Sapna Yeh Sansar #3

These days of spring, even now, do not sit well;
that the buds could open, yet opening, could not smile.
They could not take pity on the ruin of my heart,
yet he could never meet my eyes with his.
That greenery is a naked garden that cannot ruffle and wave;
that rose is the wound of spring that cannot smile.
This man is a moth to the lamp of wisdom:
he lives in light, yet cannot attain the light.
How will they be destined the felicity of arrival,
whose feet cannot even stagger on the path of seeking.
Who knows what befell those tears—
that rose from the heart to the eyes, yet could not reach the lashes.
What will we gain by an everlasting survival in dying,
who, while alive, could not find life's own station.
Blessed be the purity of love that the incidents of the world—
what of me—could not efface even the imprint of my steps.
Much he kept away from my gaze, yet
he could not escape my sincerity of love.
The sun and the moon were my fellow travelers for years—
thereafter they could not even find my dust.
In the night of sorrow my eyes saw even those
countless stars that could not glitter.
If he diminishes, man is but a fistful of dust;
if he expands, the expanse of the two worlds cannot contain him.
The mad set out to make a new age—
they could not create a new earth, a new sky.

Man is a longing. An aspiration—to become something, to touch the infinite. Man is a seed, and until the seed reaches the flower, there will be no rest. There will be restlessness. Wealth, office, prestige—however much—will not help. To carry the seed to the flower—there is no other way to contentment.

There is a dead contentment—when a man settles into indolence, saying: what is, is fine. And there is a living contentment—available only when the seed becomes a flower; smiling in the winds, scattering fragrance, conversing with the moon and the stars.

These days of spring, even now, do not sit well;
that the buds could open, yet opening, could not smile.

Is this how life is to be passed? Will the seeds remain seeds? Will even these days not become sweet to us? Will the buds remain buds and not become flowers? Will possibility remain only a possibility—or is it to be transformed into truth? The one who sets about transforming possibility into truth, that one is religious. No one becomes religious by going to temples, nor by going to mosques.

This man is a moth to the lamp of wisdom:
he lives in light, yet cannot attain the light.

And that which we seek is spread all around us. Paramatma stands ready to make us bloom—yet we sit contracted. Light is showering and we sit with closed eyes. His music plays, yet we sit as if deaf. Nothing is nearer than Paramatma; nothing truer. He is in the wind, in the river's current, in the waves of the ocean—and still so far? He is in our heartbeat, in our breath—and yet so far? The mistake must be ours. Perhaps we are standing with our back to the sun.

How will they be destined the felicity of arrival,
whose feet cannot even stagger on the path of seeking.

Our cleverness is becoming our death. Our smartness leads us astray in the marketplace. To find Him, a little innocence of heart is needed. A touch of divine madness. Let the feet sway a little. Let there be tears in the eyes. Let the heart grow moist.

They will not find life's destination; it is impossible—
those feet which, upon the path of quest, cannot even stagger.

Those who do not walk in search like the intoxicated, like lovers, like the God-mad; who have never sung, never smiled, never wept, never danced. Those whose being has never brimmed with life's ecstasy, nor with its mystery. They add up money, keep ledgers, fix their eyes upon the market—never lifting their eyes toward the moon and stars of the sky.

In this world there are two worlds. One made by Him, and one made by man. When mystics like Paltu say: this world is a dream, do not think they call God's world a dream. How could God's creation be a dream if the Creator is true? And if His creation were a dream, how would the Creator be true? No, there is another world we have woven. Flowers and moon and stars are real—but banknotes are our invention. Waterfalls, mountains, oceans are true—but position and prestige are our contrivances. Man spins a web around himself like a spider—of cravings, of ambitions, of desires, of the future: not today, tomorrow something will be gained; it is the expanse of greed and of lust. There is one world of chirping birds, blooming flowers, a sky studded with stars—bearing the signature of Paramatma—and there is the world man has manufactured. When the wise say: this world is a dream, they speak of the world you have built.

But man is cunning. He will not call his fabricated world false; instead, he declares God's world false and renounces it. He leaves wealth, office, prestige, shop and market, house and hearth—runs to the jungle. But that renunciation too belongs to your world. That saintliness is of your own devising. There, too, the ego is constructed—once from wealth, now from renunciation; once from indulgence, now from austerity. The style has changed, the root is the same. You have trimmed leaves, but the roots remain; leaves will sprout again—the same leaves in new colors, but the sap will be the same.

Unless, awakening, you see that all man-made is false; unless it becomes your living experience—and do not imagine you will find it by dying. If life is wasted, death too will be wasted, for death is only the climax of life.

Who knows what befell those tears—
that rose from the heart to the eyes, yet could not reach the lashes.

There are such tears that arise in the heart and come even to the eyes, yet cannot reach the eyelids. There are people who came close to the goal—one more step, just one step more in the right direction—and the temple doors would have opened. Yet at the last moment they miss, for there is much arrangement for missing. There are many pundits, many priests to mislead. To help you arrive—rarely a Buddha appears. To carry you across—rarely a Sadguru. Those who light lamps are rare; the crowd that blows out lit lamps is large.

What will you gain by dying? Will the destination be found in death? Will Paramatma be found—when you squandered life and, in life itself, could not find life’s own destination?

Life is a moment. Join yourself to the Divine. That joining is bhajan. Build a bridge between you and Him—of love, of a moistened heart, of tears; bloom flowers between you and Him, light lamps between you and Him—build a bridge. He is ready to come; you open your heart a little.

There is but one thing from which Paramatma cannot escape—

Blessed be the purity of love that the incidents of the world
could not, what of me, erase even the imprint of my steps.
He kept away from my eyes much—but
he could not escape my sincerity of love.

From the eye he often managed to hide—but the net of love I cast, from that he could not escape. Casting the net of love—that is bhajan. Bhajan is an art. It is not in parroted repetition; it is born from pouring your life into it. Then man is not small; linked with bhajan, man is as vast as God—because man is God.

If he diminishes, man is but a fistful of ash. And such is the fate of most—just a fist of ash. After death, what else remains? A handful of ash, which the cherished ones carry away. We even give sweet names to that ash—we call it flowers. We hide truth beneath lovely words. We go to gather a corpse’s ash and say: we go to gather flowers. We go to immerse ash in the Ganga and say: we go to immerse flowers. He who could not become a flower in life, on the funeral pyre becomes a flower! He whose life was all stench—suddenly after death he becomes fragrance!

If he diminishes, man is but a fistful of dust;
if he expands, the expanse of the two worlds cannot contain him.

If he contracts—dust in the palm; if he expands—even all this sky is small, all existence is small. If he expands, he contains all existence within. Then the sky is within him; the moon and the stars are within him; Paramatma is within him. The Master is within. What further possibility beyond this? If man does not awaken, he remains a handful of ash; if he awakens, he becomes the vast sky. Without awakening there is no fulfillment. In the scripture of devotion, the process of awakening is called bhajan.

Hurry into bhajan, delay in all else.
Delay in other things; in this world life is brief.
Having attained human form and wealth, kneel and implore.

Life is slipping away—each day it flows from your hands.

Awaken! Kneel and implore at His feet. Call Him; shed tears in His love; surrender.

Kneel—stiff-necked pride will not do. People stand thirsty even at the riverbank—because they cannot bend, cannot make a handful of their palms. Perhaps they expect the river to leap up to their throat. The river is ready, but you must bend. Bowing is surrender; the cupped hands—bhajan. Then fulfillment is yours; supreme fulfillment is yours. Who can keep you deprived?

Do not mock my life, tyrant—I do not lament life;
he who is tied to your sorrow counts autumn no less than spring.
My ‘infidelity’ is the fruit of striving; my striving the fruit of ‘infidelity’;
my worship is that worship which is not fettered to temple or shrine.
The same caravan, the same roads, the same life, the same stages—
but at each one its own station: now you are not there, now we are not there.
Neither my passing-away, nor my abiding—do not look for me, Shakeel;
I am someone’s lovely imagining—I have no being nor non-being.

To belong to Paramatma means: we became His—He who could never become ours. Paramatma can never be ‘mine,’ for before He is found, ‘I’ must dissolve. When the ‘I’ is gone, He is. Therefore He can never be ‘mine.’ Only in the absence of ‘I’ is His experience. The art of dissolving ‘I’ is bhajan.

O moralist, let me tell the difference between you and me:
my life is a storm-tossed sea; yours is a sheltered shore.

You remain on the shore; we are living in tempests. Leave the boat, leave the shore, abandon securities—go forth upon the journey into the unknown. Bhajan is a boat for that voyage. Bhajan is a challenge—to accept the storms. He who accepts life’s storms is refined; a great refinement comes to his being. His soul becomes luminous; a glow arises, a flame is lit.

The flame is not free. One must clash with storms. The fire of a true individuality does not come cheap. If you remain a limb of the crowd, you remain buried in ash. Become a person! Free yourself from crowds. You need be neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither Brahmin nor Shudra. To be a man is enough. And if you must be something—be God! What lower could there be? To fall even below man—to be Muslim or Hindu or Jain? Rise above! Otherwise, you will remain a fist of dust.

If you fall in love with storms, with insecurity, with the unknown—then sannyas has happened in your life. Sannyas is to live in insecurity.

Paramatma is security—so why seek any other? Paramatma is wealth—why chase other wealth? Paramatma is the supreme post—then all other posts are petty and mean.

I have a special kinship with you—I am pledged to the wave of the tempest;
those who loved their life have reached the shore.

Even among tempests, the shore is found—only love is needed, the eye of love, the blazing fire of love.

We miss because there is neither meditation nor love. We miss because we do not descend within, nor do we enter the vast. We hang in the middle—Trishanku. On one side meditation calls—the path of going within, of being alone. On the other side love calls—its challenge is surrender; it is ego-immolation. Neither can we surrender the ego, nor can we enter aloneness. We remain stuck in between, ground between two millstones. Many a life goes to waste like this.

Hurry into bhajan, delay in all else.
Delay in other things; in this world life is brief.
Having attained human form and wealth, kneel and implore.

A glass palace—and within, a bird of wind lives.

Such is your condition—the palace is brittle glass, and within you live. Who knows when it will shatter—what hour, what moment. Do not rely on it.

Within a palace of glass lives a bird of wind.
Ten doors stand open; each day it longs to fly.

The ten doors of the senses are open—at any moment the bird can fly. Not one—but ten doors. Who can say when a breath goes out and never returns. While breath is here—surrender.

Hurry into bhajan, delay in all else.
Delay in other things; in this world life is brief.
Having attained human form and wealth, kneel and implore.
Within a palace of glass lives a bird of wind.
Ten doors stand open; each day it longs to fly.
Remember God in bhajan—therein lies our good.
Then coming-and-going ceases; the fantasy of birth is erased.

There is but one good, one benediction, one auspiciousness in life—to realize Paramatma. He who found Him found all; he who lost Him lost all. In finding Him, all wandering ends—no more coming, no more going. You abide in the Infinite, become a limb of the Eternal. No more birth, no more death. No more roaming in cages.

Then the sorrows of birth and of life and of death—those thousand-and-one sufferings strewn along life’s road—are no more. The way is thorn-ridden, stony; arrival is rare, wandering easy; wounds upon wounds.

What is life here but a hell?

I have heard: a man died and knocked at the door of hell. Winter; even the devil sat with a blanket. Troubled, he peered through the window and said, Brother, why harass me? What is it? The man said: I’ve come from earth. Open the door; let me in. The devil asked: From where? From earth? Then go to heaven! You have already suffered hell on earth—what hell remains now?

Look at your life as if it were another’s. Be a witness. What will you find? Only thorns; only darkness; wounds upon wounds. A long lament—of melancholy, grief, anxiety. You met sorrow; happiness remained stuck in hope.

Then coming-and-going ceases; the fantasy of birth is erased.

Paltu says: Do not stumble! Else you will turn again through eighty-four lakh wombs.

Miss not! Human birth is rare. Rare, for only in man is downfall or ascent possible. Beasts neither fall nor rise; as they are born, they die. No dog can fall below dog. But to a man you can say: you have fallen below even man!

For man, both are possible—above man or below man. Man is a staircase—one way to hell, the other to heaven. Unique upon this earth. A rose is a rose; it cannot be champa or jasmine. Man is born without a fixed form—only a blank possibility that can become anything; can become Ravana or Rama. The same clay, the same breath—Ravana; the same clay, the same breath—Rama. At birth, both bear the same possibilities; in death, what a difference—earth and sky!

In man, freedom of choice exists—nowhere else. Alone he is free, the sole possessor of freedom. Make fortune—or misfortune. You are the decider. Each decision, each step shapes your life. Responsibility cannot be thrown upon another. Man plays tricks, shifting blame, but all that is self-deception. Best to avoid those tangles—they profit nothing. Miss a human life—and who knows when it will return?

Paltu says: Do not stumble, or you will turn through eighty-four lakh wombs.

With great difficulty you have become human—with great difficulty! After circling through eighty-four million forms, this impossibility has happened: you are human. How much you must have ached for this, how many longings, how many prayers! And now—what are you doing with it? Squandering it as if it had no value. People sit playing cards and chess, running wooden elephants and horses! Ask them: What are you doing? They say: Passing time. Time! You cannot buy a single moment—even Alexander could not.

On his deathbed Alexander said to his physicians: Save me for twenty-four hours—just twenty-four; I ask for nothing more. He wanted only to keep a small promise. When he set out to conquer the world, his mother had said: Son, it is a long, hard journey; better you did not go. I am old; will I see you again? Alexander said: I am a man of my word—you know that. I will return—whatever happens, I will return. He was on his way back from India; had he but twenty-four hours more, he would have fulfilled his word. He died a few miles from home. The promise remained incomplete.

The mistake was in making the promise. He forgot death in the midst: I may be a man of my word, but if death arrives, what then?

In the Mahabharata there is a beloved tale. The Pandavas were in exile. A beggar knocked early in the morning, holding out his bowl. Yudhishthira sat at the door—reading scripture. He said to the beggar: Come tomorrow. Bhima, nearby, doing his exercises, leapt up, seized a bell and ran toward the village, ringing it. Yudhishthira asked: Where are you going? Bhima said: To announce in the village that my brother has conquered Death—he has told a beggar to come tomorrow!

Sometimes what a pundit misses, a simple man grasps. The words struck Yudhishthira; he ran, called the beggar back: Not tomorrow. Who knows of tomorrow? I said it only to avoid interruption; but Bhima is right. You may not come, I may not remain; take alms today.

We keep postponing. Alexander told his doctors: I will give half my kingdom—save me. Take the whole kingdom—save me. But they said: Whether you give or not, there is no difference—life cannot be bought. Tears came to Alexander’s eyes: If only someone had told me earlier that the entire kingdom I strive to win cannot buy even twenty-four hours—I would not have squandered life like this! But no one told me.

It is not that no one told him. Certainly one man told him—Diogenes. A man like Paltu—a carefree madman. Naked, living by the river. He had nothing. First he kept a begging bowl, but one day he threw even it away. Once, going to the river with his bowl, a panting dog ran ahead and drank directly. Diogenes said: This dog has outwitted me! If a dog can live without a bowl, why should I carry one? He threw it into the river, befriended the dog. They lived together.

His shelter was a tin barrel from the rubbish heap, discarded by the village. He lived in it; so did the dog. Alexander came to him. Diogenes asked: Where are you going? Alexander said: To conquer the world. What then? Then I will rest. Diogenes laughed: Listen, brother dog! We are resting already, and he will conquer the world to rest! What logic ties conquest to rest? If we rest without conquering, what prevents you? Drop the fuss—the riverbank is wide. Our barrel is no small place; I was alone, now this dog too—come, you also. In rain and sun it shelters us; otherwise the bank suffices. Rest. Why go to conquer the world?

Alexander hung his head: Forgive me; you speak truly—but I cannot turn back. I must complete the journey. I have sworn to conquer the world. Diogenes said: Oaths! Our oaths! Our words! What is their worth? They are proclamations of ego. And I tell you—you will not return completed; no journey here ever completes. Every death is ‘untimely’—for none are prepared. Only his death is timely who has done bhajan.

Remember God in bhajan—therein lies our good.

This alone is good, alone the auspicious—

Paltu says: Do not stumble, or you will turn through eighty-four lakh wombs.
Hurry into bhajan, delay in all else.

We have passed through a thousand turnings of dusk and dawn;
those caravans which have passed along your path.
Lust has not yet learned the softening of hearts—
these people have traversed only the station of seeing.
Upon every form there was a suspicion of your footprint—
at every step we passed along your path.
Who knows at which station our gaze will halt—
caravans of seeing have passed through walls and doors.
The hard roads of pain spread yet further—
wherever we went, struck by the grief of separation.
There are taverns where the ecstasy needs no wine—
those taverns too have passed beneath our gaze.

There are places where intoxication comes without drinking. Those very places, those taverns, are called satsang. Do not just pass them by.

There are surely such taverns. They never entirely vanish; somewhere upon earth they rise again—because Paramatma cannot forget man. For his sake He keeps arranging anew. There are taverns where no liquor is poured, yet ecstasy is drunk and given. If you come near such a tavern, do not miss; do not abstain; break your vows and rules—take the plunge. Bhajan is such a wine as makes you both drunk and immensely aware.

Tales of the heart shape themselves within the gaze;
only the world fails to recognize the gaze.
My eyes have seen an assembly where
without a candle the moths kept burning.
What is this youth of spring, what this color of joy—
sullen tavern-keepers, downcast taverns.
My friend—may your glance of kindness be safe;
stumbling again and again, the tales are set right.
Whose magic-weaving eye has wrought this wonder—
that though shattered, the idols of the heart remain intact.

Paramatma keeps building some Kaaba, some Kashi—some new shrine—because the old ones get ruined; soon they fall into the hands of pundits and priests. But He quickly raises another sanctuary. For those who wish to drink, no lack on His side. For them, ways appear.

My eyes have seen an assembly where
without a candle the moths kept burning.

Without drinking, drinking happens; without burning, burning happens—such wonder, such miracle!

Whose magic-weaving eye has wrought this wonder—
that though shattered, the idols of the heart remain intact.

Granted that man today is sad, despairing; that he sees darkness upon darkness, that flowers no longer seem to bloom in the heart. Yet I say: the fault is yours. Wake a little! Make some use of this great opportunity. Do not ‘kill time’; this precious time is not for killing—it is for creating life, for adorning life. Give life beauty—but without bhajan, where is beauty? Give life truth—but without God, where has truth ever been found, or can be?

Why does man listen to such words and still go on in his old way? There is a reason.

Only he will know the ache whom the arrow of love has struck.
He will know the ache—what point in telling a fool?

We avoid Paramatma because to be linked with Him is to leave the heart unguarded before His love-arrow—without armor, without shield. Let His arrow come; let it pierce your life. There will be pain—an arrow pains. But this pain is sweet. Yet you will know it only when it happens. A thousand Kabirs, a thousand Nanaks, a thousand Paltus may say it; I may say it—but until the arrow strikes, until the ache spreads within you, you will not know. This is no ordinary arrow—it kills not; it quickens. It is not poisonous; it is nectar.

People fear the arrow of love; they evade it.
And there is no telling this to those filled with the stupidity of ego. There is only one stupidity in the world—ego. And nothing fattens ego more than so-called knowledge. Scriptural knowledge—Veda, Quran, Bible, Purana—memorized, and the ego sits adorned. With tilak and sacred thread the pundit sits—look closely: ego wearing the jewelry of knowledge, hiding behind it. No one is more egoistic than the pundit; renunciates too grow proud. To these, Paltu says ‘fools.’ Speak not to them. They will not understand, for they already ‘understand.’ Parrots memorized words and think they have known.

Only he will know the ache whom the arrow of love has struck.

To them the arrow will never come; they live in the skull, having forgotten the heart. They know not even that a heart is within. They are imprisoned in the head.

He will know the ache—what point in telling a fool?

When saints say ‘fool,’ they do not mean unlettered or rustic. They mean: the learned rustic.

I speak of setting the garden ablaze—
if you can understand, I speak of setting it right.
I speak of lighting lamps in broad day—
I speak of waking the heedless.
Strew thorns upon every path—
I speak of savoring the garden.
The gardener who bears hatred for saplings—
I speak of your very age.
They ask for cups only for themselves—
I speak of serving all.
Where there is looting under the lamp’s shade, darkness—
there I speak of lighting a lamp.
The veil over the world’s face will not be lifted by me—
I speak only of lifting dew from roses.
I give the worn-out a fresh concern, O Shad—
I speak of teaching the seasoned anew.

A little innocent heart is needed—only then can you bear love’s arrow. For love speaks strangely.

I speak of lighting lamps in broad day—
I speak of waking the heedless.

Love speaks strangely, because love is beyond logic. Who lights a lamp in the morning? Who lights a lamp at noon?

Remember Diogenes. He roamed at noon with a lit lantern. People asked: Are you sane? The sun is blazing—why a lantern? He said: I am searching for man. It is very dark. If the rising of the sun removed darkness, all would have gained wisdom. There is great darkness, a great new moon night—one cannot see one’s own hand. So I carry a lantern, seeking a man.

And when he died, the lantern still burned at noon, the crowd gathered. Someone asked: You searched all your life. Did you find a man? Diogenes said: A man I did not find—but my lantern remained; is that not something? Many eyes lusted for the lantern. It is my good fortune no one stole it. A naked man—who would leave his lantern? Anyone would snatch it. I did not find the eagerness for the light I wished to give; I found eagerness only for the lantern—to somehow get it and not let go.

I speak of lighting lamps in broad day—
I speak of waking the heedless.
I speak of setting the garden ablaze—
if you can understand, I speak of setting it right.

Love’s language seems odd; understood, it is simple. But great cleverness turns it upside down. Kabir called it ulatbansi—like playing a flute from the wrong end.

We live by logic—where two and two are always four, whoever adds them. In the world of love two and two sometimes make five, sometimes three, sometimes one; sometimes they become zero. There, all is possible—the impossible becomes possible. The greatest impossibility becomes possible: the limited cup of man and the descent of the unlimited—fistful of dust and the whole sky settling into it; a drop containing the entire ocean. The impossible happens—but only when one is ready to bear love’s arrow.

Only he will know the ache whom the arrow of love has struck.
He will know the ache—what point in telling a fool?
Knowledge the size of a sesame seed does not enter them—better to keep quiet.

These so-called knowers have not the tiniest drop of knowing. They cannot receive it either. They have plastered themselves with the oil of scriptures—they are slick pots; the rain falls and not a drop clings.

Have you seen anything slicker than a pundit? Water cannot touch him.

When I was small, our neighbor sold ghee. His clothes were soaked with ghee—an extreme miser; perhaps he owned no second set of clothes. I saw him bathe—he did not remove them; he poured water over himself and it would not wet the cloth. I have seen no such wonder again! Such is the pundit.

Knowledge the size of a sesame seed does not enter them—better to keep quiet.

Do not knock your head against pundits. Paltu says: avoid them; they are great fools. Neither love’s arrow nor meditation’s shaft has pierced them; no dawning of wisdom.

A thousand times you may explain—
he will not accept; the fool clings to his words.
He will keep to his resolve—he who has fixed himself.

Stubborn, egoistic—ready for debate, not ready for the search of truth.

This country was drowned by pundits. They made a strange state—everyone made into a parrot. Every person seems ‘knowing’—all discuss Brahman, and yet they do not know even themselves. Not a drop of bhajan has passed their throat; no experience of God; not the ache of love. They repeat Tulsidas by rote.

He who loves the world cannot receive bhakti.

Recognize this: those still bound to maya, moha, wealth, position, prestige, fame, ambition—bhakti cannot come to them. Impossible.

They shun satsang and run toward the crowd.

Pundits, mullahs, priests—nothing of Paramatma do they know.

For years I lived in Jabalpur, where there is a Christian seminary—Leonard Theological College—manufacturing missionaries. The principal was somewhat drawn to me; he invited me to visit. I said: How will you ‘produce’ a religious man in a college? Religion cannot be taught—only caught; a contagious disease caught by sitting near a Sadguru. Still, I will come—let me be entertained! He showed me around. In the final class—those to be ordained this year—they were being taught how to stand while preaching the Bible, which word to utter loudly, when to raise eyes to heaven, when to clench a fist, when to thump the table. I said: Are you producing actors—or knowers of God?

As we returned I told a story. A professor, teaching similarly, said: When you describe heaven, your mouth must blossom with smiles—teeth shining, eyes flashing like lightning, your face radiant, filled with joy. A student asked: And when we describe hell? The professor replied: Your ordinary face will suffice. For hell you need no practice—just stand as you are. Seeing you, people will understand hell.

In truth, the face is like hell, the being like hell—and you teach acting heaven. Such is what goes on.

A Jain monk once told me: You are amazing—speaking every day! I have only four talks, prepared for different durations: ten minutes, twenty, thirty, forty. I manage my life with those four. Give me your secret. Sometimes, repeating the same talk in one village, I become restless. That is why I do not stay long; and Mahavira has said a monk should not remain long in one village. I said: Now I understand the reason. Three days—Mahavira said—do not remain beyond three days. Four talks are sufficient; one extra for emergencies. I used to read the injunction—now seeing you, I know its commentary.

These are the people dispensing spirituality! His Master’s Voice—the dog before the gramophone horn! Your saints, your pundits, your scholars.

They shun satsang and run toward the crowd.

They make noise here and there, but flee satsang. They must—standing before a Buddha is to see oneself in a mirror. Who wants to see he is a fool, a sinner, base, that he is squandering life? People befriend their inferiors—to feed ego. The wise befriend those beyond them—sit in their shade. That is satsang. There you learn egolessness. There you see your faults—and seeing, they drop. Seeing the fault is the difficulty; dropping is easy. No one walks through walls knowingly; thinking it is a door, he bumps. None knowingly eats stones; a mistake of sweets—then yes. To know exactly is transformation. Knowing is liberation.

They shun satsang and run toward the crowd.

He will always slander the Sadguru, for even His shadow cuts him.

Those whose hearts have grown hard, says Paltu—the arrow cannot pierce. Reason has turned them to stone; doctrines and scriptures have hardened them. Their innocence, purity, softness is gone. Nothing feminine remains, nothing gentle, tender—no flower within; all stone.

The arrow of God cannot enter them; the wall of scriptures stands in between—the Great Wall of China!

Only he will know the ache whom the arrow of love has struck.

He alone can know love’s bliss and love’s pain—both together. Pain, because the experience is new; bliss, because the doors open. What you have always sought approaches, comes near.

The Word can make a king renounce; the Word makes a fakir.

The word born of love—touching it, you can be made to drop even a kingdom.

That Word turns men into fakirs—
and that very Word unites you with Ram.

Here it severs you from the futile; there it links you with the essential. The word that arises from love is alchemy. On one side it breaks the unreal, on the other it joins you to the Real.

Those whom the Word has touched—nothing else pleases them.

They die of the wound of the Word—and that Word alone can bring them to life.

This strange Word of the masters—kills and resurrects; destroys the ego and gives birth to the soul.

Their work alone is fulfilled; the world keeps weeping.

Only those who die at the Master’s feet and are reborn—only their work is done. The rest of the world comes and goes and weeps. Nothing stays in anyone’s hand.

But one needs the sword of a Sadguru. Kabir said: Be ready to lose your head—then come. Be ready to set fire to your house—then walk with me.

Wounded, he wanders—the blow of the Word is heavy.

At first, the disciple writhes like a wounded bird. His pain is deep—yet exquisite, sweet; he cannot flee, he cannot pull out the arrow—but wounded he is. Habits of lifetimes are torn; wounds do come.

Wounded, he wanders—the blow of the Word is heavy.
Dead while alive—then bent, he is lifted and gathered.

The Master kills while you live—and then bends and gathers you up. In His presence, death and rebirth both happen. The ancient saying: the Acharya is Death—the Maha-death; and the Great Life as well.

Paltu—those pierced by the Word, struck in the heart:
The Word makes kings renounce; the Word makes fakirs.

Let this arrow sink. It will snatch away the futile and fill your pouch with the essential. The kingdom of the world will go—and the kingdom of God will be gained. DARE! Have courage.

When the wounds of your remembrance begin to heal,
by some pretext we begin remembering you.
When the headings of tales-of-the-Beloved begin to brighten,
then in every sanctuary tresses begin to be arranged.
Every stranger appears intimate to us,
who still pass through your street.
Speaking to the morning breeze of exile from the homeland,
tears begin to rise in the eyes of dawn.
Whenever they stitch apart a lip of speech,
more melodies scatter into the air.
When the seal of darkness falls on the cage’s door,
then, Faiz, stars begin to descend into the heart.

Remembrance must be cultivated; memory must be awakened.

When the wounds of your remembrance begin to heal,
by some pretext we begin remembering you.

The Sadguru searches for pretexts for you—many. How many are being worked here, that somehow remembrance may arise! If someone remembers by sitting silently—sit silently. If by strumming the veena—strum. If by tying anklets—tie them. If by listening—listen. If by inward humming—hum. All devices—but their meaning is one.

When the wounds of your remembrance begin to heal,
by some pretext we begin remembering you.
Every stranger appears intimate to us,
who still pass through your street.

To enter His temple is not needed; just to pass through His lane—and no one seems a stranger; all seem ours. For in each flashes His glimmer, His radiance, His splendor.

Search for pretexts. All methods and disciplines are only pretexts—to persuade you to open your heart. He stands ready with the drawn bow. But your heart is hidden behind the walls of the Gita, Quran, Bible. Tear down the walls. Let His arrow enter. Then fountains of joy will burst, of celebration.

You are the master of those springs. Do not lose them. You have lost them for many births—no more!

Hurry into bhajan, delay in all else.
Delay in other things; in this world life is brief.
Having attained human form and wealth, kneel and implore.

Enough for today.