Ek Omkar Satnam #1

Pauri: 1
Thinking, He is not found, even if you think a hundred thousand times.
By keeping silence, the Silence does not come, even if you sit utterly absorbed.
The hunger of the hungry is not appeased, even if they pile up mountains of sweet breads.
Hundreds of clevernesses, thousands of wits— not one goes with you.
How then are we made true, how is the veil of falsehood torn?
By walking in accord with His Command, says Nanak; it is written along with us.

A dark night. The new moon of Bhadon. Thunderheads rumbling. Lightning flashing now and then. Squalls of rain. The village fast asleep. Only Nanak’s song echoing.

He sang late into the night. Nanak’s mother grew afraid. Past midnight. Near three in the morning. A lamp still burned in Nanak’s room. Now and then his voice drifted out in song. At his door, his mother knocked and said, Son, now sleep. The night is almost spent.

Nanak fell silent. And just then, from the night’s darkness, a papiha cried out loud: piyu-piyu.

Nanak said, Listen, Mother! Even the papiha has not fallen silent. It calls out to its Beloved—how can I fall silent? I am in a contest with this bird. As long as it sings, as long as it calls, I too will call. And its Beloved is very near, while mine is very far. If I sing through births upon births, only then I may reach. Night and day cannot be accounted for. Nanak began to sing again.

Nanak found the Divine by singing. He paved his path with songs. That is why his quest is so different. Understand first: Nanak did not practice yoga, nor austerity, nor formal meditation. Nanak simply sang. And by singing, he arrived. But he sang with such total being that the song itself became meditation, the song became yoga, the song became tapas.

Whenever one does anything with one’s whole being, that very act becomes the path. Do meditation half-heartedly, and you will not arrive. Sing a single song or dance a single dance with your entire heart, your entire wholeness—and you will arrive. What you do is not the question. Whether you do it with totality or in fragments—that is the question.

On Nanak’s Way to the Divine only songs and flowers are strewn. Therefore whatever he spoke, he sang. His path is very sweet, dripping with rasa. Yesterday we spoke of Kabir:
Surat kalari bhai matwari, madhava pi gai bin taule.
Awareness became a tavern, intoxicated; she drank the Beloved’s wine without measuring.
Nanak is one who drank the Beloved without measuring—and then sang all his life. These are not the songs of a mere singer. These are the songs of one who has known. There is the ring of Truth in them, the reflection of the Divine.

Second, about the birth of Japji. That Bhadon night I mentioned—Nanak was about sixteen or seventeen then. Japji was born when he was thirty-six years, six months, and fifteen days old. On that Bhadon night, he was a seeker, still searching. The papiha’s call sounded—piyu-piyu. The mantra of yearning continued. Union had not yet happened.

When Japji was born—it was his first proclamation after union. The papiha found its Beloved. The refrain piyu-piyu came to fulfillment. Union occurred. The first proclamation from that union is Japji. Hence the value of Japji in Nanak’s words is unlike anything else. Japji is the freshest of fresh news from That realm. Returning from there, the first thing he said is this. Coming from that world into this one, the first words he uttered became Japji.

Understand that event too.

At night, by the riverbank, in darkness, with his companion and attendant Mardana, they sat by the water. Suddenly Nanak took off his clothes. Without a word, he stepped into the river. Mardana kept asking, What are you doing? The night is cold, it is dark! He went far into the river. Mardana followed. Nanak dove under. Mardana thought he’d surface in a moment or two. But he did not appear.

For five or ten minutes Mardana waited, then began to search—where had he gone? Then he started shouting. Then he ran along the banks crying out, Where are you? Speak! It seemed as if a voice came from every ripple of the river, Be patient, be patient. But no sign of Nanak. He ran to the village and woke people at midnight. A crowd gathered.

All loved Nanak. In him everyone sensed the possibility of something happening. In his presence a fragrance was felt. The flower had not yet bloomed, but even a bud gives off scent. The whole village wept; the crowd thickened. They searched the river end to end, people running everywhere. But no trace. Three days passed. People assumed some animal had devoured him. He had drowned, been swept away, fallen into some chasm. They concluded he was dead. The lamenting began. Even his family felt there was no hope of return.

On the third night, suddenly Nanak appeared from the river. When he emerged, Japji was his first utterance. This was his declaration.

It is told as a story—yes, a story. A story is both true and not true. True, because it gives news of the Truth; not true, because it is a story and speaks in symbols. The deeper the matter, the deeper the symbols needed.

When Nanak disappeared in the river for three days, the story says he appeared at the Door of the Divine. He experienced God. He beheld, before his eyes, the Beloved for whom he had called, for whom he had sung, who had been the thirst in every heartbeat. He beheld Him. He was fulfilled. And the Divine said to him, Now go. And what I have given you, distribute among people. Japji is his first gift—returning from the Divine.

Understand the symbols. First: until you are lost, until you die, there is no encounter with the Divine. Whether you lose yourself in a river or on a mountain makes no difference. What matters is that you must not remain. Your vanishing is His appearing. As long as you are, He cannot be. You are the obstruction, the wall. Thus, this story of disappearing in the river— you too will have to disappear; you too will have to drown. It takes three days. That is why, when a person dies, we observe the “third day.” We mark it because it takes three days for the event of dying to be complete. The ego does not die all at once. At a minimum, it takes three days. Hence three days in the story: Nanak remained lost in the river three days. The ego melted, died. And for neighbors, friends, loved ones—the ego is all they can see; the soul they do not see. So they concluded Nanak had died.

Whenever someone becomes a sannyasin, the family assumes he is dead. Whenever someone sets out in search, the family believes he is finished. For he is no longer the same. The old chain breaks. The past is erased; now there is a new one. Between them is the chasm of three days. Hence the symbol. After three days, Nanak returned.

Whoever is lost returns—but returns new. Whoever travels that Path comes back—but when he went, he was thirsty; when he comes, he is a giver. He went a beggar; he returns a sovereign. Whoever dissolves into God goes with a begging bowl and returns with inexhaustible treasure to distribute.

Japji is the first gift.

Appearing before God, finding the Beloved—do not take these linguistically, literally. There is no deity sitting somewhere before whom you will appear. Yet how else to say it? When you vanish, whatever is before your eyes is the Divine. God is not a person; God is formless energy.

How could you stand before Him? Wherever you see, He is there. Whatever you see, that is He. The day the eye opens, all is He. Let yourself vanish; let the eye open.

Ego is the grit in the eye. When it is removed, the Divine appears. The Divine was always apparent; you were not. Nanak vanished, the Divine appeared. And as the Divine appears, you too are Divine—for other than That, nothing is.

Nanak returned—he returned as the Divine. Then whatever he spoke, each word is priceless. Whatever price you pay for a single word will be too little. Each word is Veda.

Now let us try to understand Japji.

Ik Onkar Satnam
Karta Purakh Nirbhau Nirvair.
Akal Murat Ajuni Saibhang Gur Prasad.
“One is He, of the nature of Omkar, whose Name is Truth, the Creative Being, beyond fear, beyond enmity, the Timeless Form, unborn, self-existent, realized by the Guru’s grace.”

“One”—Ik Onkar Satnam.

Whatever appears to us, appears as many. Wherever you look, you see difference. Where your eye falls, you see multiplicity. You go to the ocean’s shore and see waves. You do not see the ocean—though it is the ocean. Waves are only on the surface.

And what is on the surface is all we see, because we have only a surface-eye. To see within, an inner eye is needed. As the eye, so the vision. Vision cannot go deeper than the eye. Your eye is outward. So, seeing waves, you return and tell people you saw the ocean. That is not the way to the ocean. From the shore you can only see waves. To be in the ocean is to drown. That is why the story says Nanak drowned in the river. He is not in the waves; He is in the river. Not in the waves; in the sea. From the shore there are only waves. Even the sum of waves is not the sea. The sea is more than the sum. And the essential difference is that the wave is now, and a moment later is gone; a moment earlier it was not.

A Sufi, Junnaid, loved his son dearly. Suddenly the boy died in an accident. Junnaid buried him. His wife was puzzled. She had thought if the boy died, Junnaid would go mad; he loved him so. Yet he looked as if nothing had happened—as if the boy had not died. When, by evening, all the condolers had left, she asked, Are you not grieved? I thought you would break. You loved him so. Junnaid said, For a moment I was shaken, then I remembered: when this boy was not, I was, and I was happy. When this boy was not, I was, and I was happy; now he is not—what reason for sorrow? It is again as it was before. The boy came in between and went. Since I was not sad before, why be sad now? Without the boy I was fine; again without the boy, what is the difference? A dream came and broke.

Whatever is born and dies is a dream. Whatever comes and goes is a dream. Waves are dream; the sea is real. Many waves, one sea. We see the many. Until the One is seen, we wander. For the One alone is true.

Ik Onkar Satnam.

And Nanak says, the One’s only true Name is Omkar. All other names are given by humans—Ram, Krishna, Allah—these are our signs and symbols. But there is one Name we have not given: Om, Omkar.

Why is Omkar His Name? Because when all words fall away, the mind becomes empty, and waves are left behind, when one is absorbed in the sea, even then a hum, a resonance, is heard—the sound of Om. It is not a sound we make. It is the hum of Existence. It is the very rhythm of Being. Omkar is the manner in which Existence is. It is no man-given name. Hence Om has no meaning. Om is not a word; it is a sound—and a unique sound. No one produces it. It is inherent in the Being of the Whole— the sound of Being.

Sit by a waterfall; there is a sound—but it comes from the collision of water and rock. Sit by a river; there is a murmur—but it arises from the touch of current and bank. Wind passes through a tree; there is a rustle—but it comes from wind with leaves. We speak, a musician plucks a veena’s string—every ordinary sound is born of friction. For friction, two are needed: the string, and the hand to pluck. All sounds born of duality are not His Name. His Name is the sound that remains when all duality is gone.

A few things to understand. Science says if you keep breaking existence down, analyzing deeper and deeper, you arrive at electricity—energy. Hence the final discovery: the electron. The whole is made of electricity. Ask science, what is sound made of? It answers, of electricity too. Sound is a form of energy.

In this, sages agree with science—with a slight difference, more of language. Sages found that existence is made of sound, and electricity is a form of that sound. Science says sound is a form of electricity; religion says electricity is a form of sound. The distance is like calling a glass half full or half empty.

Science’s entry point is different: breaking matter, it found energy. The sages took another route: not breaking, but joining themselves—integrating— they found the undivided. And in that Unbroken they found a sound. When someone is in samadhi, Om resounds. He hears it within and without. The worlds seem permeated with it.

One is astonished when it happens for the first time—“I am not speaking, I am not doing anything; from where does this sound arise?” He experiences it as the sound of Being, not born of any collision. It is an unstruck sound.

Nanak says, the One’s true Name is Omkar. Nanak will often use the word “Name.” Remember: whenever he says, “His Name”—that His Name alone is the path, that one who becomes absorbed in His Name will find Him—his indication is toward Omkar. For that is the one Name not given by us; it is His own. Our given names cannot go very far. If they do carry us a little, it is because even within our names there is a faint reflection of His Name.

For example, “Ram.” If someone repeats Ram, Ram, Ram within, there is a little glimpse of Omkar in it; the “m” of Ram belongs to Om. Thus, with “Ram,” we can go a little distance. But if you keep going, one day suddenly you will find the sound of “Ram” is changing into Omkar. As the mind becomes quiet, Om enters into your “Ram.” Gradually “Ram” disappears; Om arrives. All sages, no matter what name they began with, find Om at the end. Om is always present—only your quiet is needed.

Nanak says, Ik Onkar Satnam.

Understand this word sat as well. Sanskrit has two related words, sat and satya. Sat means Existence; satya means Truth. The root is one, yet there is a subtle difference. Satya is the philosopher’s search: What is true? Two and two make four—that is satya, a truth of mathematics. But it is not sat, not existential, because it is a human calculation: true, but not real.

At night you dream. The dream is sat—existent—yet not satya. It is; otherwise how did you see it? It occurs, but in the morning you discover it is as if it never was. Yet it did happen.

There are happenings that are satya but not sat, and happenings that are sat but not satya. Mathematics yields satya, not sat. Dreams are sat, not satya.

God is both—sat and satya. Hence He cannot be found by science (which seeks satya), nor by art alone (which seeks sat). He is sat+satya. Therefore neither art nor science can reach Him fully; both are partial.

Religion’s search is distinct from both: it seeks that which is both at once—as exact as any mathematical formula and as existential as any poem; sweet as a dream, and precise as arithmetic; as much heart’s feeling as mind’s knowing.

Where head and heart meet, religion begins. If the head alone dominates, suppressing the heart, science is born. If the heart alone remains, dismissing the head, imagination, poetry, music, art are born. When both join, we enter Omkar.

The religious person is a greater scientist than the scientist, a greater artist than the artist, for his search is integrated. Science and art are in duality; religion is synthesis.

Nanak says, Ik Onkar Satnam.

“One Omkar-Being, whose Name is Truth, the Creative Presence...”

If you take these words only on the surface, confusions arise.

Sages are constrained to use your language. To speak to you, they must use your words. And what they wish to say lies beyond language. Trying to fit the vast into the narrow is like trying to hold the sky in your room, or bind all light in your fist. So they must use the words available.

And it is because of words that so many sects are born. Buddha lived two thousand years before Nanak—he used the language of his day. Krishna, another two thousand earlier, used another language. Muhammad, in a different land and air, used yet another. Mahavira different, Jesus different.

Languages differ, because of you. Among the enlightened there is no difference. Nanak spoke in a tongue people of his time could understand.

So Nanak says, Karta Purakh—the Creative Person. Instantly we think: if He is the Creator and we are the created, duality begins. Yet Nanak has just denied duality by declaring the One. If He is the Maker and the made stands separate, then there are two.

The trouble begins with language. As Nanak goes further, the challenge grows. The first word after his samadhi is, Ik Onkar Satnam.

In truth, the entire Sikh dharma is contained in these three words. The rest is an effort to explain; otherwise the saying is complete. But for you, these three words yield nothing clear. Then the expansion begins—for your sake. The mantra is complete; the statement is done. Ik Onkar Satnam—everything is said. But for you, nothing is said. So your language must begin.

“Karta Purakh—the Maker.”

Keep in mind: what He has made is not separate from Him. The Maker is hidden in the making. The Creator is absorbed in the creation.

Therefore Nanak never separated householder and renunciate. If the Creator is separate from creation, you should leave the works of the world. If you seek the Creator, you should leave the created—avoid the marketplace, the shop, the trade.

Nanak never left. He traveled; and whenever he returned, he worked his land. He took up the plough again. All his life, whenever back home, he resumed his chores. The village where he finally settled he named Kartarpur—the village of the Creator.

If God is the Maker, do not think He is far from the making. A man sculpts an idol; once finished, sculptor and statue are separate. If the sculptor dies, the statue remains; if the statue breaks, the sculptor lives. Two are apart. Between God and His creation there is no such distance.

What, then, is the relation? Like dancer and dance. A man is dancing: there is dance. Can you separate the dance from the dancer? If the dancer goes home, can he leave the dance with you? If the dancer dies, the dance is gone. If the dance stops, he is a dancer no more. The two are one. Hence Hindus from ancient times envisioned God as the Cosmic Dancer—Nataraj. In this symbol, dancer and dance are not separate.

A poet creates a poem and is apart from it. A sculptor from his statue. A mother bears a son and is separate. A father is apart. But God is not apart from creation. He is immersed in it. To say it more precisely: the Creator is the creation. Still more precisely: the Creator is nothing but Creativity. He is the very process of creation.

Hence Nanak says, do not leave anything and run anywhere. Right where you are, He is hidden. Thus he gave birth to a unique religion where householder and renunciate are one. Only one who is a householder yet a renunciate, a renunciate yet a householder, deserves to call himself a Sikh. Growing hair and tying a turban do not make a Sikh. To be a Sikh is arduous. Being a householder is easy. Being a renunciate is easy—drop it all and flee to the forest. Being a Sikh is difficult: it means householder and renunciate together. Live in the home as if you were not there. Live at home as if you were on the Himalayas. Run the shop but keep remembrance of the Divine. Count coins while taking His Name.

Nanak’s first glimpse of the Divine—what Zen would call satori—came at a shop as he weighed grain. He would fill the scale and pour it out, counting: one, two, three... ten, eleven, twelve... then he came to thirteen. In Punjabi, the word for thirteen is tera—and it also means “Yours.” He remembered the Beloved. Tera—Thine— the refrain took over. He kept weighing, but the count no longer moved beyond tera. He filled the scales and poured, saying, Tera. Again, Tera. The last stop had been reached. Is there any number beyond Tera—Thine? The destination had arrived. People thought he had gone mad and tried to stop him, but he was in another realm. He repeated, Tera. He weighed and poured, and nothing moved beyond Tera. Where is there to go beyond Thine?

There are only two stations: I or Thou. The beginning is I; the end is Thou.

Nanak is not against the world. He is in love with it. Because he says the world and its Maker are not two. Love this too; through this, love That. Through this, seek Him.

When he came of age and the family said, Marry—he did not refuse. His family might have expected a no, since from childhood his ways were not like others. His father was perpetually troubled, unable to understand. Bhajans, kirtans, sadhus...

He sent his son to a nearby village with twenty rupees to buy goods cheaply and sell dearly—“This is the art of trade.” On the way Nanak met a band of ascetics who had been hungry for five days. He asked, Why sit hungry? Go to the village. They said, Our vow is to receive only when He wills; hunger makes no difference.

Nanak thought, What greater profit than to distribute to these great sadhus the food I have bought! His father had said, “Do something profitable.”

He distributed it all. His companion Bala protested, Have you gone mad? Nanak said, This is what my father asked—do something profitable. What greater gain than this? He returned home delighted.

So I say, he was not “of the usual ways.” His father said, Fool! Is this how business is done? You will ruin us. Nanak said, Do you not see the profit? I have returned with gain.

But such profit none could see. His father Kalu Mehta not at all. He thought, The boy is spoiled. Corrupted by sadhus. Out of his senses. He thought perhaps marriage would bind him.

People often think so—since renunciates leave women, perhaps a woman will tether him to the home. But this trick did not work on Nanak. For he was against nothing.

His father said, Marry. Nanak said, Fine. He married. His ways did not change. Children were born. His ways did not change.

There was no way to “corrupt” him, for he saw no division between the world and God. How will you corrupt one who left nothing? A renunciate who left wealth can be corrupted with wealth. One who left woman can be corrupted by a beautiful woman. But one who has never left at all—how will you corrupt him? There is no path for his fall. Nanak cannot be corrupted.

I too am in favor that renunciates should be of Nanak’s kind. Only such a renunciate is ultimate—one whom you cannot corrupt. How will you corrupt a man who sits in the world yet is not there? He has broken every handle.

That God, says Nanak, the Creative Being, is beyond fear.

Fear exists only where the other exists.

In the West, Jean-Paul Sartre’s saying has become famous: The other is hell. Your experience is the same. How often you wish to be left alone! The other is trouble. Friend, a little less trouble; enemy, a little more. One’s own, a little less; stranger, more. But the other is trouble.

What is fear? Fear of the other—someone may snatch, may break your security. Death approaches—another. Illness—another. You are surrounded by others: this is your hell. The other is hell.

But how will you escape the other? Sit on the Himalayas and you will not be alone. Sit beneath a tree; a crow will drop its dung; you get angry. Sit and rain will come; sun will blaze. Where will you flee the other? Wherever you go, the other will be. To escape the other there is only one way: find the One where no other remains. Then fear falls. Then there is no death, no disease, no inconvenience. For there is no other—you alone are. No separation.

Ik Onkar Satnam.

When this pervades one’s mind, what fear? God cannot fear—of whom? He alone is.

“Akal—beyond fear, beyond enmity; Akal Murat—beyond time.”

Beyond time. Understand this a little. Time means change. If nothing changed, you would not know time. The clock tells time because the hands move. If the hands did not move, there would be no time. Things change: sunrise, noon, evening. Child to youth, youth to old age; health to sickness, sickness to health; poor to rich, rich to bankrupt. The river flows. In this flux is time. Time is the measure between changes.

Imagine a day when nothing at all happens—no change. The sun stands still. Your age remains as it was. The clock’s hands do not move. Trees do not age. Leaves do not wither. All is still. How would you know time? There would be none.

You know time because you are surrounded by change. For the Divine, there is no time—He is eternal. For Him, nothing changes. All is as it is. Change is the experience of a partial eye. If we could see the Whole, change would vanish. With change gone, time is gone. Time is the instrument to measure change. For the Divine, all is the same.

“Akal Murat, Ajuni, Saibhang.”

He is not born of any womb. God has neither mother nor father. Whatever is born of a womb enters the realm of change. You too must find within you that which is unborn. This body is born and will die. This body is formed by the union of two bodies; it will fall apart. When those two themselves fall apart, how can this composite remain? Yet within this, the unborn abides—the one who entered the womb, who existed before, and whose departure leaves this body a corpse. Within this body the timeless has come. The Akal Purush abides within. This body is but His garment, a house wherein He lodges.

Only when you find Him within will you understand Nanak’s words. Seek within that which neither changes nor shifts.

If you have even once sat with closed eyes, you will have noticed there is no age within. Whether forty or fifty, inwardly it does not register. When you were five and closed your eyes, you found yourself the same as at fifty. As if time has not passed within. Close your eyes and look: nothing changes there.

And this unchanging inner one is not born of any womb. You have come through your parents, but not from them. They were the passage, not the source. You passed through them; the arrangements to make your body were within them. But what entered that body came from beyond. The day you glimpse this unborn within, you will understand that God has no womb. He cannot. God means the Totality. The Whole—what could it be born from? Beyond the Whole, nothing remains to be its mother or father.

Therefore He is unborn, self-arising—Saibhang. Without support. Without cause. No basis. His own basis. The day a hint of this dawns within you, you will be free of worry.

What is your worry? That everything has a support—and supports can be taken away. The thought of loss breeds worry. Today there is wealth; tomorrow, not. What then? You are rich because of wealth, not rich in yourself.

A sannyasin is rich in himself. You cannot rob him. What can you take from Buddha? From Nanak? Take whatever, you cannot diminish them. Give whatever, you cannot add. Nanak is with that supreme support. You have none.

And that supreme support is not separate from you. God is unsupported. You too are unsupported. The day you consent to be unsupported, that day God and you meet.

This exposition of God is not a philosopher’s definition. It is for the seeker—so that you may see the signs of God. If you would find Him, make these very signs your practice. In a small way begin to be God-like. As you become like Him, harmony begins. The note between you begins to hum.

“Unborn, self-existent—attained through the Guru’s grace.”

Why “Guru’s grace”? Is human effort not enough? Understand a subtle point. Nanak will lay great emphasis on the Guru. He will say, Without the Guru, the Divine cannot be found. Why? If God is present, why not meet Him directly? Why bring a Guru in?

Krishnamurti says, there is no need for a guru. Reason concurs. Why? If God is, and I am of Him, and the guru is of Him, why place a guru between? The mind would prefer to avoid the guru. Hence around Krishnamurti a congregation of the proud has gathered. Krishnamurti is right—no guru is needed—if you can drop your ego by yourself.

But dropping one’s ego is like lifting yourself by your own shoelaces, or a dog trying to catch its own tail. The harder he leaps, the tail leaps with him. If you say, I have dropped my ego, a new ego is born—more dangerous than the first. The guru is needed so that this second ego cannot arise. You will say, “By the Guru’s grace.” Otherwise you will boast, “See how humble I am—no one as humble as me!” Yesterday the ego said, “No one as wealthy as me.” Today it says, “No one as humble as me.” The same stiffness remains. Who will dissolve it? Hence Nanak’s emphasis.

There is no obstacle to finding God; He is right here, in front of your nose—wherever you turn. There is only one obstacle: you. How will you remove it?

Therefore, “by the Guru’s grace.” The seeker will labor, but hold this inner posture: it happens by the Guru’s compassion. This dissolves the ego—brings down the old and prevents the new. Otherwise one disease goes, another takes its place.

Thus a strange thing has happened. Around Krishnamurti gather those who most need a guru—people who do not wish to bow to anyone. They feel relieved: “No need to touch anyone’s feet. We will achieve it ourselves.” And that is the obstacle.

If someone like Nanak or Ramakrishna sits with Krishnamurti, there is no problem. But those who gather are precisely the ones unable to drop ego. They need a guru.

Paradoxically, those around Nanak were people who could have found even without a guru—because they were ready to accept grace. They were ready to let go. In truth, finding happens without the guru, but the figure of the guru helps melt the ego. Otherwise you will trumpet, “I stand on my head for three hours every morning, I meditate...”

A wife once came to me. “My husband comes to you. Please explain something to him. It’s beyond limits.” He was a Sikh.

What happened?

“He gets up at two at night and starts reciting Japji. No one in the house can sleep; neither the children nor I. If we say anything, he says, ‘You all should get up and recite.’ What should we do?”

I called the husband. “When do you recite?” “At dawn,” he said. “Two in the morning.”

For him, two was dawn. I said, “Your dawn is dangerous for others. Perhaps recite at four...”

One must lower such people gently; the intoxicated are hard to bring down. He said, “Never! Are you trying to snatch my religion?”

There was his pride: no one recites as he does. The same pride is the obstacle. Recite Japji for a lifetime; the real question is the dissolution of pride.

Hence Nanak will repeat: whatever you do will not help unless you vanish. The idea of the Guru is an alchemy for self-effacement. You do, but say, “By the Guru’s grace.” Without this, “I do” becomes the obstacle. If you can melt the “I” without any support, no guru is needed. But one in millions can do this; he is the exception, not the rule.

Sometimes a person without a guru can dissolve the “I”—but he needs a blazing awareness, like Shiva’s eye that saw Kama and reduced him to ash. A Buddha or a Krishnamurti may see so intensely that in that very seeing everything falls. No second thought arises—the ashes are still warm; there is no chance to think, “I did.” It happened.

But you—whatever you do, a hum remains within: “I did.” You do bhajan, “I did.” You meditate, “I did.” You worship, “I did.” Your “I” builds from every side.

Let that one be; he will find. For the millions, the only way is: whatever you do, hold the feeling, “By the Guru’s grace.”

There is an old proverb in India: in the Satya Yuga, the guru was not so necessary; in the Kali Yuga, the guru is essential. Why? Satya Yuga is when people are more alert, more conscious; Kali Yuga is when people are benumbed, asleep.

Hence the dharma of Buddha or Mahavira is less useful now than Nanak’s. Nanak’s is the newest—though even it is five centuries old, and a new articulation is needed. Buddha and Mahavira spoke to more awake, more simple people. Krishna’s listeners were even simpler. As we go backward, simplicity increases. In an individual life too: the child is simple; the young man more complicated; the old, utterly entangled—he knows nothing yet believes he knows all. He has gathered shards and calls it wisdom.

The child is Satya Yuga; the old man, Kali Yuga. And the old man’s stupor grows—death approaches. The child’s awareness is fresh; the source of life is near. The child is a wave newly from the Divine. The old man, dust-laden, about to fall back. The child a fresh blossom; the old man withered, life ebbing.

Kali Yuga means a time near the end. In such a time, without the guru it is impossible, for you will swell with ego in every endeavor.

You puff up doing small things; how will you not swell when you undertake the highest? Build a small house—you strut. Fill a small safe—you strut. Seeking the supreme treasure, how will you not swell? See the pride of temple-goers: “All of you will rot in hell; I go daily.” Once someone chants “Ram,” he feels the gates of heaven assured—while others are damned.

The deeper the stupor, the more the need for a guru. As much sleep as there is in your life, that much the guru is needed. As much wakefulness, that much less. If you are perfectly awake, no guru is needed. If you are fast asleep, how will you wake yourself? Someone must shake you—and even then you may turn over and sleep again.

“He is attained by the Guru’s grace.”

Aadi sach, jugaad sach,
hai bhi sach, Nanak hosi bhi sach.
“He was true in the primal beginning, true through the ages.
He is true now, Nanak says, He shall forever be true.”

This is the definition of true and false. False is that which once was not, now is, and will not be again. A dream—last night you slept; morning it broke; at dusk it was not there, at dawn it is gone. Your body once was not; one day it will not be. This body is false. Anger comes; a moment ago it was not, a moment later it will not be. Anger is a dream, not Truth. That which is always, is Truth. If you take this deeply, your life will transform. Do not be obsessed with the changing; seek the unchanging, the ever-stable.

Who within you never changes? Seek that. It must be there—for all change unfolds upon it. Like the potter’s wheel spins around a still axle. Remove the peg and the wheel collapses. Change occurs upon the changeless. The peg is the still soul; the body’s wheel spins. As soon as the peg is withdrawn, the wheel falls.

Nanak says—
Aadi sach, jugaad sach,
hai bhi sach, Nanak hosi bhi sach.
He alone is Truth. The One—because He was, He is, He shall be. All else is dream. Let this line sink deep. When anger arises, repeat within:
Aadi sach, jugaad sach,
hai bhi sach, Nanak hosi bhi sach.
When hatred arises, greed arises, repeat. Remember: what was not, and now is—that is dream. It will pass. Do not be seized by it. Be a witness. Slowly you will see the futile falling away by itself as your connection breaks with it, and the essential arising. The eternal ascends; the worldly dissolves.

Thinking, He is not found, even if you think a hundred thousand times.
By keeping silence, the Silence does not come, even if you sit utterly absorbed.
The hunger of the hungry is not appeased, even if they pile up mountains of sweet breads.
Hundreds of clevernesses, thousands of wits— not one goes with you.
How then are we made true, how is the veil of falsehood torn?
By walking in accord with His Command, says Nanak; it is written along with us.
This is a precious, priceless sutra—the very essence of Nanak.

“By thinking, thinking, one cannot think Him—though one think a hundred thousand times.”

None has found Him by thinking. By thinking we lose Him. The more we think, the more we wander in thoughts. God is not a thought, not a conclusion of logic, not a product of the mind. He is Truth. You are not to think; you are to see. Thinking will lead you astray. Open your eyes.

If the eyes are full of thoughts, they remain blind. Only when the eye is without thought is vision available. What Zen calls “no-mind.” What Kabir calls unmani, beyond mind. What Buddha calls disappearance of chitta. What Patanjali names nirvikalpa samadhi. Where options and thoughts are gone—this is what Nanak says.

“By keeping silence, the Silence does not come, though one sit immersed in meditation.”

Why? Because you cannot achieve silence by effort. The more you try, the more impossible silence becomes. Some things do not yield to effort. If sleep will not come, you can try all you like; it will not come. In fact, the more you try, the harder it gets. Sleep comes when you surrender effort. You lie down helpless; then sleep arrives.

How will you force silence? You can sit, train the body into statue-like stillness; inside, the mind will boil.

Once Nanak was a guest at a Muslim nawab’s house. For the knower, Hindu or Muslim makes no difference. The nawab said, If you truly say there is no Hindu and no Muslim, come read namaz with us—it is Friday. Nanak agreed: Provided you read, I will read. The nawab said, What kind of condition is that? Of course we are going to read.

The whole town gathered. Hindus and Muslims came. Among Hindus, panic—Nanak’s relatives rushed: What are you doing? People feared Nanak was becoming Muslim—people measure others by their own fears.

At the mosque, namaz was read. The nawab grew angry—again and again he glanced back: Nanak neither bowed nor prayed; he simply stood. They hurried through, for can one pray in rage? When done, they pounced: You deceiver! What kind of saint? You vowed to read namaz and you did not.

Nanak said, I made a condition—you forgot. If you read, I would. You did not; how could I?

The nawab said, What are you saying? Have you lost your senses? So many witnessed us praying.

Nanak said, I do not accept their testimony. I saw within what was happening. You were buying horses in Kabul.

The nawab was shocked—he had indeed been mourning his prized horse that died that morning, planning his trip to buy another. And Nanak said, This mullah reading your namaz—he was harvesting his fields.

The mullah confessed—his crop was ripe; no laborers available; worry gripped him.

Nanak said, Now tell me—did you pray, that I should join?

You can force namaz, force meditation, force worship—but what is happening within is all that counts. Sit like a statue—what of it? You may master the body; will the mind obey? Inside, what was happening will happen—louder. When the body worked, energy was divided; now the body is still, all energy rushes to the mind. Thoughts rise more fiercely.

Thus when people sit to meditate, more thoughts come. In the temple they think of the market. Why? Because cinema hall stirs up your passions and matches your habits, so it soothes you. The temple invokes something you do not yet harmonize with—so all goes awry.

Nanak says, mere silence won’t do; that Silence is not attained even if you sit forever. Sit day and night—nothing will happen.

“The hunger of hunger is not sated, even if you heap mountains of puris.”

Because this hunger is not for puris. The hunger for meditation, for the Divine, is no ordinary hunger. Nothing of this world can fill it. Only when the Divine descends as a flow will it be quenched.

“How then are we made true—how is the veil of falsehood torn?”

Nanak says: by His Hukam—His Command—and His Raza—His Will. By moving as He has ordained, as He has written.

Attend closely.

Hukmi razai chalna, Nanak likhia nal.
No, nothing will come from your doing. Whatever you do—you will do. Even your truth, issuing from your false personality, will be tainted. Where will you fetch truth from? You are wholly false. It makes no difference.

Nanak once stayed in a village. Its chief had invited the whole village to a feast—a yajna. Nanak too was invited. He did not go. He stayed at the home of a poor man named Lalo, a carpenter. Dry, simple bread. The rich man came himself to fetch Nanak. “How dare you reject my purest food and eat with that poor, impure man! Brahmins, bathed and sanctified with Ganga water, have prepared my dishes purest of the pure. You refuse them?”

Nanak said, If you insist on hearing, bring me a morsel of yours. Lalo, you bring your dry roti.

It is told—symbolically—that Nanak squeezed Lalo’s dry bread in one hand, and the halwa-puri of the rich man in the other. From Lalo’s bread streamed milk; from the other dripped blood. Nanak said, “You can have Brahmins cook and bathe the wheat in Ganga water; it will not help. Your whole life is exploitation, deceit, theft, lie. In every roti of yours blood is hidden.”

Whether blood flowed or not is not the point; the truth is. How will you become true? You will do it—so what will it be?

Nanak says: from your doing, nothing. If you are dishonest, dishonesty will creep into even your truth. You will speak truth only when it profits your dishonesty. You will speak truth so as to wound others. You will use truth like a knife. You harmed with lies; you will harm with truth. Whatever you do will be wrong—because you are wrong.

What then? There is one way: surrender to His Hukam and Raza. Leave all to Him. Live as He keeps you. Do as He makes you do. Go where He takes you. Make His command your only practice. Remove your will; let His Will in. Accept life as it is. What God gives, He knows. Do not refuse. If sorrow comes, accept it as His Will. Hold gratitude: if He has sent sorrow, there must be some secret, some meaning. Do not complain. Be filled with thankfulness. As He keeps you—poor, then poor; rich, then rich; in pleasure, in pain—let one thing remain constant within: I consent. Thy Will is my life.

Then suddenly you will find yourself becoming peaceful. What did not happen through years of meditation happens by leaving all to His Will. It must— because there is no basis left for anxiety. What is anxiety? The insistence that what is should be otherwise. The son died—he should not have died; this is anxiety. Bankruptcy—should not have happened; anxiety. “What is” should not be; “what is happening” should not happen. You try to impose your will upon life. This is your worry. You sit to meditate carrying this fever; you will reap harvests in Kabul and cut crops in your mind. Your worry will deform your meditation. How could you be quiet?

There is one key to peace. If you grasp it, the whole Eastern search—from Lao Tzu to Nanak—becomes clear: agree to whatever happens. Total acceptability.

Its old name is “fate.” The word has been spoiled by misuse, as all words are. Now to insult someone, call him fatalist. But this is the very meaning.

Nanak says, Hukmi razai chalna, Nanak likhia nal.
What is written will happen. What He has inscribed will be. There is nothing you can do. No change is possible. For whom then is worry? For whom the burden? If you do not want to change anything, if you are happy with His Will, if you have no will of your own—what restlessness remains? What thoughts? Everything becomes light; wings grow. You can fly into that sky whose name is Ik Onkar Satnam. Nanak has one method: His Will. However He makes you, however He keeps you.

It so happened that Ibrahim, a nawab of Balkh, bought a slave in the market—healthy, radiant. Ibrahim brought him home and fell in love with him. He asked, How would you like to live? The slave smiled, As the master wills. What is my “liking”? I am nothing. However you keep me, I will live. What do you like to wear, to eat? What is my liking? Whatever the master dresses me in, I will wear; whatever he feeds me, I will eat. What is your name, how shall we call you? Whatever the master wills. What is my name? Does a slave have a name? Whatever you give me.

They say a revolution happened in Ibrahim’s life. He rose and touched the slave’s feet: You have revealed to me the secret I was seeking. From now on, this is my relation to my Master. You are my guru. From that day, Ibrahim was at peace. What namaz could not bring in years, this single sutra from a slave gave him.

Hukmi razai chalna, Nanak likhia nal.

Try it a little. Live as He keeps you. You have tried long to have it your way—what has happened? You remain the same. Worse than when you came—bent and distorted. As a child you came pure; even that much is not left. The slate is smudged; you have scribbled on it. What have you gained? Except sorrow, tension, torment—what have you in hand? For a few days, try Nanak. Leave it to Him.

Therefore Nanak says, neither japa nor tapas nor meditation nor concentration. Only one sadhana—His Will. The moment you recall His Will, everything inside becomes light. A deep calm, a gentle rain begins within—no tension, no worry.

In the West, so much tension and anxiety—far more than in the East. The East is poor, diseased, ragged, without food, clothes, shelter. The West has everything, yet tension. Three out of four are near derangement.

Why? Because the West has tried to impose its will. “Man will do everything. No need of God—perhaps no God at all.” They have done much outwardly, but man is lost, going mad. The outer has been conquered; the inner is sick. If this sutra settles in your life, nothing remains to do. Let what is happening happen.

Do not swim; float. Do not fight the river. It is no foe—your friend. When you fight the current, you create enmity. You think the river fights you. The river knows nothing of you; you are unknown to it. You are the one swimming upstream—your will, your ego. His Will means becoming one with the flow. Wherever the river takes you, that is the destination. Whatever shore it lands you on, that is the shore. If it drowns you— that too is the destination. What anxiety then? What sorrow? You have cut the root of sorrow.

A priceless sutra! Nanak says: in accord with His command, His Will. Walk as He has written.

Thus Nanak closes every door of ego. First: Guru-prasad—whatever you do, whatever happens, is by the Guru’s grace. Then: Hukam—wherever the current of life takes you. Nothing remains to be done.

And then, it will not be long before you too know—

Ik Onkar Satnam
Karta Purakh Nirbhau Nirvair.
Akal Murat Ajuni Saibhang Gur Prasad.
Aadi sach, jugaad sach,
hai bhi sach, Nanak hosi bhi sach.
Thinking, He is not found, even if you think a hundred thousand times.
By keeping silence, the Silence does not come, even if you sit utterly absorbed.
The hunger of the hungry is not appeased, even if they pile up mountains of sweet breads.
Hundreds of clevernesses, thousands of wits— not one goes with you.
How then are we made true, how is the veil of falsehood torn?
By walking in accord with His Command, says Nanak; it is written along with us.

Enough for today.