn,
I bloomed suddenly,
became
flowering,
dewy,
tingling with thrill.
The young bees do not know
how much anguish
I endure through the night
to flower in the morning—
how upon every petal
I compose color, melody, pollen,
taking on the pain of blossoming,
pouring all my rasa-splendor
into a single bud,
I open...
becoming a flower from a bud,
choosing every instrument of beauty,
all night long unsleeping.
In the night when all are asleep,
in every watch of that night
with all my life I stay awake,
crafting a new world of form and youth.
I am not only a lotus,
I am a poet—creator.
How would the connoisseurs know
that creation is made of blood?
How can any intoxicated bee imagine
what anguish through the night
a lotus endures
to become a flower?
Sannyas is not cheap! Fragrance is not free. Through much pain the flower’s scent is born. From mud to lotus is a long journey—the name of that journey is sannyas.

Enough for today.