Sapna Yeh Sansar #11

How many dawns, how many dusks, how many sweet refrains of blossoms— thus, walking and walking on the path, so many years have passed.

Feet grown weary—yet the pace not slow; though body and mind are shattered, I am restless to meet the One— and He seems so very far from me.

That water-bearer’s pitcher on which I cast a longing glance—spilled away. Whatever cup my lips touched— overflowed the moment they touched.

Look—toward me, of me, how cruel my own fate is—cruel indeed: I am restless to meet the One— and He seems so very far from me.

From alpha to omega upon this path I have not paused even for a moment anywhere. I have come as a traveler— resting is not my work.

In my depths—search; on my brow—dust and dust. I am restless to meet the One— and He seems so very far from me.

How many dawns, how many dusks, how many sweet refrains of blossoms— thus, walking and walking on the path, so many years have passed.

Feet grown weary—yet the pace not slow; though body and mind are shattered, I am restless to meet the One— and He seems so very far from me.

All who set out in search of Truth feel just this: that Truth is far away. There is a reason for this appearance—it does not come. One walks so much, and it does not come. Then surely it must be far. This is the logical conclusion: that which cannot be attained even after long walking must be far indeed. Our little steps, our small eyes, our short hands cannot reach it. Perhaps between us and That there is an infinite distance.

But though this conclusion looks logical, it is not true.

Paramatma is not far. Paramatma is nearer than the near. For the one who tries to reach Him by walking, He goes far. For the one who would attain by sitting, He is attained instantaneously. Walk—and you wander. Stop—and you arrive. Hold this sutra, this golden sutra, in your heart. Walk—and you go far, far from Paramatma. Stop—and you come near. If you stop utterly—you have arrived. Because Paramatma abides in your innermost core. You run, you walk, you rush helter-skelter; therefore you cannot see yourself, cannot be acquainted with yourself. Sit—and acquaintance dawns. Pause a little, be still a little—and acquaintance dawns. Where is the leisure? The eyes remain fixed far away—how will you see the near?

Paramatma is not found because He is far; He is not found because He is so near—so near that if you open your eyes, He becomes far; if you keep your eyes closed, He is right before you. Stretch out your hand—and He goes far; for He is within the hand itself. Take a step—and you miss; for the step-taker is He. Paramatma is not attained by action, but by non-action. To abide in that non-action Buddha called Dhyana; Paltu called it Jnana. To abide in non-action—no running, no fleeing, no seeking; stopping, halting.

And that non-action is not only of the body, but of the mind. With the body anyone can sit. Many have seated themselves on asanas in caves, beneath trees. The asana is set, but the mind’s asana is not set. The body has stopped, the mind has run even farther. The more you seat the body, the more the mind becomes a runner. The body is here; the mind elsewhere. The body’s asana is only the prelude to the mind’s asana.

Still the body so that in that stilled prelude the mind too may come to rest. If the body is still and the mind keeps running, nothing of substance is there. Then all is hollow. Many a yogi has gone astray in just this way.

The bhogi has gone astray by racing the body; the mind, after all, is already racing. The yogi has gone astray—he has stilled the body, but the energy that was at work in the body’s running, that very power now feeds the mind; the mind races even more. The bhogi’s mind wanders in the world; the yogi’s mind wanders to heaven and hell, to moksha and kaivalya—and who knows where. He now has more power available for wandering. The energy that was entangled in the body also goes to the mind. The bhogi has gone astray, the yogi has gone astray—only the meditator arrives.

Meditator means: the mind too is still, the body too is still. Simply a stillness descends. The lake of consciousness becomes absolutely without waves. In that wave-less mind nothing is known except Paramatma. Paramatma is not known as an object, not as the known; Paramatma is known as the knower, as the one who knows. Paramatma never becomes the seen; He is the seer. He abides in you as the seer, and you seek Him as an object—hence so far, so far…

He is far because of you. Understand a little, ponder a little—and none is nearer than He.

Bhekh Bhagavant ke charan ko dhyaikai, Paltu says: Meditation at the feet of Bhagavan. Where are the feet of Bhagavan? In Kashi, in Kaaba, on Kailash? Where are the feet of Bhagavan? They abide in your own heart. Do not go to any other temple. If you descend into the heart, descend the steps of the heart—you will find the temple.

Bhekh Bhagavant ke charan ko dhyaikai, And if Bhagavan is beyond your comprehension, beyond conceiving—as is natural: you have not seen Him, not recognized Him, never tasted Him; no knowledge of His color, no knowledge of His form; you do not know His abode, nor His shape—how will you meditate at His feet? If He has no body, what feet would He have?

So take the meaning of meditating at the feet deeper. It is not that you close your eyes and imagine the feet of Paramatma—lotus feet thus-and-so! That would only be imagination. You might see two feet made of gold—still, only imagination. If you repeat the image often, it will grow dense; whenever you close your eyes, two feet will appear. But you will only have enthralled the mind in a fiction. Meditating at the feet has only this meaning—which is not explicit in the statement, it remains hidden—that under the name of the feet something else is being said indirectly: bow down. The meaning of meditating at the feet is surrender—the art of bowing. The feet are but a symbol, because to touch the feet you must bend. If you meditate at the feet, you will have to bow—the eyes must bow, the vision must bow, your seeing must bow. It is a way of speaking. Do not be caught in the symbol. Otherwise people have made feet—of stone, of gold, of silver—and they keep offering flowers upon them. Missed! They have grasped the symbol tightly.

The Zen fakir Rinzai used to say to his disciples: do not hold my finger—see my gesture. Do not suck my finger—look at the moon toward which the finger points.

But in the world, people have grasped the finger; they are sucking the finger. However much you suck the finger, you will get no nourishment. It is not only little children who are deceived—grown-up children too are deceived. To clutch the symbol tightly is to miss the meaning. The symbol is not to be held; the symbol is to be understood.

Meditating at the feet means: bow; bend within yourself. Let this stiffness of ego not remain. Ego stands stiff. If you meditate at the feet, you have to bend. One who bends—finds. If you bend totally, there will not be even a moment’s delay.

Bhekh Bhagavant ke charan ko dhyaikai, But it is difficult. Even if you take Bhagavan as symbol, take His feet as symbol, still no visible support appears—where to bow? In which direction to bow? How to bow? To bow you need some support. Therefore Paltu says: bhekh. Bhekh means: if you cannot find Bhagavan, find one who wears His robe—one embodied. Bhagavan is bodiless, nirguna, nirakar. To understand Him you need a vision of the same formlessness, a mind as attributeless. It is difficult all at once to become so formless. But one who has seen Bhagavan, who has looked into His eyes—look into the eyes of such an embodied one, and in his eyes you will find a stairway. In his eyes you will find the reflection of Paramatma. If you cannot look directly at the moon, then look into a lake. Granted that the moon in the lake is only a reflection, but it is the reflection of the real moon. Some imprint of the real is there. Some tune of the real is there. And one who can look at the reflection and understand it will not take long to raise his eyes to the real.

Bhekh Bhagavant ke charan ko dhyaikai, If meditation settles at the feet of Bhagavan—auspicious; if it cannot, then at the feet of the Sadguru. The one who is still in body—deha—this is the ‘bhekh’. Deha—the robe He wears now. When a Buddha walks upon the earth, Paramatma has taken on form. Call it avatar, call it buddhattva, call it jintva—whatever name you give. If Buddha is upon the earth, then Bhagavan has entered a body. The sky has descended into the courtyard. Perhaps you can see the courtyard; the sky is vast. But one who understands the courtyard has taken the most important step toward the sky. Look into Buddha’s eyes and you will find the limitless bound within limits. Bow at Buddha’s feet, and you will be able to say: Buddham sharanam gacchami! Place your head with your whole being at Buddha’s feet, and Buddha’s feet will vanish—you will find the invisible feet of Bhagavan. That alone is the Sadguru, at whose feet, when you place your head, his feet dissolve and the unseen feet of God begin to appear.

Bhekh Bhagavant ke charan ko dhyaikai, Gyaan ki baat se nahin tarna. And once such an auspicious moment comes, such an hour—if such feet are found in which there is a faint glimpse of the formless; a form in which the formless reflects; a voice in which there is a tone of shunya, the unstruck sound, the resonance of Omkar; if such an echo is found—then do not turn away! Do not retreat. Stake everything. Do not hold back. For whoever holds back loses—loses badly.

And many times you have held back. Paltu is right, he warns. Who knows how many times you must have come close to Buddhas! Your journey is long. You have been moving through births upon births. It is impossible that some of you have not come near a Buddha. Impossible that some of you never had darshan of Mahavira. Impossible that some of you never heard the voice of Jesus. Impossible! If not here then there, if not there then here—somewhere along some path, at some turning, you surely beheld a Buddha! In such a long journey, through so many births, it is impossible you never came even once near a Buddha. More likely you came many times. At some time a Kabir, some time a Nanak, some time a Paltu, some time a Raidas, some time a Farid. So many luminous ones! So many lamps were lit! So many times Consciousness descended into clay! So many times Paramatma manifested in body! No, you surely came close many times—but you were afraid; you missed.

Perhaps you said: some other time. There is much work still. I will come, certainly I will come—but just now I am young. When I am old, when the business of life is done, then I will come. These are the feet where one must bow, these the feet where one must sit!

Either you postponed to tomorrow with such reasons. Whoever postpones to tomorrow postpones to forever. Or else you found faults. You saw—Buddha! But he wears clothes. One who has attained Jintva is naked. A clothed Buddha—somewhere something is wrong! He cannot be the real Buddha.

And you must have missed Mahavira too—for you thought: where is the flute? Where the peacock feather? Krishna played the flute, wore the peacock crown, appeared in unsurpassed beauty. How is this—standing naked! You found faults.

Do not think you did not find fault with Krishna—one who looks for fault will find it everywhere. He found fault with Krishna too: what kind of God is this! He enters war. Not only enters—he drags the renunciate Arjuna into war. He explains and convinces him into battle. He causes great destruction, violence. What kind of God is this!

Not dispassionate at all. He has sixteen thousand wives. One wife is enough to carry you to hell; with sixteen thousand, to what hell will he go? And not only his wives—many are others’ wives whom he eloped with. And this flute-playing rasa-leela on the full-moon night in Vrindavan at the Vamsivat—this is a play of passion; where is dispassion? No, no—here cannot be God.

Seeing the sword in Mohammed’s hand, you must have turned back: God with a sword in hand! God—ready for battle! And seeing Jesus crucified you must have said: he could not even save himself—and savior of the world! He could not save himself! All stories must be fabricated—that he walked on water, raised the dead. If wonders had to be shown, show one now!

A hundred thousand people gathered when Jesus was crucified. They did not come to bow at his feet; they came to see. Now let him prove he is truly the Son of God! Let him prove, let him call upon God, let him show a miracle! And they returned home reassured: it was all deception.

Two thieves were crucified with Jesus; they died too—just the way Jesus died. People went home at ease—good, we saved ourselves from being fooled! Those who followed Jesus must have been told: see the result? All those stories you fabricated, rumors—and this man turns out to be worth two pennies! He could not even save himself—whom will he save? He himself drowned and was drowning you too.

Either you found some argument and escaped. And you are quite skillful at producing arguments. There is no shortage of them. You will produce them.

Mahavira died of dysentery. Mahavira and dysentery! He fasted all his life, and died of a disease of the belly! To me that is perfectly right. If you fast so much, the stomach is bound to be upset. Mahavira should indeed die of dysentery. Had he died of some other disease, I would have had difficulty. If you fast a month at a time and then eat one day, what will happen if not dysentery? The stomach must have given up the capacity to digest. To me it is reasonable. It cannot be a fabricated story. How would Jains fabricate it? But many must have turned away seeing: Mahavira and dysentery!

The Jains fabricated a story that the dysentery was not real. The wicked Goshalak cast black magic upon him; because of that black art he had dysentery. It was not illness in Mahavira—Goshalak’s wickedness. Devotees must have had to fabricate to save Mahavira when doubts arose.

Between devotees and enemies there is not much difference. Their arithmetic is the same. See—the arithmetic of both is one. The devotee says: no, how can Mahavira have dysentery! It is Goshalak’s trick; that wicked one did magic, spells. But you cannot satisfy a rationalist with that. He will say: if Goshalak’s spell worked on Mahavira, if Mahavira could not protect himself from Goshalak’s black art, then you call him Tirthankara? Will he protect you from the darkness of the world’s new moon? He could not save himself from an ordinary Goshalak—whom will he save?

Just consider: the mind invents devices to escape. Thus you have kept escaping. Thus Paltu is right:

Bhekh Bhagavant ke charan ko dhyaikai, Gyaan ki baat se nahin tarna.

If ever a glimpse comes—a thrill, hairs stand on end; if by looking into someone’s eyes you hear a little of the sound of shunya; if by simply sitting beside someone your heart begins to tremble, your heartstrings begin to sing—then do not save yourself; do not run; do not postpone; do not persuade yourself; do not seek arguments for yourself; do not defer. In that very moment—leap. For a straight leap into God is hard; to connect with the formless directly is hard. If Paramatma is available anywhere in form—do not miss the chance.

And remember: whenever Paramatma appears in form, you can find some fault because of the form. In the formless sky you cannot find fault—there is nothing there to find fault with. But the courtyard? It is slanted. The wall of the courtyard—is not beautiful. The wall is of clay—not of gold. The wall is crumbling. Grass has grown upon the wall. The grass grows upon the wall, not upon the courtyard; the courtyard is as pure as the sky. But in the courtyard’s ground there may be pebbles, stones, thorns. The courtyard is what the sky is, but it also has ground and walls. In the walls and ground you can always find fault. There people get stuck, stopped. Then—if the courtyard is slanted, how to dance?

What has the slant of the courtyard to do with it! One who knows how to dance will dance in the slantest of courtyards. And one who does not—let the courtyard be built to the most exact geometry, he will not dance.

I have heard: a professor of mathematics joined the freedom movement and was imprisoned for six months. When he returned his students asked: how was the jail journey? All well? He said: all was well, but the corners of my cell walls were not exactly ninety degrees.

This man was hurt by just that. He was a professor of geometry. For six months in that room—surely it must have been very difficult for him! Again and again seeing—these walls are not at right angles. Slanting—who built this! No other hardship was remembered by him—but this one pricked.

When something pricks you, remember—it pricks because of your mind, your vision, your prior prejudices.

And because of such little things his six months must have been spoiled. Twenty-four hours in that cell. If he closed his eyes, he would still see that wall. In the night dreams—slanting walls. Who built this! He had no sense of mathematics! You cannot imagine the hardship you would have suffered in that cell. There were a thousand hardships, but all the rest became secondary.

If you go to Mahavira and you miss, remember—you are missing because of yourself. If you find some difficulty in Mahavira’s nakedness, then search within carefully—you have difficulty with your own nakedness. You are afraid of being naked. You fear that if you become naked you will be exposed—your sins will be exposed. You fear that if you are naked your lust will be expressed. You have not only covered your body with clothes, you have covered your lust too.

If Mahavira’s nakedness creates difficulty for you, look carefully—you have difficulty with your own nakedness. If sitting by Buddha you feel some difficulty, think: the difficulty is happening to me, surely the cause must be within me. If it seems to you that Buddha wears clothes, and he should not wear clothes—having renounced all—then look carefully, perhaps you have attachment to clothes. You relish clothes. Then you cannot accept that Buddha has no relish for clothes. If, seeing Krishna with dancing gopis, something arises in your mind—what kind of dispassion is this?—then know only this: there is relish in you for women, and nothing else. Whenever you think or speak in relation to Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira, Kabir, Nanak—remember, your statement reveals something about you, not about them. Only then will you be able to stay. Only then can revolution happen in your life.

Milai lutaaiye turat kachhu khaiye, A very dear word—straight and simple. Like two and two make four. It flies like an arrow.

Milai lutaaiye… If ever a Sadguru is found, and the whereabouts of his treasure discovered—a glimpse given—milai lutaaiye—then not only drink yourself, digest yourself—fill yourself up to the brim—also give it away! Do not stop with: good, I have found for myself—what more to do?

Milai lutaaiye… Jesus said: climb the rooftops and shout—for people are deaf. Give the news. Few will accept your word, few will listen. Do not be concerned. If you tell a hundred, one will hear. If even one hears, much is done.

And here is a secret: the more you pour out, the more you receive. Like a well from which someone draws water—the well receives fresh streams feeding it anew. If no water is drawn; if a miser locks the well—thinks: if water is taken daily, then someday in drought there will be none and we will die of thirst—the shut well will rot. The springs will die. The veins will close. The water of the well will become poison. On the day of need it will not be fit to drink. It will kill, not give life. From the well—keep drawing. The more you draw, the fresher the well remains—alive. So it is with inner bliss. If bliss is found—milai lutaaiye.

…turat kachhu khaiye, A very sweet saying: do not only listen—digest. At once, eat. Drink it. Let it become your flesh and marrow. If the Sadguru is found—drink him, eat him, digest him. Let him settle into every pore. Let him enter your every breath. Let him flow in your blood. Let him permeate your bones. Let him become your life.

Milai lutaaiye turat kachhu khaiye, Wherever it appears—do not miss even for a moment!

Gyaan ki baat se nahin tarna. Then what to do? Bowing at the Sadguru’s feet—what then? Digest him, drink him! Through him Paramatma is flowing.

The Upanishads say: annam Brahma—food is Brahman. I say to you: Brahman too is food. As food nourishes the body, keeps it healthy and whole—so is the food of the soul. It is found in satsang. That nourishment which makes your soul strong, self-possessed—atma-van.

Milai lutaaiye turat kachhu khaiye, They say: immediately! Not a moment’s delay—the mind is most untrustworthy.

All leaves have turned yellow— some remain, some have fallen. Another year has passed; spring too is done— behold, autumn has come.

Some days of rain and winter, some of summer and spring— these days pass away; the world forms and dissolves— behold, autumn has come.

Yesterday, spring laughed here— ensnared among buds and blossoms; for one moment, root and consciousness met eyes— behold, autumn has come.

No longer that fragrance in the air, no red blush upon the leaves; what remains is only a garland of tears of night— behold, autumn has come.

What meaning has this sigh? To tell of sorrow and joy is vain. The cuckoo’s restless call did not bring the beloved home— behold, autumn has come.

Where spring dissolves, what end has that shunya? Will our love too at last dissolve into that void— behold, autumn has come.

All leaves have turned yellow— some remain, some have fallen. Another year has passed; spring too is done— behold, autumn has come.

Do not delay! Spring does not take long to depart. Now there is Buddha—now there is no Buddha. Buddhas are springs of consciousness. Nature’s spring returns each year—but the springs of Buddhas come after centuries. Only once in centuries does someone attain buddhattva. Do not postpone! Do not say: tomorrow! Who knows when spring will pass? When only fallen leaves remain in your hand. Those fallen leaves people call scriptures. Once, scriptures were made of leaves, and written upon leaves. Even if they are no longer written on leaves, it makes no difference—they are still autumn leaves. When spring was there and the leaves were green and hung heavy with flowers, when the tree was fresh, alive, green—conversing with clouds, related to moon and stars, dancing, singing, humming—where were you then? You come only when the tree has departed and dry leaves lie scattered. You gather them and hoard them. You make scriptures from them. Then for centuries pundits go on worshiping those leaves—rotten, withered leaves. Granted that once upon a time spring rested upon them—now it does not. Granted that once flowers bloomed upon them—now they do not. Granted that the bumblebee once hummed around them—that is gone.

When there is a spring of consciousness anywhere—bow. Stay. Stake everything. Then do not weave nets of logic. Do not be entangled in the unnecessary. Do not search pretexts to escape.

Therefore it is said:

Milai lutaaiye turat kachhu khaiye, Let not a moment pass—instantaneously.

Maya au moh ki thaura marna.. Where you are now—on the path of maya and attachment—there is nothing but death. Whoever has found the nectar, tie yourself to him. Do not delay—tie yourself to him. Already it is very late—very late indeed!

Dukkha au sukkha phiri dushta au mitra ko, ekasama drishti ikabhava bharna. And if satsang with the Sadguru be found, then a background must be prepared—so that satsang deepens, becomes dense, intense; so that the fire of satsang blazes up. What ground is useful? Begin to take joy and sorrow as one. When the Sadguru is found, joy begins to arrive—now drop the concern for joy and sorrow. Take both as equal. Now something higher is beginning. Now the sky begins to descend. Turn the eyes from the earth. Take friend and foe as equal. For friend and foe, enemy and ally—all this is the quarrel of maya and moha. One who supports us is a friend; one who opposes us is an enemy. But for one whose desire to gain and grasp in this world has fallen away—who is friend, who enemy?

Ekasama drishti—fill yourself with the one, even vision. Friend or foe—equanimity, one vision. Thus the ground is made. Then you can drink the Sadguru more easily. Then the sky can descend with ease.

I wished, yet could not find life; I wished, yet could not summon death— what is your way, O Life? Neither this, nor that— nothing at all, nothing at all.

Why cling to joy? Why flee from sorrow? When I know the truth— neither joy nor sorrow— nothing at all, nothing at all.

What has this sadhana done? What has this worship done? If I could not turn the beloved this way— neither face nor direction— nothing at all, nothing at all.

Look closely at this life.

Why cling to joy? Why flee from sorrow? When I know the truth— neither joy nor sorrow— nothing at all, nothing at all.

How much longer will you take to know this simple truth? How many times joy has come, how many times sorrow—everything came and went. Lines drawn upon water—hardly formed and already dissolved. What remains in your hand? Joy is memory—lines upon water. Sorrow is memory—lines upon water. How many times it seemed: now, clasp this joy to the chest and never let it go. But did it stay? More astonishing: even if joy stays, very soon it becomes sorrow.

Yesterday I read a song: This world is a strange toy— if it comes to hand—it is dust; if it is lost—it is gold.

If it comes to hand—it is dust; if lost—it is gold. What is attained turns to dust. The woman behind whom you were mad—when attained, turned to dust. The man for whom you were crazed—attained, turned to dust. If attained, dust; if lost, gold. Not attained—Majnu was fortunate; Laila never came—she remained gold. Not all Majnus are so fortunate. Most obtain their Laila; then the noose is around the neck. Majnu could never awake from his dream—Laila never came. Had she come, the child would have learned about salt-oil-firewood; then he would not have gone on crying, “Laila, Laila.”

Mulla Nasruddin sat in a tavern, gossiping with a friend, drinking. Mulla asked: it’s late—are you not going home? The friend said: to go home for what? Who is there? I am unmarried. The home is empty and silent. Mulla struck his head: astonishing! You sit here for that? We sit here because there is a wife at home. How to go home! The longer we can stretch it, the better. If it is found, it is dust; if lost, it is gold.

How many joys you found! Either they were lost—or if not lost, they turned to dust in your hand. How many sorrows you found! Either they were lost—or gradually you became accustomed to them; they became your habit. There is something beyond joy and sorrow—hence life has meaning, dignity, glory, Paramatma. One must rise beyond joy and sorrow.

To drink the Sadguru, one must rise beyond joy and sorrow.

Grant me this, that I may speak a little from the heart; that I may bear the world’s derision; that I may remain equal in joy and sorrow— grant me this right, do not give me a world of pleasure.

Let me daily nurse a new pang; let my tale be a different tale; give me that love without beginning or end— do not give me a world of pleasure.

Grant my heart immortal courage— that I may kiss the lips of the waves; that I may cast the boat into the whirlpool— whether or not you give me oars, do not give me a world of pleasure.

Grant me this, that I may speak a little from the heart; that I may bear the world’s derision; that I may remain equal in joy and sorrow— grant me this right, do not give me a world of pleasure.

If you must ask for something of Paramatma in prayer, ask only this: grant me the capacity to remain equal in joy and sorrow. Why? Because one in whom this capacity arises becomes fit to attain Paramatma. If you must ask, ask only this: that I may see friend and foe with equal gaze; that I may see thorn and flower with equal vision. For where the vision of equality has come—samyakta has arrived—Samadhi is not far. Samyakta is the first ray, the footfall of Samadhi. Where the footfall of Samadhi is heard—there is resolution, there is Paramatma.

Das Paltu kahai, Ram kahu balake, Ram kahu, Ram kahu—sahaj tarna. Paltu says just what Shankaracharya said: Bhaja Govindam, mudha-mate. He calls the dull-minded a child—O child!

Das Paltu kahai, Ram kahu balake, Ram kahu, Ram kahu—sahaj tarna. Let one tune resound within you—the tune of the formless, the nirguna. Let satsang become your very life. Rise in Ram, sit in Ram, sleep in Ram; eat—Ram; drink—Ram; speak—Ram; hear—Ram—be surrounded by Ram; dive into the ocean of Ram. On that day know that dullness is gone. You are no longer a child—you are grown. Buddhi has arisen, prajna is awake. None but a religious one is truly talented. Beyond the religious, there is no supreme flowering of intelligence.

Dekhi nindak kahain—karun pranam main, And great slander will come. If you bow to such satsang, if you bow at such feet, if you hold the feet, if you place your meditation in the formless, if the search for Paramatma becomes deep—much slander will come. The crowd is blind—it does not like one with eyes.

Dekhi nindak kahain—karun pranam main, The world will fill with your slanderers. Those who were your own will become strangers. As the feeling of samyakta grows within you, you will find enemies multiplying. A very upside-down world! While enmity leaves your heart, enemies outside increase. Now you think ill of none—and thousands who never thought about you begin to think ill. They go mad. Many will be ready to harm you. Leaving a thousand tasks, they will come to injure you. Paltu says: you remember just one thing—offer namaskar.

Dekhi nindak kahain—karun pranam main, Salute them.

Dhanya Maharaj—tum bhakt dhoya. Offer thanks: O noble sir, you have washed the devotee. Your words, your abuses, your stones—all shake off my dust. You point out my faults.

Kabir has said: keep the slanderer near, build him a hut in the courtyard. If there are slanderers—house them nearby, serve them well. Listen to their words carefully. For the slanderer’s words will be either true or false—there is no third possibility. If true—you benefit. You will see your faults—correct them; there are many. If false—you benefit too. Why be disturbed by falsehood? If true—accept. If false—laugh within. The slanderer renders you a service.

Kiha nistara tum ai sansar mein, Paltu speaks well:

Dhanya Maharaj—tum bhakt dhoya. Kiha nistara tum ai sansar mein, bhakt kai maila—bin daam khoya.

Great is your grace that you come into the world, and keep coming. Consider you to be incarnations—you come again and again to wash the devotees, to bathe them. You are Ganga water. And without price! Sometimes one wonders—some people seem to have no other work! They spend all their time in slandering others—twenty-four hours! Their labor is immense—their sadhana profound!

Dhanya Maharaj—tum bhakt dhoya. Bhakt kai mail—bin daam khoya.

Bhayo prasiddha—paratapa se aapke, sakal sansar—tum sujas boya. And it is your grace that because of you the devotee becomes renowned. Who would know a devotee otherwise? Who would recognize him?

Bhayo prasiddha—paratapa se aapke, for the devotee quietly, silently, in intoxication, may depart some day—but the slanderer carries the news to the world’s corners.

Sakal sansar—tum sujas boya. The slanderer sows thorns—but thorns do not prick the devotee; as they approach him they turn to flowers. The slanderer throws embers—but touching the devotee they turn to blossoms. Paltu says: you sow noble repute. Does the slanderer sow noble repute? He fabricates as much slander as he can. But Paltu says: nothing comes of your slander—it only spreads fair fame. Because of you many come searching for the devotee. Because of you many become curious about the devotee. Because of you many become his.

Das Paltu kahai—nindak ke muye se, bhaya akaj—main bahut roya. Paltu says: when my chief slanderer died—

bhaya akaj— —a great loss befell me. I wept much—for how much service he had rendered. Tireless, without any wage.

Dhanya Maharaj—tum bhakt dhoya.

Remember: as soon as you move in religion, slander will increase. It is astonishing but unavoidable. No Buddha can leave this earth without being abused. Upon the path of the Buddhas, people sow thorns. They too are compelled. Those who sow thorns—what can they do? It is a kind of inevitability. The blind do not like the eyed. In their presence, their blindness rankles. The stupid cannot like the Buddhas. It is said: the camel does not like to go near the mountains. For there it sees: I am nothing. The camel chooses the desert—very clever! In the desert he is the mountain. The camel fears to go to the mountains; seeing them, he feels like a nothing. The presence of Buddhas is like Everest—lofty, sky-touching. Going near them, suddenly you feel like worms. In their light you feel utter darkness. Their blazing flame makes all your shame and sins visible to you. Before the long line they draw, you become small and mean. No one wants to feel mean. Although they are not making you small—still it happens inevitably.

You have heard the tale: one day Akbar drew a line in court—a riddle, read in a book; he could not solve it, so brought it to court. Without touching it, whoever makes it smaller will receive a hundred thousand gold coins. Without touching! The clever were stuck: without touching? To make it smaller you must touch it. Then Birbal rose and drew a longer line beneath it. He did not touch it, yet made it small. The line is as it was—neither shorter nor longer—but it appears small.

A camel is a camel—whether by the mountain or in the desert. But by the mountain it appears small. You are you—whether you sit among sinners or saints. Among sinners your ego is gratified—you seem superior. Among saints you seem inferior; the ego is hurt. When the ego is hurt, it hisses like a snake—that becomes slander. When the ego is hurt, it spits poison—and it will. Therefore on the path of the Buddhas, thorns will be sown, embers hurled, crosses given, poison offered. One who drinks the nectar of God must drink the world’s poison. That price must be paid—but it is worth paying.

If one is drinking God’s nectar, what concern with the world’s poison? What harm can the world’s poison do? At most—you will become Neelkanth. And see, there are many birds—but is any as lovely as the Neelkanth? Neelkanth became a symbol of Shiva, because Shiva drank the poison; his throat turned blue. Once a year people search for the Neelkanth bird and seek its darshan. It is beautiful indeed!

But this is not only about Shiva. Whoever attains Shivattva—their throats turn blue. All become Neelkanth. All must drink poison. Everything has a price. Nectar is not free. But what a price is this—worth two pennies! He who receives nectar—poison could not kill Shiva; the cross could not kill Jesus; what could your stones do to Buddha? What could your abuses do to Mohammed? No—the opposite occurs.

Bhayo prasiddha—paratapa se aapke, sakal sansar—tum sujas boya. Dekhi nindak kahain—karun pranam main, Dhanya Maharaj—tum bhakt dhoya.

Paltu warns: as soon as you begin to drink the nectar of God, the world will strongly oppose. This cannot be avoided. Do not even try to avoid it. If you try to avoid it, you will be deprived of nectar. All who sit here with me know how much slander they must bear; how much poison they must drink. Drink it with gratitude. Keep bowing to those who make you drink poison. Offer namaskar to those who abuse you. Take it as their grace!

Parai chinta ki aagi mahain, din-raat jarai sansar hai ji. This is a very strange world. It does not worry about itself. It burns in the fire of others’ concerns. It has no care for itself. The time it spends slandering others—it will not devote to meditation. Speak of meditation and people say: where is the time? But if you begin to speak of someone’s slander—say more! And then what happened? Speak to people of Paramatma and they say: let it be, what sort of topic is this? If they hear out of courtesy—well and good; no one wants to hear. Those who speak of God are thought to be bores. People avoid them.

If you do not believe me, go and see. Go to a Rotary Club and bring up God. All will startle—what is this man talking about! Go to a Lions Club and speak of meditation. People will look at each other—where has this stranger come from? There other kinds of talk go on. Who eloped with whose wife? Who is skimming whose card in Delhi? Who has knocked whom down in four corners? Big, high talk! All are acceptable; people relish them. They probe and pry.

A film without murder, suicide, adultery, rape—no one will go to see it. Make such a film in which these things are absent; let there be only the auspicious—devotees sitting, singing bhajans—people will beat the manager. They will set the film on fire. What is this? Is this any fun? People do not come for this, to spend money for this. People take relish where there is dirt. They are worms of filth.

Parai chinta ki aagi mahain, din-raat jarai sansar hai ji. A strange world indeed—Paltu says—it burns day and night in the concern for others. People do not even sleep at night. Few care for themselves. Whoever cares for himself attains the supreme knowing.

Chaurasi chariyu khan—charachar, kou na pavai paar hai ji. Through eighty-four lakhs of wombs you have wandered—egg-born, womb-born, sweat-born, earth-sprung—through all kinds of births you have roamed.

Kou na pavai paar hai ji. And yet you have not crossed? Since when are you taking dips, drowning and surfacing? An ocean—all ocean—bottomless. No shore in sight. Some fundamental mistake is being made. You are lost in the concern for others. Growing thin. If one cares for oneself—one crosses. And one who crosses can show the path for the world to cross.

Jogi, jati, tapi, sannyasi— sab ko un daara jarahai ji. All are burning—jogis, celibates, ascetics, renunciates. A thousand devices have been adopted, but if the basic error does not end—what difference will it make? A Jain muni opposes a Hindu sannyasi; a Hindu sannyasi opposes a Muslim fakir; the Sanatani against the Arya Samaji; the Arya Samaji against the Sanatani. They have become sadhus, mahatmas—but the same work! The same relish for slander!

One wonders why slander was not counted among the nine rasas. For among the nine, no other rasa is so universally relished—slander-rasa is universal.

Mulla Nasruddin and his wife are sitting in a garden. In a nearby bush—night, darkness—a young man and woman are making love. The youth pleads ardently: accept me! Without you I cannot live, I will die. Mulla’s wife grew restless. She nudged Mulla: cough, clear your throat—else this lad will get caught in the net. Let him be saved from this bother. But Mulla sat as he was. She nudged again. Mulla said: stop nudging! When I was committing the same foolishness, who coughed for me? Why should I cough? Let him be caught! Let the whole world be caught! When I got caught, why should anyone else be saved!

You relish slander because your mind gets a certain pleasure: I am not alone caught—everyone is. Many are more trapped than I am. I am nothing—count me among such sinners! Great sinners are there! Therefore when you see another’s fault you magnify it—make a snake of a bit of rope, a mountain of a mustard seed. A whole mountain in your eye seems a mustard seed; a mustard seed in another’s eye seems a mountain. There is a mathematics behind it—the straight arithmetic of the ego.

It is not only the worldly bhogi who is entangled in this. The jogi, jati, ascetic, sannyasi—those whom you call so-called religious—are caught in it too. They, too, are greatly disturbed: if some mahatma’s fame begins to spread, other mahatmas become restless. They all turn against him. They become his enemies; they devote themselves to his slander. Their egos are wounded.

Do you think those who crucified Jesus were bad people? Then you think wrong. They were not bad—thieves, rogues, rascals; not criminals and sinners. Those who crucified him were respectable men—so-called respectable—honored, esteemed, religious leaders, scholars, priests—this cohort crucified Jesus. Had some thief, some rogue, some murderer killed Jesus, it would not be such a blot upon humanity. But those who killed him were good folk, what we call “good.”

Those who gave Socrates the hemlock were also respected citizens—eminent. Those who hold sway over society—headmen, elders—they gave hemlock to Socrates. What was their problem? What was their difficulty? What harm was poor Socrates doing to them? He must have been harming something. Socrates had the real coins of truth—and they had counterfeit coins. Counterfeit coins cannot tolerate the genuine. It is a law of economics: bad money drives out good. The same law applies on other planes of life.

You have seen: if two notes are in your pocket—one genuine ten-rupee note and one counterfeit, made perhaps in Ulhasnagar—you will first spend the counterfeit, saving the genuine. Let it be passed as soon as possible. Whoever receives the counterfeit, as soon as he realizes it is fake, will pass it on quickly. Let it be spent before he is stuck with it.

Mulla Nasruddin returned home delighted. Today, he said to his wife, I did a favor to three men. You—and a favor? That is new; never seen or heard. You—a favor? Mulla said: believe me, three men. Tell me in detail, said the wife. Mulla said: that counterfeit ten-rupee note—I passed it to a sweetmeat seller. I bought five rupees’ worth of sweets. He had been sitting since morning—no sales. First sale—he was overjoyed. I did him a favor. A beggar stood nearby—I gave him half the sweets. He was stunned—touched my feet: O donor, many donors I have seen, but none like you! The wife said: that is two favors—what of the third? The third is me, said Mulla. That fake ten—gone! A stone lifted from my chest. I have returned having done favors to three!

Bad money drives out good.

In life too this applies. Those who gave Socrates hemlock were counterfeit. Socrates’ presence pricked them like an arrow—they could not sleep, were seized by anxiety. His presence made them mean, brought up inferiority within, tattered their egos—they had to do something. They had to give Socrates poison.

So remember—

Jogi, jati, tapi, sannyasi— sab ko un daara jarahai ji. This concern for the other—lest someone else get ahead, lest someone else rise above me, lest someone else become first in any competition—people are dying in this worry.

Paltu—main bhi hun jarat raha, Satguru leenha nikaari hai ji. Paltu says: I too was burning thus; I too was sunk in stupidity; I too was entangled in such futility—then grace happened.

Satguru leenha nikaari hai ji. The Sadguru pulled me out. He said: Madman—care for yourself, pay attention to yourself! Let others be. It is their life; let them live as they will. They are free. Why do you burn in their concerns? For their sins you will not be punished; for their merits you will not be rewarded. Care for yourself—look into yourself!

Then a new dawn happens in life.

In this shoreless ocean of love, on the path of kusha and thorns, in the longing for the Beloved’s meeting— whatever torment I have received— all is a gift, a gift.

To gain a little peace, to soothe the mind, to tell the world— whatever feeling I have received— all is a gift, a gift.

In storm, in midstream, in this world of joy and sorrow, in answer to love’s love— whatever pain I have received— all is a gift, a gift.

Then all appears a gift. If people abuse—gift; if they slander—gift. He alone is wise who makes everything a stair; who turns every roadside stone into a step; who makes poison into medicine. He alone is wise in this world.

In this shoreless ocean of love, on the path of kusha and thorns, in the longing for the Beloved’s meeting— whatever torment I have received— all is a gift, a gift.

In storm, in midstream, in this world of joy and sorrow, in answer to love’s love— whatever pain I have received— all is a gift, a gift.

You cannot wound the Buddhas. You can injure, but not hurt. You can kill—but cannot break their bliss. Their stream of joy is unbroken, uninterrupted.

That for which all are mad— sometimes yogi, sometimes bhogi— that which will never be fulfilled— that longing, for me too— is a boon, a boon.

That which is not selfish from birth, wholly dedicated to the other— which stays as companion in solitude— that sigh, for me— is a boon, a boon.

That which sometimes burns as a sigh, which sometimes flames as fire, which can never be quenched— that thirst, for me— is a boon, a boon.

When the eyes open—nothing is bad in this world. Not even the enemy. He, too, clears your path. Not even the slanderer. He, too, washes you, refines you. Even one who plunges a knife into your chest—not even he. He too administers your final test.

In the uprising of 1857 a siddha sannyasi, thirty years in silence, who had vowed to speak only one final word—naked, lost in ecstasy—on a moonlit night he wandered out. By mistake—he did not wish to go there—he reached the British cantonment. He was seized. Naked—and he would not speak. They thought: a spy, pretending to be a siddha. An English soldier thrust a spear into his chest. A fountain of blood burst forth—and he laughed, and spoke his last word: Tat tvam asi. Thou art That.

Thirty years ago he had vowed: I will speak only once—at death. The word he spoke—astonishing. It is the essence of the Upanishads. The essence of all religions. The essence of all Buddhas. Tat tvam asi. You are That. At the moment of death he pointed—to the very man who had thrust the spear—and said: Thou art That. You too are Paramatma. The final examination was passed. In the enemy he saw Him; in death he saw Him. No test remained.

Ik Naam amolak mili gaya, paragata bhaye mere bhaag hai ji. And how did the Guru draw me out? How did the Sadguru pull me?

Ik Naam amolak mili gaya— he awakened the remembrance of the One Name. He stirred the sleeping memory. He shook the surati awake.

Ik Naam amolak mili gaya— paragata bhaye mere bhaag hai ji. For the first time my fortune dawned—bhagyodaya, sunrise. For the first time, morning. Centuries of new-moon night ended.

In this world there is one thing that cannot be bought—it is priceless—that is Dhyana. It has no price, though it is most valuable. It cannot be bought or sold. But if someone is willing to receive, opens the heart—in innocence, in guilelessness, in simplicity—willing to drink—then meditation can be poured. It cannot be bought, cannot be sold—but the Sadguru can pour his meditation into the disciple’s meditation. The Sadguru is like a flask of wine; if the disciple is ready to be a cup—this priceless event occurs.

Ik Naam amolak mili gaya— paragata bhaye mere bhaag hai ji.

Today the rays of sun and moon have awakened a new radiance in the world— today, O bee, offer them congratulations.

Today the dawn, with saffron and collyrium, has prepared the platter; today the new-sun has brought a diamond necklace from the ocean; today nature, the bride, has adorned herself, dressed rare and beautiful; today the swans of mind scatter rubies and pearls— today, O bee, offer them congratulations.

Today my breath has sung a lovely song of love; today has come the friend my heart awaited for ages; today the feelings have played a little in the world— they have filled the lap of the empty, lonely heart with imagination; the thrilled waiting of love swings into form— today, O bee, offer them congratulations.

Today in every particle the sign of hope spreads again; today, in a moment, old sleeping longings are filled with surge; today the heart, choked with joy, has poured two drops of love; today the wings of strange birds of desire have fluttered; when a pang arose, the bough of the heart trembled— today, O bee, offer them congratulations.

Today the cuckoo cried: overcome by the juice of love, I will coo; today I will breathe a new life into the garden of the world; today I will welcome the Lord of Seasons with my heart wide open; today I will pour out body, mind, and wealth upon him— beam after beam;

today the Beloved comes—the worship comes with him— today, O bee, offer them congratulations.

Today again my desires are being lavishly poured by longing; today the soft, gentle feelings of my heart roll and spill; today some tender pulsation is happening in the empty heart; today our notes wish to meet the deathless cadence; today the practice of that music awakens again— today, O bee, offer them congratulations.

Today, if my friend the cloud were here—she would have sprinkled love’s water; not being a painter, she would have drawn his portrait; I keep staring at my own pen— I sketch one faint line of the Beloved’s love; let the words be broken—now the tune of union fills me— today, O bee, offer them congratulations.

Today I hear, my friend: there will be an anointing of the Lord of my heart; today I hear: our heart will become one with His; today I hear: He will become truly the hero of our song; we will become His song—and He, our singer; today the long worship seems fulfilled— today, O bee, offer them congratulations.

The moment the disciple’s cup is filled from the Guru’s flask—that moment arrives the supreme festival of life. That moment arrives spring. Then thanks can be given. Then gratitude can be expressed. Before that, what have we to be grateful for? Even if we try—what for? We have known only autumn upon autumn; only new-moon upon new-moon; never a full moon, never spring; the cuckoo never cooed, the papihā never called. We are empty. We are without meaning. Meaning dawns when remembrance of the Lord dawns. That event of remembrance pulls one out of the ocean of the world.

Ik Naam amolak mili gaya— paragata bhaye mere bhaag hai ji.

Gagan ki daari papihā bolai— Today upon the bough of the sky, the papihā calls.

Sovat uthi—main jagi haun ji— Shaken, the Guru has awakened me. Sleep is broken. Dreams uprooted.

Chirag barai—binu tel baati— And today I see within—a lamp that burns without oil or wick.

Chirag barai—binu tel baati— Nahin diya—nahin aagi hai ji— Neither is there a lamp nor a flame—only light, pure light. Complete radiance. No source of light anywhere, no cause, no fuel—only light, beginningless, endless.

Paltu dekhike—magan bhaya— Sab chhuta gaya—triguna daag hai ji— Paltu says: I became enraptured, ecstatic, I danced. In one instant, all bonds—the three gunas, sattva, rajas, tamas—where they dissolved, no one knows. In the stretch of this ecstasy, all bonds broke.

Keep in mind: people want to break bonds first—then they think, God will be found. It does not happen so. First God is found—then bonds break. People think: first darkness will go—then light will come. It is not so. First light is—and then darkness… where is darkness then?

Humko jag se bhay hi kya hai—jab tak saaki hain, pyaale hain. Whenever pain became obstinate, we strained the brew more deeply; without understanding, the world decided— called it foolishness;

What does the world know—we have nurtured in our heart the birds of pain; we are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

We have no care for ourselves— no honor, no dishonor; in the world of mad lovers— we know nothing of good and bad;

In this world of differences—we are here to erase them all; we are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

When, drinking mead, we sway; when we roam the tavern; when we kiss again and again our cups of joy and sorrow;

Then the world marvels: their style is unique; we are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

In joy I resolved to weep; in sorrow I sang my song; when I lost myself— only then I recognized my own;

Who can know how many revolutions our life has made? We are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

What is this loss and gain? What is this freedom, this maya? When all ends in melting and merging— what is mine, what is thine?

We are here to make one—our own and others’; we are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

Who trusts this life? Who senses this pain? That eagerness to meet— which the world calls thirst;

We are here to resolve the tangle of thirst and fulfillment, mirage and water; we are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

Lo—my wine-jars overflow; thirsty revelers reach out; beholding the red stream of red wine— children and elders all cry with joy;

Pouring the brew into every heart— we are here to enchant today; we are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

We deal in a new commerce; we obtain a new love; merely taking the cup in hand— we show a new world;

Showing the flask of the Saki’s wine— we are here to steal your mind; we are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

Day or midnight; autumn winds or vernal breeze; what season for those who drink? Summer—or the rains;

We are here to found a world of our own way; we are great, fierce intoxicated ones.

Those who have drunk His wine, who have even sipped a drop of Paramatma, who have given the Sadguru a chance to pour himself into your very life—they become dwellers of another realm. Then, though in this world, they are not of this world. Then what to say of their intoxication—what limit to their ecstasy! They live brimful of delight. Then there is neither birth nor death for them. Eternity becomes their own. What fear then, what worry? Who is one’s own, who other? Who small, who great? In that intoxication they see only One. In that dwelling of intoxication they see only One—that One in trees, mountains, hills, in people, in animals, in birds. One who beholds the One Paramatma—he is free, he is liberated. He has attained nirvana. His destination has come.

The beginning of the destination—

Bhekh Bhagavant ke charan ko dhyaikai, Gyaan ki baat se nahin tarna.

Milai lutaaiye—turat kachhu khaiye, Maya au moh ki thaura marna.

Dukkha au sukkha—phiri dushta au mitra ko— ekasama drishti—ikabhava bharna.

Das Paltu kahai—Ram kahu balake, Ram kahu, Ram kahu—sahaj tarna.

If the vision of Ram dawns—the boat is found. If the vision of Ram dawns—you have crossed. In that vision you have crossed.

But somewhere—you must learn to bend! Drop the meshes of logic. Drop the clever talk of ego. Somewhere—be simple-hearted—and bow. In that bowing is the secret. From there the journey begins. If you bow—there will be no delay in finding God. Whoever dissolves—surely finds Him.

Enough for today.