Sapna Yeh Sansar #9

In this wilderness of time, whatever sights we behold,
we speak them in the tongue of tears, we hint at them with sighs.
Do you know, are you aware, day and night within our reveries,
O tresses of the world! how lovingly we adorn you.
O wave of calamity! give these folks two or four light slaps as well—
some people still watch the tempest from the shore.
Who knows when these sins will be cut away, who knows when that day will come—
for the sake of which, O ‘Jazbi’, what have we not endured.

There is only one day of supreme beatitude in this life: the day we realize this is not the real life. The real life is other; it is beyond. This is only the shadow of true life, merely a reflection. Like an echo resounding in the hills—this is not the original song. Blessed above all is that day when the eyes open, and we awaken from matter, and awareness of the Divine dawns.

Paramatman means the Great Life. It is hidden somewhere within this very life. But we keep wandering only on the circumference and never arrive at the center. We get entangled in vain; we go on gathering cowries—while here there were diamonds and jewels! Here was the eternal treasury. The timeless kingdom was ours—and we remain beggars.

Worldly means beggar: the one whose hand holds a begging bowl. And such a bowl as never fills. However much you pour in, it does not fill; the more you pour, the emptier it feels. The bowl grows larger and larger. Even if the whole world were yours, your begging bowl would not be filled.

Desire is insatiable.
Buddha said: trishna is insatiable. It is not that you are weak, therefore it does not fill; not that your limits are small, therefore it does not fill. It is the very nature of trishna not to fill—because before one desire can be filled it has already given birth to ten more. Desire is like the sky that seems to touch the distant earth. It never touches it, yet it appears as though ten or five miles ahead sky and earth meet. Walk a little, and you’ll arrive at the horizon! Walk a million miles, circle the whole earth, you will never find the horizon—and yet it appears all around. It only appears! It is an illusion. Nowhere does the earth touch the sky. The farther you go, the more the horizon recedes. The distance between you and the horizon remains exactly the same—an inch not less, an inch not more. Such is desire, such is trishna.

Desire is a horizon we never reach. We run hard, we do all we can, we put in all our strength—not of one life, but of countless lives we have dedicated our power to a futile game that will never be completed.

I have heard: it was Christmas, and an American couple went to buy a toy for their child. The husband was a great mathematician. The wife too taught at the university. Both cultured, well-educated. The shop had all kinds of new toys. They looked at everything. Then both became interested in a jigsaw puzzle—broken, disjointed pieces to be assembled. They tried hard to set it right. It would not assemble! At last the wife said, If my husband, who is one of the few great mathematicians on the earth, cannot solve this puzzle, how will our child solve it? The puzzle is charming, but how will a child manage it? The shopkeeper laughed and said, Forgive me—this was never made to be solved. It cannot be solved; the question is not of child or father.
Both were astonished: What kind of puzzle is this that cannot be solved? The shopkeeper said: The maker designed it so that whoever tries might get a hint about the world—that the world too is a puzzle that does not resolve. Try as you will, it does not fall into place. It has not been made to be solved. If it could be solved, Buddhas would be unnecessary. If it could be solved, Jesus, Krishna, and Zarathustra would be superfluous. Those who came to know that the puzzle of the world is unsolvable—when this became so deep in them that all their interest fell away, when their eyes moved off this toy—they beheld That which is forever already set, forever whole.

There is the world, which no effort can set in order; and there is the Divine, which is eternally in order. It needs no arranging. The one who tangled in the world, wandered, burned, was harried; the one whose eyes turned toward the Divine, arrived—arrived instantly. Then there is fulfillment, contentment. Then life is a rejoicing. Then life is neither birth nor death—neither beginning nor end. Then it is an eternal journey of bliss.

Who knows when these sins will be cut away, who knows when that day will come—
for the sake of which, O ‘Jazbi’, what have we not endured.

How much we bear. Man is no small sufferer. A small being, and he carries mountains. Strength like a drop, and he drags the sky. Man is not one who suffers a little. And so when the prayer rises—When will that day come?—remember: it will not come from your efforts alone. If it could come by itself, it would have come by now. You are not new. You are ancient travelers. Who knows how many wombs, how many bodies, how many forms you have passed through, and went on. Who knows how many paths you have wandered—yet did not arrive. You are not new. You have borne enough burdens. And bearing them, it has become a habit. So ingrained that you go on carrying. Now you have even forgotten why you carry. For so long you have borne the load—who can remember why?

A husband and wife were quarreling—as husbands and wives do; it must have started without cause, for no cause is needed. The neighbors grew tired of hearing it. At last they gathered and said, It’s been three hours—neither do you sleep nor let us sleep; what is the matter? The husband said, Ask her, ask the wife, what is the matter. The wife said, How do I remember now? It began three hours ago!

Two little boys were talking. One said, My mother is incredible—you say one word, and she chatters for hours; my father, out of fear of her, doesn’t speak! If he speaks, he is trapped. The other boy said, That’s nothing. My mother is such that whether you speak or not—speaking is not necessary. Just yesterday, my father sat silent, so my mother said: Why are you sitting silent? Don’t you feel ashamed? Sitting silent—what does it mean? What’s the intention? And the quarrel began!

You have been quarreling with this world so long that you no longer remember when and how the story began. The threads lie far behind. Now quarreling has become a habit. Now the quarrel is life. Now you even declare, Life is struggle. Whoever says, Life is struggle, knows nothing of life—for there is not a trace of struggle in life. Life is surrender. But only the saints know surrender. The one who is surrendered—only he is a saint.

Why should I pray for death? Who would desire to live?
Be it this world, or that world—who would desire the world now.
When the boat was sound and whole, who longed for the shore?
Now with such a shattered boat, who can long for the shore?
The fire you kindled, tears have doused;
The fire that tears have kindled—who can cool that blaze?
The world abandoned us, O ‘Jazbi’—why should we not abandon the world?
Having seen through the world, now who would chant ‘world, world’?
Why should I pray for death? Who would desire to live?
Be it this world, or that world—who would desire the world now.

Whoever understands—even a little—whoever wakes a little and looks with awareness around himself, peeks within and without, he becomes free not only of this world, but of the other world too. Here, all cravings fall; and he no longer craves for heaven either. For it is craving that is samsara. Whether you crave wealth or heaven—it makes no difference; craving is samsara. With craving, samsara begins. Not to crave is transcendence. To see the futility of craving—to see that this bowl will never fill, this puzzle will never assemble—and instantly a revolution happens; instantly you are free. Liberation is no process—it is a revolution in a single moment. As a drop falling into a blazing fire turns to vapor with a sizzle, so in the fire of awareness transmutation happens in a single instant. Revolution is not evolution. Adhyatma is revolution—not an evolutionary process, but a leap.

And the most fortunate day is that on which it is seen that the race we run is circular. As the oil-press bull walks, so we walk. The bull thinks, I am walking so much, I shall surely arrive. Mathematics, logic—everything says: if you walk so much, you must arrive. But the oil-press bull reaches nowhere—he circles the mill. We too are moving in a circle.

The word samsara means: the round, the circling. Like the wheel of a cart spins—so we are bound to the wheel of samsara, spinning. And we are ground down badly, for what is bound to the wheel will be crushed. Not a moment’s pause, not a moment’s rest, the wheel keeps turning—and bound to it, you are ground and ground.

Houdini, the great western magician, would tie himself to the wheel of a train, and for hours the train would run and he, bound to the wheel, would spin—that was one of his great feats. No one told Houdini this is no great feat—everyone is doing it. True, your train is of iron and visible, and you have learned the art of how to save yourself while tied to the wheel; but the whole world is tied to a wheel. The wheel is invisible—therefore even less noticeable. And we have arranged—ourselves—that sleep should not break, that awareness should not come. We keep pouring new intoxicants over our stupor—opium upon opium. Sometimes the opium of wealth, sometimes the opium of position—we keep drinking. It has been said: the intoxication of position, the intoxication of wealth. They call these intoxicants madira.

You impose prohibition on wine—but what intoxication is there in wine? Drink at dusk, and by morning it wears off! Those who impose prohibition have no inkling they drink such liquors as never wear off—the intoxication of power. They have drunk the wine of authority, of dominion—how hard to come down from that. However many blows life gives, it does not wear off; rather, it climbs higher. It knows not how to descend. You condemn the small wines; you praise the big ones.

In this world, all are drunkards. They have drunk different wines and put themselves to sleep. And even if someone else had poured them, that would be one thing—we ourselves are drinking. We ourselves concoct these poisonous remedies. We ourselves labor at it.

A philosopher went to a sesame oil shop to buy oil. Being a philosopher, a question arose in his mind. The oilman began to weigh the oil, and the philosopher said, Wait, brother!... It is a story of Navadvipa, Bengal. Navadvipa was once the greatest center of logicians. Navya-Nyaya was born there. India’s great logicians were produced there. Navadvipa polished India’s philosophical genius. This story is from Navadvipa. The philosopher said, Wait, brother! First answer a question, or I shall be restless. The oilman asked, What question? The philosopher said: You are weighing oil; behind you the oil-press bull is walking. There is no one to drive him. Where did you get such a religious bull—one whom no one goads, no one beats, no one stands behind with a stick, and yet he walks! Where, in these times, did you find such a devout bull? The oilman laughed, Not a matter of devotion or religion. I have arranged it so. Don’t you see the bell tied to his neck? The bell is ringing—don’t you hear? The philosopher said, I see the bell; I hear it ring. But so what? The oilman said, Simple: as long as the bell rings, I know the bull is walking. No need to watch. The bell keeps ringing; I keep hearing it; I know the bull is moving. The moment the bell stops, I immediately get up and prod the bull. The bull never knows I wasn’t there. I don’t delay. The bell stops here, I prod there. So the bull remains convinced I am behind him. And don’t you see, the bull’s eyes are blindfolded. He cannot see whether someone is behind him—he cannot even turn; he can look only ahead.
The philosopher said: I understand—the blindfold over the eyes, so he cannot see what you do; and the bell at his neck, so that the moment it stops you prod him and he never realizes you were absent. But one question: does the bull never stand still and shake his head to ring the bell? The oilman said, Maharaj, from now on please buy oil elsewhere. If the bull ever hears this, my whole business is ruined! I am alone; I must sell the oil, I must run the press—big household, sir. Kindly go to another shop. Your coming and going here is not suitable. Satsang is contagious!

Man is bound the same way—blindfold on the eyes, a bell at the throat. No one is driving you—and yet you go on. No one prods you from behind; you are being lured from ahead. Beautiful dreams are dangled in front... this world is a dream! Lovely dreams hang ahead—Now I shall get it, now I shall get it; there lies the horizon; now I shall arrive, now I shall arrive! How many days have you walked—when will you consider that you cannot arrive? Until now you have not arrived—how will you arrive ahead? Until now no one has arrived—will you alone? Are you the exception?
Those who gained wealth died in their gaining—the inner poverty never vanished. Those who gained position died in their gaining—the inner inferiority never left. An Alexander and a Napoleon, a Genghis and a Nadir Shah—on this earth we have seen many kinds of madmen: small madmen, great madmen; lunatics of many categories abound—this earth is a vast madhouse—but no one arrives. Pause a little! Stop for a moment! Sit for a few minutes each day and contemplate life; reflect anew—What am I doing? Have I tied blindfolds over my eyes? You will say, No. Then what is Hinduism? What is Islam? What is Christianity? What is Jainism? You do not know. You have tied borrowed knowledge upon your eyes. These are the blindfolds. Because of them you live in the delusion that you know.

The greatest delusion in this world is the delusion of knowing. For the one who believes, I know, never seeks truth. If it is already known, why seek? He lives on as he has lived. Why change himself? His scriptures contain everything. Mahavira said it all, Buddha said it all, Nanak said it all, Mohammed said it all—what is left for me? My task is merely to carry the Quran, the Bible, the Vedas on my head.

As if the load was not heavy enough; the burden of scriptures makes it heavier. Walking becomes harder. Already you were dragging, already weary; you placed more stones on your chest. But your eyes will not open through this. Because of this, your eyes are closed.

The Hindu is blind, the Muslim blind, the Jain blind. Whoever believes without knowing is blind. Whoever accepted anything without his own experience—he deceives, himself and others. Deceive the world if you must—but at least do not deceive yourself!

Bells are tied at your neck that keep ringing, and sustain the illusion that someone is driving you. Bells of hope!

Omar Khayyam said: I went to the parlors of pundits; I kept the company of scholars; I visited the so-called mullahs; I knocked at the doors of the homes of the great knowers—but from whatever door I entered, by the same door I returned. Empty I went in, empty I came out. I heard much talk of truth there, but it was talk and only talk. They all discussed God—but none knew God. They could not answer even my small questions. One small question I kept asking all: Man suffers so much sorrow, depression, anguish, such pain—his life is nothing but an affliction—and still, why does man keep living? Why is the will-to-live so strong? They could not answer. Then one day I asked the sky: O sky, you must have seen countless people walking this earth like the blind—you must know the secret. O moon and stars, you must know—what hope drives man on? What is this thing that keeps him going? The sky told me: Your question contains the answer. You ask: With what hope does man go on? The answer is: with hope, man goes on. Hope! Not today—tomorrow it will come. Today we missed—no matter; with a little more effort, tomorrow it will be attained.
Tomorrow never comes. And if it does, it comes exactly like today. And then hope shifts again to tomorrow. This is the bell tied at the neck, ringing and ringing, driving you on.

There are two ways to drive.

A Sufi fakir rose at dawn to bathe in the river. He saw an old, thin, frail man trying to drag his cow. The cow young and strong; the old man could not pull her. The cow pulled backward; the old man pulled forward. The fakir said, You won’t be able to drag her. Know no other trick? If you only tie a rope and pull, she will not go home with you. You are old now, you lack strength. The old man asked, Is there any other trick? All my life I have tended cows; I have seen no other method. The fakir said, I’ll show you a trick. He plucked a tuft of grass from the roadside, held it before the cow, and walked ahead. The cow saw the grass and followed! No rope needed. The fakir held the grass in front and walked, and the cow followed behind. He said, You tended cows all your life—but this little thing you never understood: hang hope in front!
The old man asked, I’ve never seen you tending cows—how did you come to this trick? He said, By watching men. Every man walks this way; you need not tie a chain round his neck. There are subtler chains—unseen, weightless, neither tied nor forged. Hold a bundle of grass in front, and man goes on walking. A thousand rupees—make them ten thousand; the bundle of grass ahead! Deputy minister—be the minister; the bundle of grass ahead! Keep moving the grass forward—and the man slides on behind.

And one day death arrives; hope is never fulfilled. In this world, never has any hope been fulfilled—nor can it be. Such is not the nature of the world.

Paltu says:
He who drinks the Name lives age after age;
He does not die who drinks the Name.

You will die. You have died many times and will die many times more. You die daily—you only die; where do you live? After birth, there is only dying and dying. Slowly dying, and one day you are entirely dead. Seventy years, eighty years it takes to die—the dying is gradual. But Paltu says: I tell you a secret—if you drink this Amrit, you will not die again. And only the one who does not die can know life. The one who dies—how will he know life? He will know death—how will he know life? Life has no death; death has no life.

He who drinks the Name lives age after age—
He does not die who drinks the Name.

He who drinks the Name of the Lord—who drinks His remembrance—does not die. Death is no more for him. To be joined with Amrit—that is called bhakti. And Amrit surrounds you—outside and within. But you wander in the net of hope. You have no awareness of your own treasure. Your eyes are fixed on another’s wealth—how much the neighbor has; I must have more than he. The neighbor enlarged his house—so I must enlarge mine. When will you look at your wealth that came with your birth—that which is your very nature?

Time touches not the one who becomes immortal;
Without beginning and end he lives forever.

The one who has once experienced within the presence of the Divine—and the Divine is present; only experience it! Probe a little! But this probing can happen only when hope from the outside breaks.

Buddha said a most surprising thing: Blessed are the hopeless. You will say, What is this? Hopeless—and blessed? Blessed are the despondent. How can this be? But Buddha speaks truly. For the one who has become despondent, who has become hopeless; whose hopes have run out; who has seen in every way that outside there is only illusion, only mirage—inevitably he turns within. It is not right to say he turns—he turns by himself, inevitably. If consciousness does not go out, where can it go? It settles in itself. The moment the outward journey ceases, you come to rest in yourself; you become still. And in that stillness is the taste of Amrit.

Saints are deathless by that very Hari-Name;
On that very Hari-Name let the mind be fixed.

By experiencing that Paramatman, saints have become immortal. They never die. You too never die—your dying is a delusion. You are connected to the false, therefore you suffer the illusion of death; you are connected to ahamkar, hence you endure the false pain of dying. The outward journey can give only ego and nothing else.

The moment the Atman is known, death bids farewell—just as darkness vanishes when the lamp is lit, as night ends when morning arrives.

Saints are deathless by that very Hari-Name;
On that very Hari-Name let the mind be fixed.

Therefore withdraw the mind from other things. Do not delude yourself in vain. Now look a little at what you are, at your innermostness. The spring of consciousness that flows within you—be acquainted with it a little. Dive a little into it; become one with it, of one taste.

Says servant Paltu: Leaving the wine of wisdom,
You became ignorant—and now beg for buttermilk.

How mad you are! Amrit abides within, yet you do not drink it—and at others’ doors you stand with a begging bowl for buttermilk! And even begged-for buttermilk—where is it to be found? Those from whom you beg are beggars too. Those from whom you beg—beg from you. Beggars stretch their hands to beggars; the bowl spreads before the bowl. Here, all are under the sway of desire. All are filled with trishna. All are begging—More, more. The one who begs is himself the begging. And what a wonder! Within you flows a current of Amrit—yet you turn your back to it. You are averted from it.

The eye toward the world and the back toward oneself—this is the householder’s sign. The eye toward oneself and the back toward the world—this is the sign of the sannyasin. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to run; this revolution has to happen within you. It is a shift of the eye. Keep your shop, raise your children, care for your wife—but a single eye has changed; the vision has shifted. Now your gaze remains within; the nectar you drink is inner; outwardly, you do the work given by God. But it is no longer your race; your hope is no longer attached; your craving is not in it. If it happens, good; if not, good. Now you remain utterly balanced in that matter. If there is loss, fine; if gain, fine—both alike. It is a chess game.

But we are so foolish that even in a chess game swords are drawn. To see the play of life as a chess game is far off—we cannot even keep chess as chess. The elephants and horses are made of wood—or, if you are very rich, of ivory. All false: elephants and horses false, king and vizier false...

In a court two men stood trial—they had cracked each other’s heads. The police had dragged them in. The magistrate said, I live in this village too; I know you well; you are friends—what happened? What burst that lifelong friendship and made you smash each other’s heads? Both stood with heads bowed. One said to the other, You tell. The other said, No, you tell. The magistrate said, Either of you—speak! They said, What shall we say—it is hardly a matter worth telling. The magistrate insisted. Pressed, they had to tell:
We were sitting on the sand by the river, gossiping. He started it—he said he was going to buy a buffalo. I said, Look brother, don’t buy a buffalo. We have an old friendship—if she ever wanders into my field, there will be no one worse than me. Why lose a lifelong friendship over a buffalo? What reliance is there on a buffalo? I won’t be able to tolerate it. If she gets into my field, I will kill that buffalo. So don’t get into this mess—don’t buy a buffalo. He flared up and said, What do you take me for? Just because you have a field, should no one buy a buffalo? I’ll buy one. And a buffalo is a buffalo—if she ever enters your field, is our old friendship to end over such a trifle? And if it must end, let it end today. What value in a friendship that breaks because my buffalo strayed into your field? And remember, if you so much as touch my buffalo, there will be no one worse than me. The quarrel grew. So I said, Fine, then let it be settled now. I drew my field in the sand and said, Here is my field—if you have the guts, send in the buffalo. He drew a line with his finger and said, Here she enters—do what you can! The rest the whole village knows. So we are embarrassed; there was nothing really—yet the matter had to go wrong, and it did. Heads were broken. We repent now—but what is done is done.

What is your life? Standing before God, you will bow and say to your wife, Now you speak. The wife will say, You are the husband—you speak. In your presence, how can I speak? You speak. Your fights and quarrels, your friendships and enmities—they are card games. And the kings and queens on the cards are mere conventions. Yet we are caught in great upheavals.

Says servant Paltu: Leaving the wine of wisdom,
You became ignorant—and now beg for buttermilk.

What ignorance has seized you! What stupidity, what stupor!

Those who have supports—
Their feet touch the air;
Fate wears shoes of silver.
He who made his laws so subtle—
No one ever troubled him.
Cracks appear only in the feet
Where there is firmness.
Those who play the lower trump on the threshold—
They laugh, and before dawn—
Until the ray arrives—
The darkness holds the field.

This life you take to be life—until the ray appears, the darkness holds sway. There is nothing of life in it. Only until the ray appears, the darkness reigns.

And from where is the ray to come? Not from far across the seven seas. The ray sleeps within you. It needs to be awakened, shaken; its sleep must be broken. Let a single ray arise within—a little beam of light—and you will be astonished: How did I live? How vainly I lived! Where spring might have been, there was only fall. Where flowers might have bloomed, only thorns grew.

There was a time—
when it seemed to me
that I stood
upon a mountain—
strong in mind and body.
But now!
It seems
beneath a mountain’s
burden I am dying;
like a yellow leaf
I fall each day.

This stiffness is for two days only. This life is of four days only. How long is this life? Two passed in longing, two in waiting. Just four days. We begged a long life—and received four days: two in yearning, two in waiting—Now it will come, now it will come; now I shall find it, now I shall find it. And then death arrives. Dust returns to dust. And at the moment of death there is deep regret: This life could have been gold—it remained mud. This gold could have been fragrant—and it remained mud. Lotuses could have bloomed in this mire—and the mire only became muddier and ended. Let such sorrow not seize you—join your boat to the Hari-Name.

Blessed are the saints who, leaving their own abode of bliss,
Take on a body for the sake of others.

Paltu says, I am astonished—and it is a wonder, the greatest wonder in this world—that the enlightened ones leave their inner realm to engage in the effort to awaken you; leaving their inner ecstasy, they knock their heads against yours—and what do they receive from you, except abuses and insults? You have nothing else to give. You have no songs—only curses. No flowers have bloomed within you—only thorns. And what you have, that you give. What have you ever given to the Buddhas? To Jesus—what did you give? A crown of thorns. To Mansoor—what did you give? You cut off his hands and feet, his tongue, his head. To Socrates—what did you give? Poison. You drink poison yourself—and if someone comes to awaken you, you cannot bear it. Among the greatest wonders of this world, this is a wonder indeed.

Blessed are the saints who, leaving their own abode of bliss,
Take on a body for the sake of others.

They strive to awaken the sleeping. Their work is done; if they wish, this very moment they can fly out of the body—their cage is open, the door is open—but they wait. As long as they can, they wait. As long as it is possible, they wait—perhaps two or four birds will agree to fly with them. They have found the path to Mansarovar—but perhaps two or four more may become pilgrims to Mansarovar.

Bearing the sword of Knowing, they leap into the world—
And cut the bonds of all delusion.
Someone asked Jesus: You are the embodiment of peace; you have descended to bring peace to the world. Jesus said, No, I have come with a sword. Christians find it very hard to interpret this statement—how can Jesus, the supreme messenger of peace, say, I have come with a sword! What does it mean?
Paltu’s words hold the key. This is not about an ordinary sword. Jesus speaks of the sword that will cut your infatuation, that will cut your ego, that will cut your darkness, that will cut your stupor.

With the sword of knowing he entered the world,
He scattered the delusion of the whole world.
Love everyone—friend and foe alike;
Bow your head to both the good and the bad.

In the lives of the saints, within, the stream of nectar flows; but outwardly only a few who are aware, who are conscious, place their heads at their feet. The many, the crowd—why, they shower abuse. This earth is a fraternity of madmen! Where there is ego there is madness; where there is ego, there can be only mistakes. Truth is lost there—far from truth, even ordinary decency is lost.

Mulla Nasruddin was in a hurry to get to the station and couldn’t find a taxi. At last he thought, let me ask a passing car for a lift, otherwise I’ll miss the train. The first car that came was the car of a great national leader; Mulla didn’t know—it was just that the clock was striking the hour at the town tower and he had only minutes left, so he stuck out his hand, the car stopped, and without a word Mulla opened the back door and jumped in. The great leader flew into a great rage. Great leaders have great everything! He shouted, You son of an owl! Get out! Think this is your father’s car? Don’t you know who I am? Who are you to stop my car with your hand? Mulla folded his hands and said, Oh, oh, forgive me, respected leader! How was I to know it was your car? I was just in a hurry to get to the station—I thought it was the car of some gentleman.

Where there is ego, gentleness is lost. Where there is ego, derangement makes its home. Ego is a kind of madness.

There was a job interview in a government office. Chandulal was one of the candidates. The interviewer asked, Chandulal, what’s your typing speed? The interviewer was wary—there was something odd about Chandulal: hat on backwards, coat buttons mismatched. Chandulal said, One hundred words per minute. The officer didn’t quite believe it. This getup—and a hundred words per minute! It didn’t add up, but he said, No matter, come and show us. Chandulal stepped up, sat at the Hindi typewriter. After half an hour the officer came back and saw that only three or four words had been typed. Chandulal said, Sorry, I don’t know Hindi typing, I know English typing. They brought him an English machine. After another half hour the officer returned and saw not a single word typed. What’s this? You said you’re very fast at English typing—why are you sitting idle? Yes, sir, said Chandulal, though I’m not fast at Hindi typing, at least I can read Hindi. In English it’s just the opposite. I type at the speed of an Apollo spacecraft—but I can’t read English.

The man entangled in ego is in a great dilemma, a perpetual split. Everything is incomplete, nothing whole. Everything is in fragments, nothing integral. His knowledge is stale, borrowed, not his own. Ignorance is his own; knowledge is stale and borrowed. And he trusts the borrowed knowledge—and never even looks at his own ignorance. If he looked, he might try to break it. Think: whatever you say you know—do you really know? You will be shocked: whatever is valuable, you do not know. God, soul, heaven and hell, sin and virtue, karma and non-karma—you talk on and on like chatter; you have no firsthand taste of any of it. Yet people conduct discourses on the Absolute!

In this country the misfortune is even thicker. Here everyone is a knower; there is no ignorant person at all. This is the land of merit, the land of dharma. One who has read the Gita or memorized the Ramayana thinks he is a sage. One who can repeat four sayings of the Upanishads thinks, I have arrived—what more is there to do?

Knowledge is not so cheap. It isn’t obtained that way. For knowledge, meditation is needed.

Therefore Paltu says:
Saints are deathless by that Name of Hari;
Fix the mind on that very Name.

To fix your mind on that very Name is what we call meditation: searching within for Him, digging within for Him. As if you keep digging the earth, sooner or later you find water—just so, dig within and you will find the Name of Hari, the ray of Hari. Then a revolution happens in your life. Then you have something to give—and so much that you can keep giving and never be emptied. And remember, you will give people nectar—and they will shower abuse and stones, they may even crucify you. That is what people can do—and they will. But it makes no difference to the saints.

Love everyone—friend and foe alike;
Bow your head to both the good and the bad.

Says servant Paltu: I did not know Ram,
I knew the saints—by whom the seekers are ferried.

This word is wondrous! He says, I did not know Ram directly. How could I? I first came to know those who had known Ram. I came to know the saints.

Upon this earth there is no other proof of God. No argument can prove Him. Logic, in fact, is on the side of the atheist, not the theist. Theism has nothing to do with logic. Logic is the commerce of negation; theism is affirmation. To say No, you need logic; to say Yes, you don’t. Logic does not prove God, offers no evidence. Those who live only by logic remain irreligious; their lives have no fragrance, no song, no music. They live like clay and crumble like clay. They never taste that supremely fortunate hour when the festival flowers, when Diwali is lit, when we can play Holi with the Eternal.

Says servant Paltu: I did not know Ram—
I knew the saints—by whom the seekers are ferried.

Those saints came into the world brandishing a sword: whoever has courage, they will cut his infatuation, break his illusion; whoever has the guts, they will behead his ego. For the one who comes to know a saint, proofs of God begin to appear—proofs in the saint’s presence, in his radiance, in the shower of prasad around him. But only he will be able to receive this grace, this vibration, this shower of blossoms, who sits with an open heart. If you sit stiff with logic, shackled by ego, stuffed with secondhand knowledge, blindfolded by prejudice, with bells in your ears so nothing else can be heard—if you sit like this even by a saint, you will come to the river and return thirsty.

There is a way to sit with a saint: sit erased; sit empty; sit as a zero. There is a different way of listening to a saint. In school, college, university there is one way of listening; with a saint there is another. In the university you listen with the intellect; the saint is to be heard with the heart. In the university you listen with thought; the saint is to be heard with love. Whoever spreads the beggar’s bowl of love before the saint has it filled.

Seeing Khizr weary of eternal life,
I feel a gladness at the fevered gaze of the narcissus.
Now—wherever the Beloved’s destination may be—
We have set out, having seen how hard the road is.
What matter whether it is mosque or monastery?
We sat—simply seeing the shadow of a wall.
The secret of the last flare of night remained unopened:
Why is the candle glad on seeing signs of dawn?
We picked up the instrument of the ghazal, O Ravish,
Catching the hint in that half-opened eye.

Sit by saints and songs will rise. For within the saint the Supreme Beloved is manifest—or say, the Supreme Lover is revealed—whichever you like! The Sufis call Him the Beloved; Paltu calls Him the Dearest. Both are right, for there neither male nor female remains; God is neither man nor woman. Yet when we speak we must use some word.

We picked up the instrument of the ghazal, O Ravish,
Catching the hint in that half-opened eye.

We had to pick it up. The instrument had to be lifted—the vina had to be played, the flute had to sing, the drum had to be struck, the ghazal had to be sung.

We picked up the instrument of the ghazal, O Ravish,
Catching the hint in that half-opened eye.

We saw her signal—the Beloved’s signal. Half-opened eyes—half closed, half open—we understood that hint.

Have you seen the Buddha’s image? His eyes are half open, half closed. For centuries Buddhist seekers have asked, Why? The Japanese Zen master Rinzai said: Buddha is the middle-way man. So he says, Look half outside, half inside—because the same One is outside and inside. Hence the half-open eye.

Mahavira’s eyes are completely closed in meditation—he dives wholly within. Your eyes are completely open—you wander without. Rinzai speaks truth: Buddha closed one half, kept one half open—because outside is That, inside is That. Buddha’s sutra is the middle: stop at the exact center. Like the scale’s pointer that comes to rest in the middle—equilibrium, equality, samyak arises. Do not bend too far inward—else introversion will swallow you; nor too far outward—else extraversion will seize you. In both, man remains partial. And God must be known in His totality.

We picked up the instrument of the ghazal, O Ravish,
Catching the hint in that half-opened eye—

and once the hint is given, what else can we do? We break into song.

Now wherever the Beloved’s destination may be—
we no longer care. Once you meet the true Master, trust arises that there is a destination; without this, trust is not born. Gazing into the eyes of the true Master trust is born; when your heart beats in rhythm with his—together, in harmony—then faith wells up.

Now wherever the Beloved’s destination may be—
we no longer care.
We have set out, having seen how hard the road is.

We know the road is hard, a steep ascent, a mountain climb, yet no worry remains. One who has once looked into the eyes of the true Master knows for certain:

Now wherever the Beloved’s destination may be—
we have set out, having seen how hard the road is.

What matter whether it is mosque or monastery?
We sat—simply seeing the shadow of a wall.

The true lover of God does not fuss whether it is mosque or temple or gurudwara or church; nor whether the true Master is Hindu, Muslim, or Christian.

What matter whether it is mosque or monastery?
We sat—simply seeing the shadow of a wall.

Whether the wall is of a temple or of a mosque—what difference? We only need shade. Burned by the sun, one seeks shade—he doesn’t fuss temple or mosque.

The secret of the last flare of night remained unopened:
Why is the candle glad on seeing signs of dawn?

A lovely couplet! The secret had not opened to me—why the candle should be happy at dawn! She should not be; at dawn the candle is extinguished. She should be glad of night, when the candle burns. Why then is the candle so joyful at the sight of dawn? This secret opens when you join with a saint. Then you learn: when the candle of ego goes out, the lamp of the Self is kindled. Then you see why the saint is eager to erase himself—he has learned the mystery that only by dying do we truly be. Only by losing do we truly gain. Jesus said: Whoever tries to save himself will lose himself; whoever loses himself will be saved.

Tie your shroud around your head—then love!
When you are a lover, you do not sleep.

Paltu says: tie the shroud, then travel the path of love. Note well: the road is hard. But if ever you taste even a drop from a true Master, challenge is born. Then the impossible begins to feel possible. However dark the night, dawn will break—such faith surges that you set out—mountains to cross, oceans to cross—ready for all. Once the drop is tasted, you cannot stop. The journey becomes inevitable.

Tie your shroud around your head—then love!
When you are a lover, you do not sleep.

And love’s very condition is: do not fall asleep again—do not again lapse into world-stupor.

There are so many intoxications beyond the wine of the grape;
So many pretexts for me to go on living.
The breeze is cool, yet heavy with grief;
There are clouds beyond what my eyes can see.
Disgraced Love, by the oath of your shining scars—
In my breast there are many wounds still green.
Separation was separation—now let us see what happens;
In his nearness, new pains are born.
The night will pass somehow;
After the night there are miles of harshness more.
Do not call me long in the valley of sorrow—
I have other addresses than the vale of grief.

The journey is hard, long, near-impossible. But unless you take the challenge of the impossible, your soul will not be born. The acceptance of the impossible—that is the birth of soul. The greater the quest you undertake, the greater you become. The vaster the One you seek, the vaster you become. Do not befriend the petty—else you will become petty.

Says servant Paltu: I did not know Ram,
I knew the saints—by whom the seekers are ferried.

Make friendship with a true Master. Don’t run seeing the sword in his hand. He will cut you—he must—he will kill you, because as you are, you are false. He will erase you, for only then can your real birth happen—you can be twice-born. Your second birth must be—not of the body, but of the soul.

Separation was separation—now let us see what happens:
In his nearness, new pains are born.

The world has its pains; but as you approach God, a new kind of pain arrives—sweet pain; tender pain; pain that pierces clean through.

Separation was separation—now let us see what happens:
In his nearness, new pains are born.
The night will pass somehow;
After the night there are miles of harshness more.

Religion is not for cowards; it is for the courageous, the audacious. Cowards have manufactured religions to suit themselves: perform a sacrifice, do a ritual fire, ring a bell before a stone—and think religion is done. Go to church every Sunday—and think religion is done. Offer two flowers—and think religion is done. When will you offer yourself? Until you offer yourself, there is no religion.

Kabir says:
Who burns down his house—he can walk with me.

One who is ready to burn all to ash, he can come with me.

In temples and mosques you will see cowards bow. The daring gather around true Masters—for there is challenge there, a challenge only a few can accept. Yet these few are the salt of the earth. Because of them, life on earth has a little flavor, a little taste. Because of them a few lamps burn; there is a little light. Because of them man is man. If these few Buddhas, Krishnas, Christs, these few Mohammeds, Mahaviras, Moseses were gone—there would be no difference between man and beast. It is thanks to them, not to you. You, left to yourself, are animal. They have pulled you, pulled hard; they have taken you as high as they could. If you fall, that is your fault; if you will not rise, that is your fault. But you cannot blame the wakers. From the mountain tops they have cried out; to cry out they paid every price. They endured your abuses, your thorns, your stones, your gallows, your poison—everything.

Tie your shroud around your head—then love!
When you are a lover, you do not sleep.
Without pyre or fire he burns day and night—
Alive, he becomes Sati for the Beloved.

A fire arises within—no pyre is seen, no fire is seen—and still the devotee burns. But this burning is fortune, for only the dross burns; the gold is refined.

Alive, he becomes Sati for the Beloved.

There is no physical death, yet the devotee becomes Sati while living: of all his love, only God remains the object; all his love gathers and flows toward the Divine. It no longer runs in many streams, many directions; his love becomes one-pointed.

Alive, he becomes Sati for the Beloved.

Within, something burns fiercely. There is no flame—and yet a fire greater than fire. No smoke rises, no pyre—and still the devotee is burned to ash. But all that burns is false, illusory; what remains is gold—purified, kundan.

He forgets hunger and thirst and worldly hopes;
He loses himself in his very self.

All worries are forgotten. Hunger is not remembered, thirst is not remembered, the world’s hopes are not remembered. Only one tune—breath by breath one ecstasy, one intoxication. When he speaks, it is the Name; when he is silent, it is the Name. Kabir says: When I speak, it is Hari’s Name; when I eat, it is Hari’s Name; when I sleep, it is Hari’s Name; when I wear my shawl, it is Hari’s Name. His rising, sitting, waking, sleeping—all are drowned in Hari.

He loses himself in his very self.

He dives within himself, sinks and dissolves into depth. Like a lump of salt tossed into the ocean: the deeper it goes, the more it melts. And a moment comes when the salt is gone—one with the sea.

Says servant Paltu: in love’s arena,
Once you’ve given your head—you no longer weep.

Until you mustered this one courage—on love’s battleground to offer your head—your life is lament, only tears. Bliss cannot be yours. Bliss belongs to those who give their head—then sorrow ends. Then it is sat-chit-ananda.

In youth you may have tasted, now and then, such a fire—no fire, yet it burns. The devotee finds that same fire in vast form—like a whole forest on fire. The fire of ordinary worldly love is just a little spark—smothered under ash—yet it gives a hint. Those who have known love understand devotion more easily; those who have never known love find devotion very hard to understand.

The wine of youth is awake—
What strange fire has kindled in my brimming heart?
Did the limpid river of inner nectar turn storm and rain?
Or in the voice of storm and rain has new love plucked the lute?
Between two tempests my discerning mind stands baffled and robbed.
Like a mad gale shaking bough and leaf,
A shaft of Love sits in my breast, twisting pain.
On rising waves my quickened consciousness runs, fleeing, fleeing—
This carnival of delirious swells—how will mind bind them?
In such unsteadiness how will I steady my little boat?
My form-seeking feeling is steeped and steeped in savor.
What strange fire has kindled in my brimming heart?
Between two tempests my discerning mind stands baffled and robbed.
On rising waves my quickened consciousness runs, fleeing, fleeing—
My form-seeking feeling is steeped and steeped in savor.

This is a description of ordinary love. Now multiply it to infinity—Mahavira says: infinity times infinity—and you will glimpse the fire that seizes the meditator, the devotee. In one instant the whole world turns to ash; what remains is Hari, is Ram. Call it what you will—nirvana, moksha, kaivalya, soul, God—all are names.

Call yourself a servant—then keep no hope;
Who keeps hope is no servant.

Once you have become a slave at a Master’s feet—once you have said, Buddham sharanam gachchhami, Sangham sharanam gachchhami, Dhammam sharanam gachchhami—then remember one thing: keep no expectations of your own.

Call yourself a servant—then keep no hope;
Who keeps hope is no servant.

In short words Paltu has poured deep truths. Simple man, but he hits the mark. For those who understand, hints suffice.

Who keeps hope is no servant.

Even sitting with the Master, if you go on hoping—this siddhi, that ridhi—then you will wander. You will sit by the Master and yet not be sitting; between you and the Master a thousand miles remain. As much hope, that much distance. If no hope, no distance. Then the Master will throb in your heart; he will speak through your voice; your breath will be his breath; you will see with his eyes. This is satsang: when you can see with the Master’s eyes, touch with his hands, feel with his heart—when all distance falls.

When love is tied to the world,
Devotion goes far—only restless craving remains.

There is a love that is stuck in the world—outward, wandering. When love is attached to the world—money, position, prestige—devotion goes far away; you lose all scent of it.

When love is tied to the world,
Devotion goes far—only restless craving remains.
Break love off from objects if you want devotion;
Join love to the Self—then devotion arrives.

Remember, connect love to things and it becomes worldliness. Connect love to your own Self and the world dissolves. To connect love to the world is to expect happiness from objects, from others—and you break from God. The day you connect to God, you break from objects. Both cannot happen together.

Says servant Paltu: Give one of the two away—
One sheath cannot hold two swords.

If you are lost in the ambition for things—more money, more status, more fame—you cannot know God. If you want to know God, you must fall out of love with such pettiness. One who wants to dream cannot wake; one who wants to wake must drop dreams.

But our attachments are strange; they don’t leave even at death.

A certain leader was counting his last breaths. It wasn’t the first time—that great man had “died” several times before and returned to life; leaders do not die so easily! This time as he was dying he said, After my death, please ensure that such-and-such maestro’s orchestra plays the funeral march. Dying! And arranging which orchestra will play at the funeral! His lawyer immediately noted it down and asked, Kindly also specify which composition of that maestro you would prefer to hear!

Even after death people won’t leave the world. Hence they must return again. Living, they cling; dying, they cling. Even death arrives and the fist won’t open. Blow after blow—and no wakefulness. If your love is glued to the world, devotion is far away.

Gather all your love. Let it become one stream. Flow it toward God. Let this Ganges flow to His ocean; don’t break it into a thousand canals, or it will never reach the sea. Without reaching the sea there is no peace, no bliss.

If the wine is given—fall in prostration of thanks.
The moment you drink, a reel of rapture should begin.
Yes—respect both mosque and idol-house;
Ask my religion? I keep them separate.
We wine-loving reprobates—black-drunk, agreed!
But, O Sheikh, let our talk at least be noble.
Devotion is madness—not an unripe intellect;
A madman should be mad in every way.
This life needs provisions for life—
If nothing else, at least a cup and glass!

This devotion is madness. It is not some “intellect” that might be unripe. Intellect is always unripe; it never ripens. Intellect is always childish—even a great scholar’s intellect is childlike. Intellect knows no maturity. Maturity belongs to love. Those who have not known love remain unripe. Love is an ecstasy, a divine madness.

Devotion is madness—not an unripe intellect;
A madman should be mad in every way.

On the path of love, you cannot set conditions. You must be unconditionally mad. If you go to drink God, drink without condition. Why sip by sips? Drink the whole ocean! But to drink the ocean you must be empty within—shunya. Only the empty can contain the Whole. Emptiness is the qualification; emptiness is the invitation to the Full. Therefore the Master’s sword is needed—to cut off your head, to erase you.

Devotion is madness—not an unripe intellect;
A madman should be mad in every way.
If the wine is given—fall in prostration of thanks—

and if at a true Master’s feet you find such wine, such divine madness, then bow down in gratitude—prostrate in thanksgiving to God.

If the wine is given—fall in prostration of thanks;
The moment you drink, a reel of rapture should begin.

The moment you drink the Master—your feet should begin to sway. Wherever you place them, let them fall elsewhere!

Devotion is madness—not an unripe intellect;
A madman should be mad in every way.

These are lessons in supreme madness, supreme intoxication. Not for cowards—for the brave, the audacious. Gather courage! For only the courageous attain that supreme blessedness—without which life is only ash; that supreme blessedness by finding which all is found. Jesus said: Seek first the Kingdom of God, and all else will be added unto you. One who has found God has found everything. You may gain all—and if you have not found God, remember—again and again I say—remember—on your deathbed you will regret bitterly. But what is the use of regret when the birds have eaten the field?

That’s all for today.