Ek Omkar Satnam #11

There is no end to his glory. Whatever we say is too little. And whatever we say only reveals our inability.

Tagore was on his deathbed. An old friend said to him, “You can depart in a joyful mood, because what had to be done, you have done. You received great honor, wrote songs, became known throughout the world; millions adored you as a great poet. You can go with an easy heart. You have left nothing unfinished.”

Tagore opened his eyes and said, “Don’t say such a thing. For I was praying to the Divine that what I wanted to sing I have not yet sung; what I wanted to say I have not yet said. My time has gone only into tuning the instrument. The hymn of your glory had not even begun! And the moment of departure has come.”

Tagore wrote six thousand songs, and all of Tagore’s songs are songs of the Divine’s glory. Yet Tagore says he had only tuned the instrument. “The music had not even begun—and it is time to go.”

This is what Nanak says. This is the experience of all the seers: whatever we say turns out to be only the tuning of the instrument. His song cannot be sung.

Who will sing his song? How will we contain the vast within this little personality? How will we tie the sky in our fist? All our efforts fail. And after doing everything, only our helplessness becomes clear to us.

But if that much becomes clear, understanding is born. When it dawns on you that you are very small, only then does the sense of his vastness arise. The foolish feel they are big; the wise feel they are very small. As understanding grows, we become smaller; and as we become smaller, his immensity appears. In this search a moment comes when you are completely lost—and only he remains.

The speaker disappears—what is there to say? Only he remains: his glory, his day-and-night resonance. The seer disappears—only the seen remains. You vanish—who is left to report him? Who will say anything about him?

Therefore whatever man has said is a discourse on helplessness. A report of being powerless. Just as one goes dumb in the presence of an immense event, so near the Divine one becomes dumbstruck. Dumbstruck means: where speech itself is lost. Where there is no speaking. Astonished, silenced—breath itself stops. In the moment of knowing him, you become utterly still. The movement of thought stops, the movement of words stops, the movement of breath stops. The heart does not even beat—for even that beat would be a missing of him; even that vibration would be a separation.

In such a dumbstruck moment Nanak spoke these words. They were not spoken to explain something to anyone, but to express his own heart’s ache.

Nanak says: “There is no end to his virtues. Nor is there an end to describing him.

“Ant na sifati kahani na ant. Ant na karanai deni na ant.
Ant na vekhani sunani na ant. Ant na japai kia man mant.
Ant na japai kita akar. Ant na japai paravar.”

“There is no end to his virtues, nor to the narration of them. There is no end to his works, nor to his gifts. There is no end to seeing him, nor to hearing him. There is no end to knowing the secrets of his mind. There is no end to the creation he has brought forth. There is no end to his shores, this side or that. Even if countless crave to know his end, no end can be found. No one knows his end.”

Three points in these words deserve to be kept in mind. First: as long as you feel you have known God, you are in illusion. You are mistaken. For whatever you have known, that cannot be God. Whatever you have measured, that cannot be God. Whatever depth you have plumbed, that cannot be God.

You must have been dipping in some pond; you have not come near the ocean. You must have descended into some small valley; you have not known that bottomless abyss where once you fall there is no end. You must have climbed a little hill near the village, not known the Gaurishankar where no ascent is possible. We do climb the Himalaya’s Gaurishankar—sooner or later, with difficulty. But we shall never climb his Gaurishankar. It is impossible.

Why is it impossible? Understand a little.

Because we are his limbs. How can a limb know the whole it belongs to? This is my hand—how will it know me? With this hand I may grasp the whole world, but how will this hand grasp me? This is my eye. It may see everything—how will it see me? How could it see me in my entirety? The eye is only a part of me.

A part can never know the whole. There will be glimpses, but never totality. We are parts of the vast—hence the difficulty. If we were separate from God, we could know him. If we were other than him, we could grasp him, circle him, circumambulate him. But we are his very portion. We are his heartbeat. His inhalation and exhalation. How shall we circle him? How shall we go around him? How shall we grasp him?

Man is a particle within the vast. A drop in the ocean. How will this tiny drop hold the ocean? How will this tiny drop know the whole ocean?

It is a delicious paradox. The drop is in the ocean—and the drop is the ocean. In one sense it knows the ocean—profoundly it knows it—because the ocean is not other than it. Yet in another sense it cannot know the ocean, because the ocean is non-separate.

This is religious life’s greatest paradox. In one sense, we do know God—for how could we live without knowing? He throbs in us, we throb in him. We are not apart—there isn’t even an inch of distance. Hence in one sense we do know him, we recognize him well. And yet we do not know him at all. Because we are parts—how can the part know the whole? We sink and swim in him; we live in him and sometimes forget him, sometimes remember him. Sometimes we seem close, sometimes far. And sometimes, in moments of clarity, it seems—known! The heart overflows—recognized! Awakening happens. Then the awakening is lost. Darkness returns. We stagger. This oscillation between knowing and not knowing—this is the religious person’s condition.

Someone asks Buddha about God; he remains silent. What to say about him? Paradoxes cannot be spoken. If Buddha says, “I know,” it is a mistake—who can say such a thing? And if he says, “I don’t know,” that too is wrong, because he does know.

One morning a scholar asked Buddha. Buddha remained silent. When the man left, Ananda said, “Master, you could have said something! He was a great pundit, knowledgeable, worthy. You should have told him something.”

Buddha said, “Because he was worthy it became even harder to speak. If I say ‘he is,’ it is false—until one has known totally, how to say ‘he is’? Who will say ‘I have known’? Every claim is of the ego—and the ego can never know him. If I say ‘he is not,’ or ‘I do not know,’ that too is false—because I do. And as the man was worthy and understanding, I had to remain silent. And he understood my silence—he bowed with deep reverence and left.”

Only then Ananda noticed that the man had bowed with great awe. He asked, “Strange—I didn’t see it. Did he understand?”

Buddha said, “Horses are of three kinds. One—you must whip them hard, then inch by inch they move. The second—no need to whip that much; a threat is enough. The third—no need even to threaten, not even to show the whip; only the shadow of the whip is enough. This was that third kind. No need to strike or threaten—just the shadow was shown, and he understood and set out on the journey.

“Words are the whip; silence is the shadow. Words are needed when the horse is not close enough to understand the shadow alone. He understood.”

This is the state: the one who knows cannot say “I know,” and cannot say “I don’t know.” The happening occurs in between.

Nanak says: there is no end to him.

However much you say is too little. Keep speaking and you find he is always remaining beyond; you have said nothing. Saying is always incomplete. All scriptures are incomplete. There is no complete scripture on earth—there cannot be. For a complete scripture would mean someone has completely spoken the Divine. All scriptures are incomplete. And all scriptures are for those horses who cannot understand the shadow of the whip.

“There is no end to his virtues, nor to the telling of him; nor to his works, nor to his gifts.”

As the depth of religion grows in a person’s life, his works become visible—and so do his gifts.

This is the second point. His works pervade everywhere. But most people do not even see his works. They ask, “Where is God? Who is the creator?” Even seeing the creation, they catch no hint. The expanse all around does not strike them. They ask, “Who made this? Is there a maker at all?” Behind this vast web of work they see no hand. And the irony is the same people blindly accept other things.

No scientist has ever seen an electron—the ultimate particle of electricity which science says is the basis of the world; the world is composed of electron formations. No scientist has seen it; nor is there hope of seeing it. Yet the scientist accepts that the electron is. He says, “Its effects are visible.”

Causes are subtle, effects gross. The hand of God is not seen, but the deed is visible. We accept the electron because effects are seen; we deny God though his effects are everywhere.

The flower blooms—an effect. But some hidden hand coaxes it open—otherwise how would it bloom? The seed breaks—an effect. But someone breaks it open, germinates it; where a pebble-like seed seemed to be, delicate flowers begin to blossom.

His signatures are everywhere, though his hand is not seen. Nor will it be seen. For life is a balance of the subtle and the gross. The cause is always subtle, the effect gross. Causes are unseen. God is the great cause. But works are visible all around.

So there are three kinds of people in the world—the three horses Buddha spoke of. One, to whom even his works are not visible—completely blind. They ask, “What God? What creator? What proof?” Such a huge creation is not proof enough! They want some other proof. If such a great proof does not register, what else could? What greater proof than a life flowing in ordered, balanced movement; a cosmic play without rupture; an unbroken stream; a music sounding day and night; things happening as they should? This world is not a random accident; behind it operates a precise law.

We have called that law dharma. Lao Tzu called it Tao. Nanak called it Hukam—the command. When Nanak says everything happens by his Hukam, do not imagine him standing somewhere like a head constable barking orders. Hukam means the cosmos is order, not anarchy. Nothing “just happens.” Behind happenings is a planned hand, an organized system, a purpose. What is happening is evolving toward a goal.

If creation does not strike you, you are blind. Let a small statue be placed and you immediately ask, “Who made it?” Let a little painting hang on the wall and you ask, “Who is the painter?” You never suppose the statue just happened by accident, or the painting hung itself by natural causes.

But such a vast painting is hung all around, artistry on every leaf—and you fail to see the Divine! As though you have vowed to keep your back turned; as though you insist on not seeing; as though seeing feels dangerous; as if you are afraid to look.

Of course there is fear. Because the moment you see his hand, you cannot remain as you are. Whoever gets a hint of the Divine’s doing must change his life completely. For if his hand is everywhere, you cannot go on behaving as you do. Your conduct will become false. You have been walking as if there is no God—do what you like, misbehave, sin, indulge. Do anything—since there is no God, you feel entirely free.

Once you see his hand, your license ends. Then you must act carefully, consciously, with more attention and awareness—because he is watching, he is present, hidden everywhere. Whatever you do to anyone, you are doing to him. Pick someone’s pocket—you pick his. Steal from someone—you steal from him. Kill someone—you kill him.

Hence a large segment of humanity does not want to see him. To see him is trouble. If he is present, you cannot remain what you are. You will have to pass through a radical revolution, a change from the roots. The change is so great that it seems easier to deny him.

A hundred years ago Nietzsche said, “God is dead—and now man is totally free.” To cling to such total freedom, you deny God. Then you are at liberty. Whatever you want, do. No one holds the decision in his hands. You are free. Whoever wants to be licentious will insist on not seeing God. Show him as much as you like—he will deny.

And it can be denied because the gross deed is seen, but the subtle doer is not. So people say, “The world runs by itself; everything happens on its own.” But that is the very definition of God—“that which happens on its own,” the self-born.

The second type sees God’s works and accepts the hidden hand—but the acceptance is intellectual. He is intimidated, frightened; life’s whip has struck him hard. He prays out of fear—asking for protection, assurance, money, status, position. He goes to temple, mosque, gurdwara to ask. He has heard a bit of the works, felt a bit out of fear that God is—so he trembles. But he has no sense of the third thing—God’s gifts. That is why he keeps asking.

The third kind—whom Nanak calls the devotee—sees the deeds everywhere, creation revealing his hand, and along with the deeds he sees the Divine’s gifts, his prasad. To see prasad is subtle; it is to see the shadow of the whip. He sees that day and night his gifts are raining down. What is left to ask? What is there to ask! Only to thank him.

Therefore the true devotee goes to the temple to give thanks, not to ask. He has no demands. Even if God himself appears and says, “Ask for something,” he will not ask. He will say, “Everything has already been given—more than I need, more than I deserve. With what face could I ask? Asking would be a complaint that you gave too little.”

You have received life—is that little? But you do not value life.

I have heard: a miser—an arch-miser—was nearing death. He had amassed millions. He kept thinking, “Soon I’ll enjoy life,” but the accumulating consumed all his time—as it always does. When Death knocked, he panicked: “Time is gone. Wealth amassed—but I did not enjoy. I kept thinking I would.” He said to Death, “I’ll give one million—just grant me twenty-four hours. I never had a taste of life.” Death said, “No deal.” He said, “Five million, ten million—just twenty-four hours!” Finally he said, “I’ll give everything—just twenty-four hours!”

He had gathered it all, wasting a lifetime. Now he was ready to give it all for a single day—because he had never taken a deep breath, never sat by flowers, never watched the rising sun, never spoke with moon and stars, never lay on green grass beneath the open sky. He had no chance to look at life. He kept collecting—and postponing: “When everything is mine, I will enjoy.” Now he was ready to give it all!

But Death said, “No. There is no way. Even if you give everything, I cannot give even a day. Time is gone. Get up, be ready.”

He said, “One moment! Not for me—let me write for those who come after me. I wasted my life in hope of enjoying, and what I earned could not buy even a moment from Death.”

He wrote it down—and asked them to inscribe it on his tomb.

This is written on every tomb. If you have eyes, read it. And it will be written on your tomb too—if you do not wake up. If you look, what you have received is immeasurable.

What is the value of life? For a single breath of water in a desert, you would give anything. But so many rivers flow, so many clouds gather over your house in the rains—you never once thanked them. If the sun were to go cold, we would all die here this instant—yet we have never risen in the morning to thank the sun!

Man has a strange logic: what he already has, he does not see; what he does not have, he sees. Lose one tooth, and your tongue goes again and again to that empty spot—while when the tooth was there it never went. The tongue keeps probing the gap. You try not to take it there—what sense is there?—yet it goes.

The mind keeps probing the empty place. It is blind to what is filled—clear-eyed for what is missing. Have you ever taken stock of what you have? Until you see that clearly, you cannot count the Divine’s gifts. They are infinite.

But at least begin where you are. Look at what you have received. All around his gifts are raining down. As every act bears his hand, so every act bears his offering. This entire existence blooms for you. This whole existence is his gift. When someone sees this, a new kind of devotion is born.

There is the atheist, stiff with ego. There is the theist, trembling with fear. Both are not religious. Religious is the third one, dancing in gratitude—intoxicated with the boundless bounty.

Nanak says: “There is no end to his works, nor to his gifts. Nor can the secrets of his mind be plumbed. There is no end to the spread of creation he has made. There is no end to his this shore and that. However many crave to find his end, none finds it. The more you speak of him, the more he is. He is a great Lord, and high is his seat; higher still is his Name.”

This sounds difficult.

“Higher still is his Name.”

How can the Name be higher than him? For us, for travelers, his Name is higher than him—because through his Name we reach him. If the Name is lost, the way is broken, the bridge falls. For us the Name is greater than him. The path is more urgent than the destination, because without the path there is no reaching the destination.

Hence Nanak says: whoever knows his one Name has found the key. The key is greater than the palace; more valuable than the treasure hidden in the palace. It looks like a small piece of iron, but it opens the infinite treasure.

His Name—what Nanak calls Omkar—is that key. With that key his door opens. And if the sound of Omkar begins to settle within you, you will cast that key within yourself. It is not a key someone else can hand you: you will have to forge it. You yourself must become the key. By resonating with Omkar’s tone, slowly you become the key. The capacity to open his door arises within you.

Man has two states. One of thought, and one of thoughtlessness. In the state of thought, you are—storms keep moving through the mind; the sky of the mind is clouded; disputes, endless thoughts—a crowd, a bazaar. A kind of frenzy. The other is the state of no-thought. The bazaar is empty, shops closed, thoughts gone; the marketplace deserted; silence has happened. As long as you are filled with thought, you remain connected to the world. The moment you become thoughtless, you connect with the Divine. As you empty, the door opens.

The key from thought to thoughtlessness is his Name. Let the melody of Omkar fill you. First, the chanting of Omkar. Rise early, or sit at night alone in the dark, and utter Omkar aloud so that its resonance surrounds you. Omkar carries a very sweet music, because it is the music of the infinite—it is not a man-made sound; it is the rhythm resounding in existence. As you chant aloud, its impression will be stamped on every hair of your body. This is the stage of japa—repetition.

Then slowly close the lips and let Omkar resound inside as it was resounding outside. The lips will be closed, the tongue silent, the throat quiet—only an inner humming. This is the bridge between japa and ajapa.

Let the inner humming grow, grow, grow. Inside, both doings: create the humming and listen to it. Then gradually stop creating and increase the listening. A moment comes when you stop doing and the humming continues on its own—you only listen. Then ajapa-japa begins.

When the humming arises on its own, the real Omkar has appeared. Now you are not doing it—it is springing from your very being, the murmur of the stream flowing inside your life. The day you hear it, you can hear it twenty-four hours—because it is happening anyway. There is no need to do it. Whenever you close your inner eyes a little, the sound is there.

Whenever worry grips you, tension, restlessness, anger—close your eyes and listen to this sound for a moment. A hint of the sound—and anger vanishes. A touch of the sound—and hatred ceases. A remembering of the sound—and you find the mind that was agitating you has disappeared. It happens as it happens when the house is dark and you press the torch button—light, darkness gone. In the same way, listen within to the sound—even for a moment—and whatever outer darkness was there breaks then and there.

That is why Nanak insists so much: Ek Onkar Satnam. His entire practice is to find this actual sound of Omkar. He calls it Shabad—the Word, the Name. And Nanak says: “You are greater than great, yet greater still is your Name. You are endless and vast—greater still your Name. For us the Name is the support; by the Name we will be joined to you. You may be, yet we do not know. Through the Name comes news of you. Through the Name we are slowly drawn toward you. And a moment comes when the sound hums on its own—and you are pulled toward the Divine.”

Scientists say there is a force called gravitation. We remain on the earth because the earth pulls us; if it were to let go, we would be lost in the sky. Stones thrown up fall back—the earth draws them. Everything is held by earth’s pull. Its name is gravitation.

In our age there was an important woman, Simone Weil. She said, “As gravitation is, so too there is another force: grace.” She wrote a significant book—Gravity and Grace. You do not see gravitation, yet the earth draws you.

Scientists are becoming concerned: there was a news item that gravitation is slightly decreasing. If it keeps lessening, the earth will fall apart, because it holds things together. Trees are rooted, humans walk, birds fly, animals move—all due to gravity. If earth’s magnetism weakens, everything will scatter, be lost in the infinite. Yet gravitation is unseen, though it binds us to earth.

Simone Weil said well: likewise grace is unseen. Grace—what Nanak calls prasad, compassion. Earth binds us downward; grace binds us upward. As the Omkar within increases, earth’s pull decreases and his pull increases. A moment comes when you become weightless. Yogis often experience this.

Here, many who meditate deeply have felt it: suddenly, during meditation, they felt they rose from the ground. Others outside do not see it; when they open their eyes, they are still seated. But when they close the eyes again, inside it seems they have lifted off.

This is not delusion. As the mind becomes weightless and its sound hums, weightlessness is felt. The outer body remains on the ground; the inner body lifts from the ground. If this journey continues, one day you find you have two bodies: one sits on the ground; the other rises and looks at the one seated below. Between them a thin thread of light connects.

So be careful: if anyone is practicing Omkar and sitting in meditation, do not startle him or shake him. Never push him to get up—there could be danger. If, at that moment, there is a gap between the two bodies—the subtle and the gross have separated a little—and the inner body has risen, and you give him a shove, the balance between the two can be disturbed for good. The coordination is very subtle.

In true meditation, one goes out of this body and returns. When you become adept in the art—how to go out, how to come back; how to enter the Divine and how to return—then there is no opposition between the world and God. You remain in this body, and the remembrance remains there—a thread of the mind remains connected.

Nanak says: “His Name is greater even than he. However great he is, only he can know himself. If anyone becomes that high, he can know the High. Nanak says: upon whom his glance of grace falls, upon him his gift descends.”

This needs a little understanding—it is subtle. There are two methodologies of spiritual practice in the world, only two. One rests on resolve and effort; the other on surrender. Both lead to the goal, but the paths are contrary.

Mahavira, Patanjali, Gorakh—their method is of resolve. One must strive, make the total energy of life into effort. The day not a grain of strength remains unspent, the day you stake yourself wholly—that day it happens. When resolve is total, when you have kept nothing back, when everything has been wagered—that day it happens. You meet the Divine.

The other path is surrender. Nanak, Meera, Chaitanya—their way is utterly different: attainment is not by our efforts, but by his grace. Our striving achieves nothing; his compassion achieves all. This does not mean “do not strive.” It means: do not rely on effort alone. Strive—but know it will happen by his grace.

This is crucial. For if reliance is on effort alone, the ego can arise. The yogi may stiffen and think, “All is happening because of me. I am doing.” This ego is the hardest to drop. The ego of wealth is easier to drop; of position, easier. But the ego of effort—very difficult.

The greatest danger on the path of resolve is that effort strengthens the ego: “All is happening through me. I am doing, therefore it is.” Then “I” becomes important; God becomes secondary. After opening all doors, at the last door I will be stuck. This is the danger.

Therefore Mahavira, Patanjali, Gorakh emphasize: drop the ego, drop the ego. Make effort—and drop ego. If effort goes with ego, every effort strengthens ego: “I did japa, tapas, yoga; I gained powers.” If this stiffness enters, all is wasted.

So Nanak says: strive—but remember within that it will happen by his grace.

Thus the last danger of the path of resolve does not arise. But then the other path has its own danger—and that danger comes first. Better to meet the first danger early.

The first danger of surrender is that you may think, “There is nothing to do. If it will happen only by his grace, what shall I do?” Then “not doing” becomes an excuse. You think, “It will happen when he wishes—what does my doing matter?” And you waste life’s preciousness—because “when he wishes it will happen.” You keep wandering in the trivial. It becomes a pretext to postpone: “When he wills, he will do; what can we do?” On the path of surrender the first danger is sinking into laziness.

Hence make full effort, and keep in mind: the fruit will come by his grace. So Nanak repeats: upon whom his glance of grace falls, upon him his gift descends. But upon whom does his grace fall? Upon the one who prepares himself by effort.

Understand this. In common life grace seems to mean favoritism: does he favor his own and neglect others, choose some and reject others? That would be injustice. We cannot associate injustice with the Divine. Else nothing remains of value; then his grace might fall on the sinner, not on the virtuous. Then all is futile.

No—his grace does not mean he arbitrarily selects, that he chooses flatterers or those who praise him. His grace rains on all. But some sit with their pitchers turned upside down. Even on them the rain falls, but their pot cannot fill. Some keep their pot upright—it fills. Your upright pot does not cause the rain; the rain is already falling. But your uprightness allows filling. And however straight you hold your pot—if there is no rain, how will it fill?

So Nanak says: filling happens by his grace; but you must at least keep your pot upright. Make sure it has a bottom—not cracked. Make sure it is not upside down; not tilted—else even when grace rains, it will not fill. Compassion may come, and yet it will run off.

His ceaseless rain pours on everyone. God is unending rain. But you are inverted, crooked—thus you are deprived by your own doing.

Understand this. It sounds paradoxical. You are deprived by your own doing; you receive by his grace. You receive by his gift; you lose by your own cause. On the path of surrender, remember: if I am losing, there is some wrong in me. If I receive, it is his grace. If you can remember this, ego has nowhere to stand. And where there is no ego, there is God.

“His great grace cannot be described. He is such a giver that he has not even a mustard-seed of greed to get anything in return.”

Understand giving. You give too, but hidden in it is a desire to get. Even when you give two coins to a beggar, there is the hope that perhaps it will be rewarded in heaven; if not in heaven, at least the neighborhood will see you as generous. Prestige will grow.

A blind man used to go to a church. Blind and also hard of hearing—only if someone shouted loudly could he hear. So in church neither the priest’s sermon nor the hymns reached him. He could not see anything either. Yet he went regularly. Someone asked, “Why do you bother? You can neither see nor hear—what is the point?” He replied, “I come so that others may see that I am a religious man who goes to church.” And you—though you have eyes—go for the same reason. Though you have ears—you go for the same reason.

Temple, gurdwara, mosque—going has become social. A formality to be maintained. Even when you give two coins, there is barter hidden—you want to gain. That is not giving; it is a deal.

That is the difference: when you want something back, it is business. Then it is difficult. You have never given; you have always traded. Those who exploit you know you are traders, so they tell you, “Give one here, receive a hundred thousand there. Offer here, reap there—in heaven you will receive millions.” They know you are merchants—you cannot give.

Would you give at a temple where they say, “Give, and nothing will be returned. Give if you wish, out of your joy; nothing will come back”? It would be hard to find donors; that temple would collapse. Such a temple does not exist anywhere.

When you think of God’s gift, don’t keep accounts in your language. Do not imagine it like your giving. Nanak says: he gives and wants nothing from you. And what do you have to give anyway? His gift is pure—unconditional; with no terms.

What have you given back? You received life—and when love came into your life—what have you given back? If you had even faint glimpses of health, beauty, truth—what have you given back? Strange that we never think this way: given all we received, what have we offered in return?

If you truly saw what has been given, you would dance in celebration without end. You would sing his glory—not from fear, but from sheer gratitude that the gift is so vast; given for no reason. Neither deserving nor returning is possible. You can be freed of a father’s debt, of a mother’s—but how will you be free of the Divine’s? His gift is without conditions.

So Nanak says: “He is such a giver that he has not even a mustard-seed of greed.”

“Bahuta karam likhia na jai. Badda data til na tamai”—countless are his deeds; he is such a great giver, free of even a mustard-seed of desire.

“Countless warriors still beg from him.”

And of course our beggars beg—but our warriors too. There is not much difference between our beggars and our emperors—only in quantity. Both keep asking.

And remember: only when asking ceases do you begin to see his gift. The smoke of your asking hides the gift. You go on asking. You have no leisure to see what is being given. The day asking ends, the gift becomes visible. That day the false form of prayer drops, and the true form appears.

“Countless are those who, engrossed in vices, are ruined.”

Nanak says something very important here: your asking is so blind you are ruined by what you get. You ask wrongly.

Look at your life closely: whatever suffering there is, trace its cause and you will find your own asking somewhere. You wanted high position—then came the worries of high position. Nights without sleep; days without peace. In the West they say: if by forty you haven’t had your first heart attack, you must be a failure. The successful man must have it. If you have no ulcers, you must be poor—because the rich must have ulcers. Worries enough to ulcerate.

The successful keeps asking for success—what does he get? And what he asks, he gets. That is the amazing thing: whatever you ask, you will get—sooner or later. Therefore ask with care—else be ready to repent. First you wasted time asking, then you will waste time repenting.

Analyze your life—you will see you have entangled yourself with your own hands. You asked for money—money came. With money came worry; with money, the shrinking of the soul; with money, a thousand diseases; with money, a thousand vanities. All attached. You cannot separate them. Whatever you ask for, you receive—and then you repent.

Hence Nanak says: “Countless, consumed by their vices, are destroyed.”

Your own asking! Your own prayers!

“Countless, taking and taking, deny even gratitude.”

They do not even say thanks. They ask and receive. They do not thank.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin used to shout at dawn during prayer, “O God, keep one thing in mind—whenever you give, give a full hundred. I will not take less. When you have to give, drop a full bag of a hundred; remember, I will not take ninety-nine.”

A neighbor heard this daily. He thought of a prank: “He will not take ninety-nine—no risk.” He placed ninety-nine coins in a bag and dropped it through Nasruddin’s thatch as he prayed.

Nasruddin left his prayer midway, counted the coins—and said, “Ah, so you deducted one for the bag!”

Man will not give thanks; even then he complains—“You cut one coin!”

I have heard: a very rich man was returning by sea. A terrible storm arose; the ship was about to sink. At first he offered perfunctory prayers. When death came near he cried, “If I am saved today, if you save me, God, I will sell my palace in the capital and distribute the money to the poor.” The storm calmed; the ship reached the shore. Now the rich man was in trouble and repentant: “The storm would have calmed anyway; I got myself trapped.” Worse, he had spoken too loudly; people had heard—another mistake. People spread the news: the rich man vowed to sell his palace and give the proceeds to the poor. He was in a fix.

At last he announced: “Very well, I will sell the house—whoever wants to buy, come.” It was a ten-lakh palace. Many buyers gathered—it was the grandest palace in the city. He announced, “The mansion and this cat tied at the door will be sold together. The cat’s price is ten lakhs; the mansion’s price one rupee—but both together!” People were astonished—ten lakhs for a cat, and one rupee for the mansion? But buyers came; after all, the palace was worth ten lakhs, and the cat was worth one rupee. No real obstacle. They bought the cat for ten lakhs, the mansion for one rupee. He pocketed the ten lakhs and distributed the one rupee to the poor—fulfilling his vow to sell the palace and give the proceeds!

People keep legal accounts even with God—find a way somehow.

Nanak says, “There are many who, after receiving, deny even thanks.”

They say, “It was coincidence; it was bound to happen.” Many do not even say that; they simply forget that they had asked and received. They do not acknowledge his grace.

“Countless ask and eat, and he keeps giving, and they keep consuming.”

They never rise beyond asking and eating—just consuming. And enjoyment like this leads nowhere—no attainment, only time wasted. Eat as much as you want—what will you get? Wear as much as you want—what will you get? Encrust your body with jewels—what will you get? Life’s precious moments pass in collecting pebbles, when prayer could have happened, when the wealth of meditation could have been yours.

Nanak says: “There are countless on whom blows of sorrow and hunger keep falling—yet they do not remember.”

Blows fall due to their own asking—yet they do not wake up to see that what they ask brings them suffering. Our pains are the fruits of our own desires; our hells arise from our own lusts. But we do not connect the two—we keep them separate. You always ask for happiness—have you noticed that your desires lead you into suffering? Yet you still ask, “Why not happiness?” As if someone walks with his back to the sun and asks, “Why don’t I see the light? Why don’t I see the sun?”

The sun could be seen now. But the mind that moves in passion will go into darkness. Even your prayers you color with desires; the devotee offers even desire to prayer; you put prayer into the service of your cravings.

So Nanak says: countless are struck by suffering yet do not awaken.

For many lives blows have fallen on you—Buddha was not entirely right: horses are of four kinds. One—hit them and they do not move an inch. Beat them to death—real stubborn horses! The more you beat, the more they stand firm.

So many blows of suffering fall on you, yet you do not awaken. You go on bearing it; you have grown accustomed. You have settled that suffering is the way of life. You have forgotten that life is supreme bliss, a festival. If you are suffering, it is due to some error of your own.

“O Giver, even these are your gifts.”

Nanak says even these are your gifts. People ask—and you keep giving. Remember: if you ask wrongly, the wrong will also be given, because existence is willing to give unconditionally. Ask wrongly—you will receive wrongly. God gives and does not obstruct your freedom. If you ask for delusion, delusion will be given.

Understand this; a question arises: God knows what is wrong—why would he give the wrong?

If he refuses your request, your freedom ends. Then you become puppets on strings. Then he gives whatever he wishes; your freedom to ask is gone—man’s dignity is lost. Man’s dignity lies in that he can choose wrongly. If he wishes, he can go right; if he wishes, wrong. Freedom is possible; you are not bound in chains. You have conscious choice. He does not block you—he gives you way on every side. You can fall to the last hell—he will not stop you. You can rise to the highest heaven—he will not stop you. In all cases, his power sustains you. His giving is unconditional. He does not use his gift to enslave you. He gives—and you may use it as you wish.

So Nanak says, “O Giver, these too are your gifts. Bondage and liberation happen by your command.”

But we are the ones who ask. We ask for bondage—and bondage happens. His is the command, the law. Just as you climb a tree and jump—you break a bone. The earth’s gravity that used to support you in walking becomes the cause of the break. Walk straight—and gravity supports you. Walk crooked—and you fall, fracture. The power is the same.

The power is impartial, neutral. God is utterly neutral. Use it rightly—you attain the ultimate. Use it wrongly—you fall into the deepest pit of life. Nanak says: all is received from you—heaven and hell—but behind it is our asking. Your law works; we ask and ask and get entangled.

I have heard: a politician died—a big leader, very shrewd, an old player, master of tricks. At heaven’s gate he said, “First let me see both heaven and hell. Then I will choose where to live.” They showed him heaven. He found it a little bland—politicians used to Delhi will find heaven dull. People were peaceful—no noise, no disturbance, no agitations, no processions, no gheraos—nothing.

“Newspapers?” he asked.

“No newspapers here,” they said.

Newspapers exist when there is news—meaning disturbance. If you want to make news, create a disturbance; you’ll be news. Sit quietly under your tree like a Buddha—no news.

He said, “This seems dull, insipid. Let me see hell.” He went to hell—it charmed him. Better than Delhi. Several newspapers printed there; big agitations, noise, glamour, hotels, music, bands—he liked it. He said, “This is it! But on earth we have always heard heaven is bliss and hell is suffering. It seems the opposite. What is the matter?” he asked the Devil, who had come to welcome him. “People on earth are misinformed. I might have been trapped into heaven! We call the dead ‘heavenly departed’—but this is where one should come. There is life here—color, pomp, splendor! Why the opposite news on earth?”

The Devil said, “There is a reason. No one listens to me there; the opposition has the media. The religious folks have promoted heaven; no one hears me. Even if I speak, they say, ‘He is the Devil—beware!’ Great injustice has been done to me. See with your own eyes.”

The politician told the angel from heaven, “I have chosen. You may return; I will live in hell.” As soon as he chose, the door closed—and instantly hell’s face changed, as in films when the image flips. Many pounced on him, punched him, and flung him into boiling cauldrons. He cried, “What are you doing? A moment ago all was fine!” The Devil said, “That was for visitors. Now the real hell begins. That was only for tourists. Now the real thing! Once you choose, you are a resident—now enjoy.”

People choose hell—because every desire’s first glimpse is for visitors. The initial phase is to lure you—the show window, an advertisement. Once you choose desire, the real hell begins. You have stumbled into hell by your own choice.

Heaven, at first, seems drab—because bliss is supreme peace. And sorrow, at first, seems colorful—because there is excitement. You choose excitement, you get sorrow. The day you choose peace, you find bliss. All is by his command, his law—but his law molds to your asking. He is neutral. He does not impose his ask on you. And even if he did, you would not consent. If heaven were forced upon you, it would seem worse than hell. Even hell, if chosen out of your own delight, is heaven—for your freedom must remain intact.

This is the subtlest question in philosophy: how can God and man’s freedom coexist?

Hence Mahavira denied God—because then freedom would end. If all happens by his command, man’s freedom is finished—then what worth has the soul? So Mahavira said: no God, but freedom. Others said: there is God, hence no freedom—only destiny.

Nanak stands in the middle: man’s freedom is—and God is. Freedom belongs to asking—you may ask what you will; strive for it, and you will get it. But whatever is received comes by his grace. Ask for sorrow—and it too arrives.

Now the strange thing: why do you keep asking for sorrow? And if you do not ask for joy, even if God tries a hundred ways he cannot give it to you.

It happened: the Sufi Junnaid said, “No one can be given joy by force. Peace cannot be forced upon anyone.”

I agree. I have tried to give it—impossible. The more you try to force, the more a person recoils: “Danger!” You cannot give bliss even—no one is ready to take it.

One day a devotee said, “I cannot accept this. Let us experiment.” He brought a man: “He is utterly poor. The emperor is your devotee—ask him to give this man one crore gold coins. Then we shall see whether he remains poor; how will he remain miserable?” Junnaid said, “All right.”

They set the experiment. One crore gold coins were placed in a huge jar in the middle of a bridge; traffic was stopped. Daily, that man took his evening walk across that bridge. At the right time, the bridge was empty; the jar was set in the middle, open, the gold shining in the sun. On the other side stood the emperor, Junnaid, and the experimenters. No hindrance—no police, no crowds.

Strangely, the man passed by the jar and crossed to the other side—without seeing or touching it. They caught him: “Didn’t you see the jar?”

“What jar?” he said. “When I stepped on the bridge, a thought arose: today there is no one on the bridge. For days I have wanted to try something I couldn’t because it was crowded: to cross the bridge with eyes closed. Seeing it empty, I thought, ‘Now is the time.’ I closed my eyes and walked across. What jar? The experiment was successful—I can cross with eyes closed.”

Junnaid said, “See! Whoever is set to miss will create some thought and miss. One ready to miss cannot be saved.”

Even God cannot give what you are not prepared to take. If you are prepared for sorrow—sorrow. If prepared for joy—joy. You receive according to your readiness. It rains by his grace; you fill according to your preparedness. It always rains; you fill when you turn, open, become receptive.

“Bondage and liberation are by your command. O Giver, these too are your gifts. No other can do anything in this. Whoever tries to chatter about it realizes his foolishness when he is struck on the mouth. He alone knows, and he alone gives. Rare is one who can describe him. He bestows the virtue of his praise on whomsoever he wills. Nanak says, he is the King of kings.”

“A chatterer…”

There are many chatterers in religion—nowhere is it easier to chatter than in religion, because the whole matter is otherworldly, mysterious, in darkness; there is no proof. Hence three hundred religions exist—if there were truth, there would be one. Three hundred religions, and three thousand sects among them. Certainly many tall tales have been told about truth. No way to test what is gossip and what is true. Chatterers are skillful.

Mahavira spoke of seven hells. How will you verify? His opponent, Makkhali Gosala, when told, said, “Mahavira doesn’t fully know—there are seven hundred.” Now what will you do? Who is right? What criterion?

What Nanak says, happened with Makkhali Gosala. He chattered all his life; at death he repented. When death came near he trembled: “Now what?” He told his disciples, “Whatever I said was false. Drag my corpse through the streets and ask people to spit on my face—for from this mouth nothing but lies were spoken.”

He must have been a courageous and honest man; otherwise who would do that? He could have kept silent for a moment and died—and perhaps his religion would have been established. He had many followers—he was a great rival of Mahavira. First Mahavira’s disciple, then he tried to start his own sect.

Certainly a chatterer. Mahavira said, “Surprising! He had not even the first glimpse.” But he was clever, could speak and write, a scholar. He started his sect.

When Mahavira came to the village where Gosala stayed, he said, “I will meet him—he is my former disciple. I will ask, ‘Fool, what are you doing? You yourself do not know.’” They met. You cannot trust a liar—Gosala looked at Mahavira as if he had never seen him.

Mahavira said, “Have you completely forgotten you were with me for years?”

Gosala said, “You are mistaken. The soul that was with you has left. In this same body a new soul has entered—the soul of a Tirthankara. I am not the one who was with you. Only this body was with you—I have heard. But the man who was your disciple is dead. Therefore do not say anywhere that Makkhali Gosala was my disciple. The soul of a Tirthankara has entered me.”

Mahavira must have fallen silent. What to say? Gosala had great influence, thousands of devotees. Yet he must have been a good man—at death he realized.

Nanak says: whoever tries to chatter realizes his foolishness when the blow falls—when death strikes, when life slips away. He sees he talked in vain about heavens and hells—he knew nothing. Life has passed; he had no foundation; he floated paper boats. Now drowning, he realizes.

Be careful. In religion, never say what you do not know. Only speak what you know—or keep silent. The mind weaves fanciful explorations. Once it starts, a net grows by itself—one word gives birth to another, one story to another—you move forward.

Once a religious teacher lodged at an inn. He tied his horse under a tree. Nasruddin watched. The horse was precious; the teacher famous; he loved his horse, journeying far on it. He stopped for noon rest. Nasruddin petted the horse—indeed a rare animal. A horse-buyer passed and asked, “Is this your horse?”

Such a splendid horse—hard to say no.

Nasruddin said, “Yes, mine.”

“Will you sell it?”

Nasruddin said, “If you dare to buy?” A thousand-rupee horse—Nasruddin asked two thousand, expecting refusal. The man agreed. Now it had gone too far—so he sold. “What harm?” he thought, “two thousand easy, the teacher is sleeping.”

Just as he pocketed the coins, the teacher came out. No time to flee. So he put the money in his pocket, slipped the horse’s rope around his own neck, and stood chewing a bit of grass.

The teacher too was shocked—hands and feet trembling. “Brother, what are you doing? What is this?”

Nasruddin said, “What is there to hide? I’ll tell the truth.”

The teacher said, “I don’t need your truth—I ask: where is my horse? You seem mad. Where is my horse?”

Nasruddin said, “Your horse and I are not two different stories—I am your horse.”

The teacher said, “What are you saying? Are you drunk? What is this?”

Nasruddin said, “Listen to the whole story. Twenty years ago I committed adultery. God became very angry and turned me into a horse—your horse. It seems my punishment is over, and I have become a man again. My name is Nasruddin.”

The teacher trembled—such divine wrath! He fell to his knees and prayed for mercy. Then he said, “Brother, whatever happened, happened. I must go on. You go home; I will buy a horse in the market.”

He went to the market—and found his horse standing there. His chest pounded. He whispered in the horse’s ear, “Nasruddin—again? So soon?”

Once the mind begins to lie, the lies sprout like leaves on trees. To protect one lie, a thousand more must be told. So many that you forget they are lies; repeated, they look like truth. You become hypnotized by them.

Thousands of such lies are in circulation with no relation to truth. In religion it is easiest—no testing, no laboratory, no way to verify. Religion lives on trust—no scientific test. So remember—or one day you will regret it. Do not speak a single false word about the Divine. The mind’s habit of lying is deep.

People come to me: “We’ve been doing vipassana for ten years.” I ask, “Has anything happened?” Their faces say instantly, “Nothing.” But they answer, “Yes, much is happening, many experiences.” I see in their faces—nothing has happened. They say, “Many experiences.” After some talk, I say, “Tell the truth: has anything happened? If it has, you need not speak to me—go on. If not, first settle it that nothing has happened—then I will take your hand.” Then they say, “If you ask like this—no, nothing has happened.”

Two minutes earlier they said much was happening—because the mind cannot admit: “Ten years and nothing.”

The mind is dishonest. Beware. The more you get entangled in its net, the more you will regret—life will end and when death stands over you, you will lament: “Why did I waste myself in untruth?”

“Whoever chatters realizes his foolishness when the blow falls. He alone knows, and he alone gives.”

God himself knows, and he himself gives. Knowing is his, giving is his. For us, it is enough to become a vessel. Knowledge is his; existence is his. Both will be given to us. We need only consent, to turn toward him, to lift our eyes toward him. There is no need to enter the mind’s net. The mind can give neither knowledge nor existence—only lies. Whoever listens to the mind falls into untruth. The mind gives nothing.

You may have heard an old story: a man did great devotion; the gods were pleased and gave him a conch. Its special power: whatever you ask of it you receive—say “a palace,” and a palace appears; “delicious food,” and it is set before you. The man rejoiced and lived in luxury.

A religious teacher, traveling, stayed at his palace. Hearing about the conch, greed arose. He too had a conch, called the Mahashankh. He said, “Why are you attached to that shankh? I too did much devotion and got the Mahashankh. Its virtue: you ask for one palace and it gives two.” The man’s greed stirred. “Show me,” he said. The teacher set down a big conch and said, “Brother, create one palace.” He said, “Why one? Why not two?” The man was convinced. He gave his conch to the teacher and took the Mahashankh. He searched for the teacher later—but he was gone. The Mahashankh only spoke—if you said “two,” it replied “why not four;” “four,” it said, “why not eight?”—and so on. Only talk—no giving. It was truly a “Mahashankh.”

The mind is a Mahashankh. Whatever comes from the Divine, the mind only says, “Why not double?” It provokes greed. But has the mind ever given anything? Has anything been received from the mind?

Nanak says, “He alone knows, and he alone gives. Rare is the one who can describe him. He bestows the virtue of his praise on whomsoever he wills. Nanak says, he is the King of kings.”

One last, priceless point in this sutra.

Junun was a fakir in Egypt. When God revealed himself to him, he heard this proclamation: “Before you set out to seek me, I had already found you. Had I not found you, you could not have set out to seek me.”

Nanak says the same: he grants the virtue of praise to whom he wills.

The truth is: you set out to seek him only when he has knocked at your door. How would you seek him by yourself? How would the urge arise? How would remembrance fill you? How would praise be born?

However long it takes, the fact is: he has already found you—therefore you seek. He has already arrived in your life—therefore the search has begun; the thirst has arisen. Nanak says: he has lit that thirst.

Nanak’s way is this: leave everything to him. Keep nothing in your hands, because pride is subtle. You will still say, “I am a seeker, a sadhak, a questioner, a mumukshu. I am searching for God…”

So that this “I” may not be constructed from any side, Nanak says: only by your will is the virtue of praise obtained. We will sing your glory only when you make us sing. Without you, we cannot even praise you. Let alone anything else—we cannot even lift our eyes toward you if you do not support them. Our feet cannot go toward you if you do not move them. We cannot even hold an image or dream of you if you have not already chosen us.

In this way Nanak cuts the root of ego. Where there is no ego, his door opens. Where there is no ego, Omkar’s sound begins of its own accord. It is only due to the noise of your ego that the gentle, subtle sound cannot be heard.

Enough for today.