Sapna Yeh Sansar #17

What need of an introduction for us mad ones?
With a little relish in the heart, a little longing in the eyes,
with some ache and a hushed moan,
with a touch of pain, with a secret burn,
raw beginners, we set out on a new path, bartering away our very love...
What need of an introduction for us mad ones?

Carrying a tale of sweet forgetfulness,
a bit of youth’s innocent folly,
a little mist of tears still in the eyes,
we, defeated at home by our own,
went forth today to conquer the world...
What need of an introduction for us mad ones?

We walked on, raising thorns in our way,
we walked on, laying flowers at the feet of life,
we walked on, flinging up dust into the sun,
we squandered our ecstasy, while saving a few secret dreams...
What need of an introduction for us mad ones?

We walked on with a faith forever fresh,
with the noose of pain woven into our breath,
with the longing to die and disappear,
dying each moment, yet making our dwelling in love’s immortal heart...
What need of an introduction for us mad ones?

We drink and we offer the cup,
we lose and we let others lose,
we vanish and we cause vanishings;
in this tiny world-stage we enter the forest, die, rise again — and act...
What need of an introduction for us mad ones?

This coming and going is eternal,
what is one’s own and what is other?
In the Beloved all are destined to be one;
in so brief a life, only this much did we resolve...
What need of an introduction for us mad ones?

...Within this small resolve is contained the essence of a whole life...
This coming and going is eternal,
what is one’s own and what is other?
In the Beloved all are destined to be one;
in so brief a life, only this much did we resolve...
What need of an introduction for us mad ones?

Let life be short — the resolve need not be. With this resolve life becomes eternal. With this resolve, life is no longer small; it becomes vast. With this resolve you cease to be a drop — you become the ocean. The very name of this resolve is sannyas.

Let there grow within you a dense certainty: to be entangled in the fleeting is to lose oneself; to lose oneself in the Eternal is to find oneself. So much determination, so clear a resolve — and a revolution happens in life. Then even in the marketplace you are no longer of the marketplace. In the crowd — yet not of the crowd. Alone amidst the many; seated in the cave of inner emptiness even at the bazaar’s noisy crossroad. Then, in the crowd of thoughts, your heart remains untouched. Doing everything — and yet a non-doer. And this state of non-doing in the whirl of action, this zero-like silence of the non-doer amidst the cyclone of karma — this is siddhi, the supreme goal of sadhana. Toward this goal are Palatu’s sutras today —

Drop by drop the bees bring nectar, store the honey.
One comes, empties it all out — leaves them with sorrow.

Dispassion was born in me seeing that very sight.
Ah yes, Palatu says: Maya is an evil calamity — I left it after testing it with my own eyes.

The honeybee gathers honey drop by drop. And then comes the honey-collector — he sets the hive on fire! What thousands of bees gathered drop by drop, a single torch-bearer comes, sets a flame, and plunders it all away.

Palatu says: Such is life. You gather little by little; then death arrives — shakes everything out of your hands and departs. Bees may not understand; they can be forgiven. But you — even you cannot be forgiven.

It may even happen that a hive escapes the hands of gatherers; but you will not escape death. Not every hive gets robbed. In the far branches of remote mountains, many a hive remains beyond the reach of man. But who is beyond the reach of death? Cross seven seas, hide in the caves of the mountains, descend into the netherworld — death will arrive everywhere.

Death arrived the day you were born. From that very day it has been walking behind you like a shadow. Wherever you go, it reaches. Death does not happen on the outside; it grows within. It is woven into each breath. It is arriving in the heartbeat of your heart. Every throb is the fall of its footsteps; every breath draws it closer. Do what you may — sleep or wake, linger in the market or in the temple — it makes no difference; death draws nearer with each passing moment. Whatever you gather will be taken away.

Drop by drop the bees bring nectar, store the honey.
How much toil the bees endure! They wander over thousands upon thousands of flowers, gather pollen grain by grain, travel miles — only then does a honeycomb take shape, only then does it fill. And in a single instant it is looted. Not even two moments are needed for the pillage.

One comes, empties it all out — leaves them with sorrow.
Who is that One? It is death. The house you have built is nothing but a honeycomb. You bring and heap things in it through great effort — wealth, position, prestige — great struggle, fierce competition, burning jealousy, envy... a throat-choking race. It is not easy. Bees perhaps gather fragrance from flowers more easily than a man can gather anything in man’s world, for all are ambitious. Inflamed ambition, terrible struggle. Then somehow you snatch and bring home a little. And the irony is: death will snatch everything away. You gather, and death will empty. This gathering is great foolishness! A pot destined to crack — why waste time filling it?

Dispassion was born in me seeing that very sight.
Palatu says: Seeing the bees and seeing their hives looted, dispassion — vairagya — arose in me. Whoever has recognized death will find that dispassion happens. Meeting death eye to eye is the birth of vairagya. Whoever looks closely at life will find death hidden behind it. Life is like a veil; behind it sits death. Life is like a lattice screen; behind it sits death. Wherever you lift the curtain, you find death concealed. And death wears many disguises; thus we are befooled. But one who looks a little attentively will not be deceived. When the deception breaks and one thing becomes clear — that whatever you gather in this life will not go with you; your hands will remain empty, your breath will depart unfilled — if dispassion does not arise then, what else will?

Raga says: “Loot as much as you can; fill yourself to the brim; consume as much as you may — this is the great chance to enjoy.” Vairagya says: “No matter how much you fill, death will empty it. Therefore all the labor of filling is wasted. Seek instead that which death cannot seize.” Vairagya means: find the wealth that can go with you beyond death, that the funeral pyre cannot burn, that no weapon can pierce. And such wealth exists!

But those who remain entangled in the transient miss the Eternal.

Once a man said to Ramakrishna: “You are a great renunciate.” Ramakrishna replied, “No, no, my friend — do not say such a thing. The great renunciate is you.” The man was startled. He was the wealthiest man in Calcutta. Pleasure and color were his life; indulgence was his yoga. He said, “What are you saying? Is this a joke, a taunt? You call me — a pleasure-seeker — a renunciate? You are the great renunciate.” Ramakrishna said, “No, I have held the Eternal; you have clutched the fleeting. Now tell me — who is the renunciate? I have sought that which death cannot take away; you are holding on to that whose loss is certain. You are the renunciate; you have abandoned the Eternal and grabbed the momentary.”

I have heard of a man begging on the seashore. His way of begging was unique. Whoever came before him would hold out a rupee note, a ten-rupee note, a hundred-rupee note — and in the other hand a ten-paisa coin — and say, “Choose!” He would always choose the ten-paisa coin. People laughed, mocked: “We have seen many fools, but never one like this! He leaves the hundred-rupee note and picks a ten-paisa coin!” For years he went on doing this. People wondered if he would ever grow wise. One day, seeing him alone, a man asked, “Brother, I have known you twenty years; you do the same trick. At first we thought you did not know the value; but now you know perfectly well the difference between a rupee, ten, and a hundred — yet you always leave the notes and pick the coin. People ridicule you.”

The beggar laughed, “Since you ask, I’ll tell you — but don’t tell anyone else! I also know what a note is. But if once I chose the note, the game would be over. Who would come again to play? These fools come precisely because they think I am a fool! For twenty years this business has gone well. I make ten to fifteen rupees a day — what more is needed? If even once I picked the note and left the ten paisa, the business would end. How many days would that one note last? This has been going on for twenty years, and will continue while I live. Don’t take me for a fool; the fools are the ones who come to tempt me with a note and a coin.”

The world is strange. Who is the fool? Not so easy to decide. Each has his own definitions.

Ask the worldly and he will say: the spiritual man is a fool — leaving the taste and color of life, the raga of it. Ask Charvaka: he will say, “You are mad! Borrow if you must, but drink ghee. For who returns from the dead? Who is there to repay?” Nothing remains, whether you do good or bad. You yourself do not remain — what will remain in your hands? When even the hand does not remain — if you must steal, borrow, deceive — do not worry; let loose! Deceive, steal, be dishonest — all is permitted — but enjoy! Four days of moonlight — then the dark night.

In Charvaka’s view the spiritual man is a fool. Though few of you would label yourselves Charvaka’s disciples, my observation is that in this world ninety-nine out of a hundred are. Whether you go to temple, mosque, church, or gurdwara — it makes no difference. Within, the state is to clutch the transient. One who walks toward the Eternal — you laugh at him inwardly: “Mad! Crazy! What Eternal? Is there anything beyond death? All is here.” For fear’s sake, out of anxiety, sometimes you offer two flowers at a temple — who knows, if there is a beyond, at least one can say one offered two flowers, prayed once, called on Jesus, invoked Krishna. Something to remember at that time! Do a little something. Give once to a beggar, feed once the hungry — gather a little merit too. If survival is demanded beyond death, in whatever form, then collect some bank balance for the other world also. But trust — none has it that there is a beyond.

Your life does not testify to trust; it testifies otherwise. Your behavior declares: all is here.

On this shore, beloved, there is wine — and you.
Who knows what will be across?
This moon that rises into the sky, it eases a little the heat of life;
these whispering branches lull some grief from the heart;
these buds, fated to wither tomorrow, laugh as though saying, “Be absorbed now”;
the bulbul on the tree’s tip sends messages of youth.
You hand me cups of wine, and my heart is consoled —
but across — who knows what therapy will be?

In the world, rivers of rasa flow; the tongue receives but two drops.
Life’s shimmering pageant glimmers before the eyes;
a vina rings of rhythm and tone — to me comes only the reverberation;
the fragrance of my flowers the wind steals away.
I hear that across, beloved, these means will be taken away —
then on what will human awareness rest?

There is a cup — but shall we drink? We do not know that much.
On this shore destiny has sent us so incapable.
It is said by some that we are always free in karma;
but who knows, as we who act know, how enslaved action is!
We can say it; by saying we lighten the heart a bit.
Across, what will be the right of the hapless human?

When nothing was done against him, he sowed thorns on our path.
He set loads upon our shoulders we carried weeping.
Inside the palaces of our dreams he filled the truth of ruined ruins.
He stirred such turmoil within, we slept not two nights in joy.
Now all our life we have cursed that cruel hardness —
across, what will be destiny’s behavior with man?

In the life of the universe, O fair one, such hours will come
when the sun’s light-vanquishing rays will hide in darkness itself;
when the beloved’s corpse night will cover with its black cloth —
then how many days will earth, nursed by sun and moon, fare well?
When the existence of this broad, long world will no longer remain —
what will be of our tiny world — yours and mine?

Such an endless autumn will come, the cuckoo will no longer coo;
the bulbul will no longer sing in the dark to kindle life’s lamp.
The countless soft new leaf-sounds will not be heard again;
no bee or beetle will come to hum upon the petal-cluster.
When such melodious sounds end, beloved —
what will be the outcry of our dry throats?

Hearing the thunder of mighty Time, the waterfall will forget to dance;
the stream will forget its ripple; the river its gurgling song.
The singer-hero, the ocean itself, will wish to hide in silence.
The gandharvas, apsaras, kinnaras will stand open-mouthed.
In whom music lived become silent —
then of the strings of your vina, breath — what will be?

Before these eyes appear the jasmine garlands you wore —
see, the gardener is snatching the ornaments of the tender vines.
In two days the crimson sari of dawn will be pulled away;
how many days will the rainbow’s seven-coloured drape remain?
When the embodied splendors of beauty are plundered —
what of the poet’s imagined adornments, his dreams?

As far as we see — the ocean of darkness heaves;
yet across, someone stands, calling, drawing us all.
I set out today; you will come tomorrow; the day after, all our companions.
The world weeps and laments — but he who must go, goes.
My heart staggers even at the shore’s slight ripples —
when I reach alone midstream — what will be?

On this shore, beloved, there is wine — and you.
Who knows what will be across?

Trust in the across does not arise — how could it, when no glimmer of it has entered our eyes? We are so entangled on this shore; we have driven so many pegs into this bank — of desires and cravings — our eyes are so filled with this side that who will lift them far? Who has the leisure, the time, the chance? As little insects build their homes in the soil, so do we build houses in the dust. Until there has been a vision of death, all our homes are made of dust. When the vision of death dawns, the search for ambrosia begins.

Palatu is right —
Dispassion was born in me seeing that very sight.

If there are eyes to see, vairagya will certainly arise. Only the blind can be spared vairagya. Only the deaf can be spared. Whoever has eyes that truly see, and a mind that truly ponders — dispassion will find him at some excuse or another.

Palatu says: Watching bees gather honey, and one day watching the honey-robber arrive — dispassion happened to me.

You may say, “From so small a thing?”

Lao Tzu’s dispassion arose seeing a dry leaf fall from a tree. A dry leaf was falling... Lao Tzu saw it fall and remembered: “My turn to fall will also come! How long can one remain green?” That leaf had been green till yesterday, filled with sap; birds sang around it; bees buzzed; bumblebees swayed; today it is dry. Today no bird will sing here, no bee will come, no butterfly will fly. Sapless now, uprooted from the source — it falls. It will hit the earth and be earth again. It rose from dust and has returned to dust.

Lao Tzu saw: What are we? Green today, dry tomorrow. Drunk with youth today, tomorrow it all disappears. Nothing remains. That was enough — dispassion happened.

I have heard of a supreme sadhu in Bengal. He had been a High Court magistrate, retired. He went for a morning walk. The sun was about to rise. Inside a house a woman was awakening her younger brother-in-law: “Lala Babu, get up! It’s already very late. Morning has come; the sun is about to rise; this is not a time to sleep — Lala Babu, rise now!” She had no idea that an old man was passing outside. The old man, Lala Babu, walking stick in hand, heard the words. The hush of dawn, fresh air, mind stilled after a night’s rest — in a propitious hour the words fell into his ears: “Lala Babu, get up. How long will you sleep? It is already too late; the sun is about to rise!” And a revolution happened. He did not go home. “Yes,” he thought, “the time to rise has come. It is near morning; the sun is about to rise. Life was night — it has passed; now death comes. Let me do something. Let me prepare.” He took to the forest path.

The family heard and ran after him. “What has happened?” He said, “Nothing has happened — only that I understood: ‘Lala Babu, get up! It is already too late; the sun is about to rise!’” They could not understand. “Why do you repeat suddenly: ‘Lala Babu, get up’?” He said, “Not suddenly — the message of the Divine arrived. Some woman was awakening her brother-in-law — she may never know — but by what pretext the Divine calls, who can tell?”

Palatu says: Dispassion arose in me watching the bees. Drop by drop they gather; how much labor! Thousands of bees, and then a comb fills. Then a man comes with a torch and robs it! Just so we set up life — then death arrives with the torch of the pyre and plunders all.

Ah yes, Palatu says: Maya is an evil calamity — I left it after testing.

And he says something of great price: I did not leave maya just by hearing someone else. “After testing” — from my own experience, by knowing, by waking, in awareness. This dispassion is not borrowed. Not from the tales of some renunciates. Not because someone explained and I agreed. I saw, I knew, I probed; I recognized the futility, the insubstantiality of life — then this dispassion bore fruit.

We set out with restless hearts, pain in the breath, tears in our eyes...
We mad ones, cutting through the prison-walls of ages...
We carried steadfast love, a scar in the heart, a flame in the sigh...
We carried a strange, unmatched, off-key song...
We carried one pride, one longing, one storm...
We moths, from the world, carried our own fuel for burning and dying...
We carried one sob, one breath, one soaring exhalation...
We carried a thirst that a hundred births cannot quench...
We gave a moment’s caress to an unfamiliar soul and passed on...
We revelers did the business of ecstasy in this world...
We crushed our own desires and staked all on the gamble of loss or gain...
We sometimes made cry, sometimes made laugh, carrying a want...
We swayed and bent, with a hint of the hurricane upon us...
We set out with the faith to die anywhere for someone...
We burned the Holika of life and played Holi with Death...
Beyond sin and virtue we carried our love and our dispassion...
Where were we going? How can we say? We walked where a path opened...
Wherever we passed, some “ah!”, some “oh!” followed us...
We went on, for we had found the company of travelers...
We met a little of their color, a little of their style...
We broke ties with the world and tied one with the One...
We left all good and bad of this life, right here, this very day...

Look and you’ll see: ties with the many will begin to loosen, ties with the One will begin to form. Seeing, recognizing, you’ll start seeking satsang.

We went on, for we had found the company of travelers...
We met a little of their color, a little of their style...
We broke ties with the world and tied one with the One...
We left all good and bad of this life, right here, this very day...

An inner state is dispassion. An attitude of non-possessiveness — “Nothing here is mine.” Play, act, throw the dice, lay out the chessboard — but keep remembering: all the horses are false, all the elephants false! It is play. Do not clutch in dead seriousness. Whoever becomes serious is attached; whoever remains non-serious is detached. Whoever rises and goes, and does not look back — that one is the dispassionate.

A bed of blossoms spread, the palace steeped in color;
attar and oils perfumed, embraced by beauty.
Asleep with her to the breast — supreme delight.
Ah yes, Palatu says: The child knows not Death’s noose is round his neck.

People spread flowers, make soft beds; scent themselves with perfumes; they adorn dreams with beautiful men and women. Embracing beauty, they think: “All is attained.” But this body is bones, flesh, marrow — only dust’s play.

Ah yes, Palatu says: The child knows not Death’s noose is round his neck.

What you call love is death’s net. What you call embrace is death’s very arm around your neck.

Palatu says: Do not be childish!

Ah yes, Palatu, the child knows not...
“Child, you do not know even this much! Gather your wits! Wake from your childishness! Drop a little stupidity!” So many have been deceived this way; so many are being deceived. Blessed is he who, in this crowd of the deceived, escapes deception and wakes. Who becomes free of the taste of the fleeting. But Palatu does not ask you to do it because he says so. “After testing” — test and see for yourself. This is not theory — it is the raw experience of life.

This is not going to your auntie’s house; it is the devotion of Ram.
There are no ready lentils and rice to eat.
The Master’s house is far — do not assume it easy.
Ah yes, Palatu says: If you fall, you will be shattered — so honor the word.

“Not to your aunt’s house, this — it is the devotion of Ram.” Remember: in the search for Truth you are not going for a cozy visit! Be prepared — it is audacity. The search for Truth is the greatest adventure in this world. Not for cowards — for the brave. Anyone can chase money or position. Fools also become rich; fools also reach high ranks. Wealth and position have little to do with intelligence. In truth, those with intelligence — why would they seek wealth and rank? Intelligence is with Buddha, with Mahavira, with Kabir. They do not seek position or wealth. In truth, if you are foolish and stubborn, success in wealth and power is quite easy. Two traits suffice — foolishness and stubbornness. People will wrestle with life and get there!

Why would a person of understanding go on the journey of wealth and status? For what? Who knows of tomorrow? Who can say if morning will come? Why waste today for wealth and position? If you must search, search that which is today, tomorrow, and forever. But that search is not easy.

What is the difficulty?
Not on its side — note this, or you will err. The difficulty is on your side. Your mind’s habits are so tangled, so old, so complicated, that to come out of them is hard. Otherwise, That is utterly simple. Do not mistake the paradox.

The saints say: the Divine is simple, available now, this very moment. And they also say: “The Master’s house is far — do not assume it easy.” Both are true; there is no contradiction. Looking from the side of the Master — utterly simple, already given, nearer than near. Looking from your side — far, very difficult. Your habits are so wrong. Your ways of thinking and understanding are so deluded. Your mind has become skilled in dreaming, and so is far from Truth.

A man sleeps, sees a dream. How far is he from waking? In a sense — no distance at all. Shake him — his sleep can break right now. But it may also be that he refuses to wake. You shake him and he turns over and sleeps again; he was seeing such a lovely dream and does not want to leave it.

I was in Allahabad... speaking... a professor sat just before me. Because he was right in front, I could not miss seeing tears streaming from his eyes — and then he stood up and left in the middle. Because he left in the middle, he came even more to my notice. His wife was also there. After the talk I asked his wife, “What happened?” She laughed: “Tomorrow I will bring him to you; ask him yourself.”

Next day she brought him. I asked, “Why did you leave?” He said, “Because halfway through, such an urge rose in me to set out upon this path at once! Then fear arose — wife, child, family, a good job! I felt it would not be right to hear the whole thing. Out of fear I left. I was so overwhelmed I feared that if the thing became fully clear to me, I would not be able to return home. Forgive me — it was improper to leave midway, impolite too. I hesitated long, as I sat right in front — but should I save my life or my manners?”

I understood. I said, “The Divine is near. So near that had you sat for another half hour, a new life would have begun. Just as the shore came near, you turned the boat back.”

The saints say: it is simple — for it is our very nature, enthroned within. From That we are born. That is our source and our ocean-mouth. If we are the Ganga, that is the Gangotri; if we are the Ganga, that is the Ganga-sagara. The source and the final confluence — how can That be far? Closer than close.

Muhammad said: nearer than your own breathing. The Upanishad says: nearer than the nearest — and farther than the farthest. Far — because of you; near — because of Him. But the question is about you. He may stand right by you, and you do not open your eyes. He may place His hand in your hand, and you shake it off. He may walk behind you like a shadow, and you never look back. Even if the sun has risen, if you keep your eyes closed, what can the sun do? So do not see contradiction.

This is not going to your auntie’s house; it is the devotion of Ram.
There are no ready lentils and rice to eat.

It is not easy — not something to be eaten like rice and dal. If you drink, at first it will taste like poison. For you have grown used to drinking poison; poison tastes like nectar to you. Then nectar will taste like poison. Not a single gulp will go down. Your whole being, through many births, has become practiced in the false. In falsehood you are so soaked that you cannot take Truth within. And even if you take it in, you will make it untrue within you — distort it, twist it, break it.

I have heard: Count Keyserling had a Japanese teapot with cups — a complete set for tea. By the servant’s mistake, the pot fell and broke into pieces. It was most precious, very ancient, a gift from a Zen mendicant. The count was grieved. He had the pieces somehow joined and sent back to Japan to a master craftsman, requesting an identical pot, “At any price.”

After six months the Japanese artisan sent the pot. Keyserling opened the parcel with excitement — and smote his head! The Japanese had done this: he sent both — the mended original and the new one — so you could compare. The new was exactly the same — except for one mistake. Not his — the count’s. The pot that had been in pieces and then joined — he had made the new pot also in the same pieces and rejoined them! Not the slightest difference. The count had not written clearly; but how was the craftsman to know? His lifelong training was to reproduce exactly what was — so he reproduced the brokenness too.

Such is your mind — the skill of many births. When it takes Truth within, it cuts it into pieces and stores it like falsehood. It cannot drink Truth as Truth. It first makes Truth untrue, then swallows it. Unless it breaks Truth into bits... The habit of assimilating only falsehood is so old that you can only assimilate Truth if it comes dressed as falsehood. Otherwise you cannot welcome it.

Therefore you welcome not the Buddhas — you welcome pundits and priests.

Who are pundits and priests?
Those who make Truth so false that it becomes digestible to you. Those who deform it, smear it so, that it can fit into your false world. Between the Buddhas and you, the pundit-priest takes up a great labor: he strips Truth of its truth, and drapes it in the garments of untruth.

The difficulty is not on the Divine’s side.
“The Master’s house is far — do not assume it easy.”
That distance is within you. As many thoughts as crowd your mind, so far are you. As thoughts lessen, the distance lessens. Not a single step is to be taken toward God; only become empty of thought! Weightless! Thought-free! Choiceless! And the Divine is discovered within, eyes closed, seated at home.

On the day the Divine is found, even to say, “I found God,” feels wrong.

When Buddha awakened and the gods descended and Brahma worshiped him and asked, “What did you gain?” Buddha laughed, “I gained nothing; yes, I lost something — myself.” “Do not confuse us,” said Brahma. “Speak plainly. You came upon Truth — so we came to worship. And you say you gained nothing?” Buddha said, “I repeat: I gained nothing. I came to know That which was already present. How can one ‘gain’ what already is? It was within me; only I did not know; there was no awareness, no remembrance.”

As if a treasure were buried in your house and you forgot where. One day you remember, or the map falls into your hand, and you dig it up. Did you gain anything? Finding what was already yours — can that be called a gain?

Buddha is right: he lost something — his ego, his ignorance, his dull and blind habits, his mind, the trade of the mind. He found — Samadhi, which had always dwelt within. The day he sent away the crowd of thoughts, that very day it was given.

Ah yes, Palatu says: If you fall, you will be shattered — honor the word.

Walk very carefully, with great alertness. Those who walk on level land, on the king’s road, even if they fall, they will not be shattered. But if Hillary or Tenzing fall from Everest — what will remain? The higher you climb, the greater the fear of breaking.

Thus in our language there is a word: yogabhrashta — fallen from yoga. But there is no word “bhogabhrashta.” The indulgent cannot be “fallen”; where can he fall to? He already sits at the lowest ledge! People fall from heaven — no one falls from hell. Have you heard of anyone expelled from hell? Adam was expelled from heaven; from hell, where would you expel anyone — there is no lower place. Therefore a yogi can become bhrashta — his heights are perilous.

As you fly high, the more the danger of broken wings. As you climb peaks, the breath thins; the smallest load becomes heavy; the paths grow narrow and dangerous; one misstep — and no remedy.

The Zen master Rinzai made his disciples do a little experiment. In his ashram he had a plank, one foot wide and a hundred feet long. He would say, “Walk on it.” People were puzzled: “What is there in it?” Children would walk, old men would walk. Then he would have the plank laid between two rooftops, the same plank. “Now walk!” The same wood, same width, same length — but now if you fall, you are finished. Those who walked easily before began to tremble. “We cannot,” they said. Rinzai would ask, “What is the difference? What does it matter where the plank lies? Ground or sky — what is the difference? It is as wide, as long, and you are the same. Where the plank lies — why should that matter?” They would say, “We understand your point — kindly do not make us walk.”

Rinzai would walk the plank. He would have those who had gone deep in meditation walk. “They are walking; you too can. But new people are afraid — they sense this is a matter of life and death.”

What is the danger? Now one must walk with full awareness. When the plank lay upon the ground, you could walk half-asleep; even if you fell — what of it? You would hardly sprain a foot. Now, if you fall, your skull may break. Now you must walk in awareness. The greater the height, the greater the awareness; the greater the awareness, the greater the height. They are mutually arising. As height grows, awareness must grow; as awareness grows, height grows. The day you reach the supreme height, that day is supreme awareness; when supreme awareness is, the supreme height is.

Ah yes, Palatu says: If you fall, you will be shattered — honor the word.

So walk with great care, in deep alertness.

Dig your grave first — only then be a lover.

So begin with preparation: first have the grave dug, and then become an ashiq — a lover.

Dig your grave first — only then be a lover.
Tie the shroud upon your head — only then set your foot forward.

Let there be such preparedness — to lay down one’s life — then nothing is a hurdle. If there is the power to offer up life, the great Life is given — surely given! But it is no cheap bargain. What can be more costly than this?

The lover has no day or night for sleeping.

Where can a lover sleep? He can only be awake.

Ah yes, Palatu says: The merciless Beloved — when does He remove the lover’s pain?

Not for a single moment does the lover’s ache depart. The pain thunders in his heart. The memory of the Beloved saturates each hair. The remembrance stays — even in sleep.

I can wait a hundred births
if you pledge me your coming, Beloved.
With my eyelids I’ll sweep away thorns,
I’ll water the fragrant lanes with tears.
I’ll send guards to the bees
lest they profane the virginal buds.
If crimson bursts from autumn itself —
place your rosy feet, and come!

With hair unbound, lost in the yog of love,
maid Love calls you.
Enemy Pain, without you in my heart,
performs a sacrifice without smoke.
Let every breath dance the rasa again —
becoming dark cloud, O Shyam, pour down!

My night is not milk-bathed,
my dawn is not garlanded with flowers.
Thread by thread this heartstruck one’s
bright shawl has torn apart.
Let life be vermilion again —
cast a ray of your glance, and come!

Let me place the sun upon my lips,
blacken the darkness with kohl;
counting the moments of ages upon ages
I keep watch upon your path.
Break the chains of breath —
if you remove the fire from my life, come!

I can wait a hundred births,
if you pledge me your coming, Beloved.
Break the chains of breath —
if you remove the fire from my life, come!

With every breath the call, with every heartbeat the remembrance. No rest in sleep, no rest in waking. For the lover the distinction of day and night disappears. When such remembrance takes hold that even if you wish to forget, you cannot — then know that union is possible.

Then from all sides his signals begin to arrive —

From behind the mahua trees the moon peeks —
Beloved... come!

Jasmine blossoms have scattered in the courtyard;
flower-dreams have floated in upon the waves.
Close your eyes — the moon is a great charmer —
Beloved... come!

Twilight breezes distributed pollen;
wayward notes withdrew, one raga remained;
the moon laughs like the flame of tesu flowers —
Beloved... come!

The deer of the body is bathed in love;
secretly it plucks the maiden ray;
win, if you can — this moon is a warrior —
Beloved... come!

The devotee seeks the Divine as a lover seeks the Beloved. The Divine is the Beloved — or the Beloveda. Then He is in the rising sun, in the moon, in the darkness, in the light; the full moon is His, the new moon His. He is in all. Everywhere, His temple begins to be raised. The whole existence becomes His shrine. The moon and the stars become but decorations of that temple.

If you long to see the Beloved —
renounce the delusion of your doing, forsake the world’s spectacle.
Tie the cord of remembrance to the Sound — you will be led to drink.
Ah yes, Palatu says: Beyond knowledge and beyond meditation, there is the place of rest.

“If you desire to see the Beloved — renounce this illusion of karma.” The Divine is not attained by your doing — He is attained by your love. Offer arati, fasts and vows, wander naked in forests — make a thousand efforts — you will not attain. Do nothing — only let His remembrance descend into you, let His echo be absorbed into each breath — and He is found, surely found. There will be no delay.

“Renounce the delusion of karma; forsake the gaze upon the world.” This delusion — that “I will do something” — works in money and position, but not in prayer. We have even made prayer into a doing! People ask, “Did you do your prayer today?” Prayer is not done. One must ask: “Were you in prayer today?” The language of doing is wrong with regard to prayer. It is a plunging. It is feeling — not act.

Understand this distinction clearly.

In the world, whatever is attained is attained through doing. In the Divine, whatever is attained is attained with the begging bowl open — not through doing. It is gained by opening the heart. Not through effort — but in relaxation.

What have you done — that I sing?
My heart brims over — and I sing.

The devotee does nothing; the Divine does. The devotee merely allows the doing. Devotee means one who does not hinder the Divine; one who says, “As You will! You do. If You move left — left; right — right. Lift me — or drop me. Give joy — or give sorrow. Whatever You give — since You are the giver — all is welcome. Pluck my strings, raise the music, or sing the song, or play the flute, or leave me in silence — You do — I am in Your hands.”

What have You done — that I sing?
My heart brims over — and I sing.

What is this sweet fire in the mind?
How have You lit it within?
You struck such a resonance in my strings —
that each breath rose as song upon my lips.
It was mere dust — what touched it to gold — that I sing?
My heart brims over — and I sing.

As the monsoon’s wind thrills the creepers’ body,
so that the skin shivers with gooseflesh;
as a dew-drop touches the drooping flower
and soaks its fragrance to overflowing;
as, when the mango-grove is fragrant,
the cuckoo’s mad heart cries out —
so does the papihā of my soul call out —
again and again, “Beloved!” — that I sing.
My heart brims over — and I sing.

Some magic this is — some enchantment.
What boon did You obtain?
Whomever You touched, the world worshiped;
wherever You entered, life itself was named.
It seems that in this inert body there is something conscious —
for I sing — and the world repeats it.
You made a reed into a flute.
What have I done — that I sing?
My heart brims over — and I sing.

The devotee is astonished when songs rise within that he has not sung. When prayers arise that he has not fabricated. When Gayatri awakens within, when the sound of Omkar resounds — he stands amazed, as if some event against the very rules of nature has occurred — stones growing wings and flying. Such a happening within leaves him wonder-struck.

Why? Because “I did nothing. How then is prayer happening? I did not arrange it — whence this worship? I did not lay out flowers, I did not offer arati — yet arati descends.”

Love is the greatest magic in this world. There is no greater. The devotee drowns in love’s enchantment.

If you long to see the Beloved —
renounce the delusion of your doing, forsake the world’s spectacle.
Tie the cord of remembrance to the Sound — and you shall be given to drink.

Tie the thread of memory. The thread of remembrance. A raw thread of remembrance is enough. And holding that thread — go on. Dive deep.

What Buddha called dhyana, the devotee calls surati — remembrance. The word comes from Buddha’s “samma-sati” — right mindfulness. “Smriti” became “surati” in the language of the people — smoothed, rounded, sweetened by use — as a stone in the river is polished round and becomes a Shiva-linga. There is a roundness — a feminine beauty — that enters. “Smriti” has a masculine edge; “surati” is softer, more honeyed.

Therefore no language can be imposed from above. When a language is hammered from above, without centuries of smoothing, it feels clumsy.

Such an attempt was made in this land. Dr. Raghuvira coined an entire Hindi — because English words abound for things old Hindi lacked. He created a vocabulary. Once I met him. I said, “You are skilled in coining, but your words have sharp edges; they lack roundness.” I gave the same example: smriti and surati. “Smriti” is Sanskrit, the pundit’s word; “surati,” the villager’s word. But what joy “surati” holds that “smriti” does not.

He coined grand words — but artificial, and thus they never entered people’s usage. His language died — and because of it, Hindi’s chance of being a national language suffered. He would translate “train” as “lohapath-gamini” — iron-path-goer. Apt perhaps, but coined, hollow; un-smoothed by the folk. The village man’s “rapat” for “report” fits better — it rolls off the tongue. “Report” sticks; borrowed.

Tie the cord of remembrance to the Sound — and you shall be given to drink.

Let down the cord of remembrance into the well of your heart — and with that cord descend.

Ah yes, Palatu says: Beyond knowledge and beyond meditation, there is the place of rest.

A precious saying! Not only beyond knowledge — beyond meditation too. Why? Knowledge is second-hand — stale. None has become a knower through knowledge; knowledge only hides ignorance — a deception. The fool memorizes Vedic words and appears wise; like a blind man discoursing on light, a deaf man on music. Such a fool repeats the Gita, the Quran, the Bible — repeats, that is all; there is no experience.

Therefore — beyond knowledge, yes. But Palatu goes further: beyond meditation. Why? Because the word “meditation” also hints at doing. Meditation too is a doing; it retains the stiffness of doing. Love happens — meditation is done. Love cannot be done. That is why we say, “What to do — love happened.” If someone ordered you: “Do love — by government decree!” what would you do? “We will try,” you would say. And people try by decree. Husbands ‘love’ wives, wives ‘love’ husbands, parents ‘love’ children, children ‘love’ parents — a social decree. If love must be done, it is false.

Love is not done — it happens. Beyond your control. You are overcome. You may not wish it — nothing can be done. It descends from beyond. From some unearthly realm.

And not only the love of husband and wife; the rare love that happens between disciple and master also cannot be done. Try a thousand techniques — you will miss. And if somehow you manage, it will be false — mere behavior. The heart will remain dry; the stream will not flow. Even this love “happens.”

Thus no disciple can explain what has happened to him.

Those who have taken sannyas with me write daily: “A fine mess we have gotten into! Whoever sees us asks, ‘What happened? Why did you take sannyas?’ We stand staring — for the true answer they cannot understand. If we say, ‘What to do — love happened,’ they say, ‘No love here — you are hypnotized, under a spell. We also went — nothing happened to us. How did it happen to you?’”

Love is inexpressible — and because it is inexpressible, it is the door to the Divine. The Divine too is inexpressible.

Palatu says: You may perhaps do meditation — sit cross-legged, practice asana, close your eyes, regulate breath, concentrate the mind on an inner point of light — all this you may do; but how will you do love? And whatever you do cannot be bigger than you. Your doing cannot carry you to the Divine; it will become a barrier. Every act of yours nourishes your ego. Doing is the ego’s food. Where the ego is, there can be no vision of Brahman.

Ah yes, Palatu says: Beyond knowledge and beyond meditation, there is the place of rest.

Let knowledge go, let meditation go — plunge in love. Descend holding the thread of remembrance.

The bitter cup is the Name — whoever drinks does not burn.

This cup of love will taste bitter at first — for you have never drunk it. Tastes too must be learned; there is an art in tasting.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife, exhausted by counsel, quarrel, tears, beating her head against the wall — when Mulla would not listen and went daily to the tavern — chose the last resort: she went to the tavern. Unveiling herself, she poured a glass — never having drunk before — and swallowed it raw. Two gulps, then she hurled the glass down, spit it out: “Abomination! You drink this tasteless, bitter, acrid stuff?” Mulla laughed: “You thought we come here to have fun? This is great austerity! Now you understand. Never again say we come to enjoy.”

The first time you drink, it is bitter; practice is needed. Love too is wine — the wine of wines. Beyond it there is no other.

The bitter cup is the Name — whoever drinks does not burn.
But the youth who drinks by imitation — he too will die.

But mind — do not do by imitation. In religion imitation is rampant. Someone worships in a temple, you begin too. You think, “He is steeped in worship — why am I not?” His worship arises from within; yours is paper.

I have heard a Sufi tale. An emperor summoned a man and honored him with a hundred thousand gold coins — because his investigators had searched the capital and decided: “There is no couple as beautiful in marriage as these two. The wife serves ceaselessly — up at four with tea for her husband who rises at five, awake till he returns at two in the night, and she does not eat until he has eaten. And his love for her is equally deep. For a whole year our investigators did not witness a single quarrel.” He was awarded. The village was set ablaze with envy. The neighbor’s wife said to her husband: “Now bang your head on the wall! Sitting at home they got a hundred thousand. From today we will behave well; fights end. I will not throw the cushion; you stop abuses. From today sweet words. I will write you loving letters; you telephone me twice a day, ‘O my life’s life...’ Even if you do not come home, I will fast. If your head aches, I will sit pressing it.”

By fate, that very night his head did ache. Having decided, she pressed his head — but so hard he said, “Will you kill me? My head aches and you want my life?” Then remembering, “O darling, I was joking!” She sat a while more; “Now sleep, you wretch. How long must I wake?” And then again, “O lordly husband, forgive my words.” The whole night went so — slip upon slip.

Next day, “You go to the emperor,” she said, “and ask for the reward; our marriage is wondrous too.” “I have no courage,” he replied, “you go.” They quarreled about who would go — and came together to the emperor — quarreling at the very court about “you said wretch” and “you pressed too hard.” The emperor said, “I understand your difficulty. Your neighbor won the award — but imitation will not do. Without love, what can be done?”

People worship by imitation. If imitation cannot yield love — how will it yield prayer?

The youth who drinks by imitation — he too will die.

Whoever imitates will be deceived; he will die in vanity, in ego.

He whose head is not on his shoulders, who sets it down on the ground —
Ah yes, Palatu says: whoever abandons hope for the body — his home is in heaven.

He alone has heaven who is willing to set down his head — to melt his pride, to dissolve his ego.

In Ram’s house the touchstone is true —
no deceit can pass there.
No false one has ever stood upon it.

So do not fall into trickery and hypocrisy; do not adopt borrowed conduct by seeing others. False conduct has no place there. Authenticity alone has passage. If it is yours, truly yours — then stone is diamond; and if the diamond is another’s, then diamond is stone.

No false one has ever stood upon it.

He who dies while living, with his head in his hand —
Ah yes, Palatu says: only such a man can enter this secret.

On this hard road of love — prem-panth — only the brave should come. Whoever has such courage will surely arrive.

Why are you startled at my madness?
This is what happens to one whose heart has stored fire and water;
steam became my body; yet youth’s cloud did not fill my mind with hope;
what craving in lightning, what throb in cloud!
This is no play to vanish in two days;
my life is not confined to transactions of give and take;
my longing is to mingle and melt — not to rendezvous.
Truth says the sky of the heart has no shore — no boundary.

When walking this path I find my Beloved,
weary through ages, I will fall asleep on His lap;
like a snowflake, melt into light’s rays, become bright radiance;
the world will remember the tale of my pain —
I will be lost in the Beloved.

Only those who are ready to be wholly melted, to be wholly mingled in the Beloved — only such daring ones can walk love’s path.

And your pundits and priests say: “In Kali Yuga only bhakti will do.” They say this because in Kali Yuga — where are the authentic ones? Hence, “Through bhakti alone.”

Tell these gentlemen: more difficult than bhakti there is no path — for who demands more sacrifice than love? Only if you have the courage to place your neck on the block will there be any progress on the path of love.

No imitation will do; borrowing will not do. Love must be authentic to be love. Authentic love becomes prayer of its own accord. And prayer becomes your wings — carrying you to the Divine.

May such a blessed hour come in your life! It is each one’s birthright. But courage is needed to claim it. It can be yours — but knock. The doors will surely open. Jesus said: “Ask — and it shall be given. Knock — and it shall be opened.”

Enough for today.