Ek Omkar Satnam #12

Nanak speaks in praise of the Ultimate the way a drunken man speaks. These are not the polished words of a scholar, but the utterances of one completely intoxicated on the wine of the Divine. That is why he keeps repeating himself. These are words spoken in ecstasy—like a drunk standing at the roadside, babbling on, saying the same thing again and again. He is speaking from just such a deep inebriation.

Babar invaded India in Nanak’s time. His soldiers, suspecting Nanak, arrested him as well. But word gradually reached Babar that this prisoner was unusual, that there was an atmosphere around him unlike that of ordinary men, and that he sang even in jail—drunk on something within. Babar sensed that here was a man who could not really be imprisoned; his freedom was inner.

So they say Babar sent a message: “Come and meet me.” Nanak replied, “If there is to be a meeting, you will have to come. Nanak is where there is no question of going anywhere to meet anyone.”

Babar himself came to the prison, was deeply impressed, took Nanak back to his palace, and offered him the costliest wines to drink. Nanak laughed and sang a song. Its meaning: “I have already drunk the wine of the Divine. No other wine can intoxicate me now. The final intoxication has happened. Better, Babar, that you drink my wine, instead of offering me yours.”

These are a drunkard’s songs. That is why Nanak goes on repeating—either like a small child, or like one drunk with God. He just sings his praises. There is little calculation in it, and no embellishment. These words are like uncut stones.

A poet writes, then revises. He alters, arranges, worries about grammar, about measure, feet, meter; he counts syllables; he changes a lot—even a great poet like Rabindranath. Look into Tagore’s journals and you’ll find lines cut and recut, rewritten, changed, fitted again.

These utterances were neither changed nor arranged. They are just as Nanak spoke them—spoken, not composed. There’s no calculation here: neither of language nor of measure nor of foot nor of meter. If there is any meter, it is of the inner soul. If there is any grammar, it is not man’s grammar but God’s. And if any rhythm is heard here, it is the rhythm of inner intoxication—not literary music. That is why Nanak “kept saying.” Whenever anyone asked him anything, he would answer by singing. Someone would question, and he would say, “Listen,” and Mardana would touch his strings, and the song would begin.

Keep this in mind. If you forget it, you may feel Nanak is simply repeating himself—“His virtues are priceless, his worth is priceless”—and he keeps saying it.

No! These are words hummed in ecstasy. They are not addressed to someone else. They are hummed within his own intoxication, inside his own being. That others overheard is another matter. If you hold this in your awareness, much meaning will begin to unfold.

Nanak says, “His virtues are priceless. His commerce is priceless. His merchants are priceless. His stores are priceless. Those who come to receive are priceless. Those who take away are priceless. His feeling is priceless. His samadhi is priceless. His dharma is priceless. His court is priceless.”

Priceless are his virtues; priceless, his commerce.
Priceless, his merchants; priceless, his stores.
Priceless, those who come; priceless, those who depart laden.
Priceless, the feeling for him; priceless, the absorption in him.
Priceless, his dharma; priceless, his royal court.
Priceless, the scales; priceless, the seal of approval.
Priceless, his grace; priceless, his insignia.
Priceless, his deeds; priceless, his command.
Priceless, priceless—beyond all telling.
And telling and telling, lovers fall into meditation.

First thing: he is priceless. All that is his is priceless. There is no way to set a value—no measure by which to weigh him, no standard by which to gauge him. There is simply no means by which we could estimate how much he is, what he is, how far he extends.

And whoever sets out to measure him finds, slowly, that all measures break. All scales fall. Not only do the standards shatter, the measuring mind itself breaks down.

There is a Sanskrit word: maya. Maya is born from the same root as map. English “measure” comes from it; French “meter” from it; English “matter” too. The same root that gives maya gives matter, measure, map.

A very significant word: maya. Maya means that which can be measured, weighed, defined. That which cannot be weighed—Brahman. So whatever you can weigh—know it is maya. Whatever you can appraise—know it is maya. Whatever you can define—know it is maya. That which cannot be defined; that which, when you attempt to weigh it, exhausts you and still remains unweighed; that which, when you sit to measure, you realize, “With what weights shall I measure this?”—and even if you go on measuring for endless time, nothing is concluded, no measure completed—wherever you come close to the immeasurable, know that religion has begun.

Hence science will never know religion. For the entire method of science is measuring. The scale is its emblem; measurement its approach. So science will never reach God; therefore science will always declare there is no God—because it acknowledges only that which can be weighed, experimented upon, recorded on the laboratory scale. Marx said he would believe in God if God could appear in a laboratory. But if God did appear in a laboratory, he would no longer be God.

Do you not sense that something immeasurable surrounds us? Hidden even within the measurable?

There is a flower. In the laboratory you can weigh it, for it has mass. You can measure length and breadth. You can analyze it and find the chemical elements of which it is made; you will know the chemistry.

But one thing in the flower is immeasurable: its beauty. You can weigh everything, and when your analysis is complete you will suddenly notice: the flower is lost in the analysis; beauty is nowhere to be found. That is why the scientist does not accept beauty.

And yet the first feeling the flower stirs in you is beauty. And that is exactly what gets lost in science. That which science destroys is the very first thing you experience. The first inner surge, the first ripple in your being, the initial reflection in consciousness when you see a flower—is of beauty. Unsaid, unworded, a feeling arises; a cloud of beauty gathers within. That is precisely what slips out of scientific grasp.

A small child is dancing, playing, laughing. What first reaches you is life, energy. Give the child to science; it will examine and list everything, measure and note it all—but life will be lost. Science will tell how much aluminum, how much iron, how much magnesium in the bones, how much phosphorus, how much earth, how much water...

I’ve heard of a scientist walking with a friend. A very beautiful young woman passed by. The friend stopped, struck. The scientist said, “Don’t be disturbed—ninety percent is water.”

It’s true: about ninety percent of the human body is water, and most of the rest is stuff we can bottle. They say the total sale value of a human body’s elements is not more than a few rupees. Extract the iron, the phosphorus—take it to market and you wouldn’t get much. That’s why we burn corpses: extraction would cost more than the sale. No use for it.

Science will measure everything and conclude: no soul found. Of course not—soul is immeasurable. This is a crucial question today: if by measuring the immeasurable is not found, we declare there is no such thing. If we were intelligent, we would say: our methods reach up to maya, not to Brahman. We need another way—one that is not measuring—by which we may know.

Science’s way: measure, search, test, define. Religion’s way is entirely different: not to search, not to measure, not to define—but to be lost, to dissolve, to drown, to let oneself be immersed. The scientist remains separate from his inquiry; the religious one merges, drowns, becomes one with it.

Once Nanak stayed in Lahore. The wealthiest man there came to bow at his feet. In those days it was custom in Lahore that anyone who had one crore rupees flew a flag over his house. This man had many flags. His name was Seth Dunichand. He placed his head at Nanak’s feet and said, “Command me. I wish to serve. I have much by your grace. Whatever you ask, I will do.”

Nanak pulled from his robe a small sewing needle and gave it to Dunichand: “Keep it safe, and after you die, return it to me.”

Dunichand, puffed up, didn’t understand. In his pride, he couldn’t see the impossibility. “As you command. Whatever you say, I will do.” Pride blinds. He went home. On his way he thought, “Return it after I die? When I die, how will I take the needle with me?”

He returned: “You’ve given me too big a task. I thought it was small—what joke is this? Why keep a needle safe? But saints have their ways; perhaps there is a purpose. Forgive me; take it back now. This loan cannot be repaid. When I die, how shall I take it with me?”

Nanak said, “Give it back. The purpose is fulfilled. This is exactly what I ask you: if you cannot carry even a needle across death, then of your crores upon crores of wealth, what can you carry? If you cannot take even a tiny needle across, what do you have that you can take? Dunichand, you are poor. The truly rich is one who can carry something beyond death.”

Whatever can be measured cannot be carried beyond death. Only the immeasurable goes beyond.

There are only two kinds of people in the world. Those who are concerned with measuring—seeking what can be weighed and counted. And those who seek that which cannot be weighed. The first are worldly, irreligious. The second are religious, renunciates.

The search for the immeasurable is religion. Whoever has found it becomes the victor over death; he has found the deathless. What can be measured will perish. Whatever has a boundary will melt away. Whatever can be defined exists today and is gone tomorrow. Even mountains like the Himalayas will pass. Sun, moon, stars will be extinguished. The greatest, the seemingly most unmoving—what we call “immovable” is in motion and will vanish. Wherever measurement reaches, there is instability, change, waves. Where measurement ceases and boundaries dissolve, there begins Brahman.

Hence Nanak says, “His qualities are priceless. His dealings are priceless.”

You cannot set a value. This is why there is such difficulty. You can price Napoleon or Alexander: their worth lies in their wealth and empire. But how will you value a Buddha? What price for Nanak? Those who possess things, possessions—you can value them: what they have is their soul. If one crore, then one crore; if ten crores, then ten. But those who possess nothing—only God—how will you value them?

So often we fail to see Nanak. So often a Buddha passes nearby and we stand blind. We have learned only the art of measuring—so that is what we see. If Buddha had a diamond in his hand, we’d see the diamond and miss the Buddha. The diamond is worth a few coins; Buddha is priceless—but our eyes catch the diamond.

Our eyes, our style of thinking, our mind—remember this. The outer world of measurement is the inner mind. Hence mind and maya are one. Measurement outside; the measurer within—that is the mind. World and mind—a pair. With the immeasurable, Brahman outside, the mind makes no connection. The soul relates there, because within too there is an immeasurable. Like knows like. Mind has limits; it knows the limited. Soul has no limit; it knows the infinite. What price does God have? None whatsoever!

There is a story of Jesus: Judas sold him to his enemies for thirty pieces of silver. We are shocked: a being like Jesus, who happens only rarely in this world—could Judas sell him for thirty silver coins? Hard to believe.

But you too would sell—if not for thirty, then for thirty thousand—what difference? Thirty or thirty thousand: it is all measurement. The point is: even after years with Jesus, Judas never saw Jesus. When someone offered thirty coins for information to arrest him, the thirty coins seemed more valuable.

We notice only what we can value. We are trapped in valuation.

People come to me and ask, “What will meditation give me? What benefit? What profit?” It is not that they don’t know meditation brings God. They have heard it. But there is no “profit” to God. They have heard that meditation brings bliss—but bliss has no market value. Who will buy it? They are asking me, in their own language: “Tell us the value in figures—how much is meditation worth?”

And their question seems reasonable. Life’s economics runs on value. One hour meditating—if we spent it in the marketplace, we could earn fifty, a hundred rupees. If meditation brings something worth that, then it makes sense to do it. If not—what’s the point? They’re asking for a clear valuation so they can balance their accounts.

But what comes through meditation has no price. As long as you seek value, you cannot enter meditation, because the world of value will hold you. The world means the realm of pricing. God means entering the valueless—or rather, the priceless.

“His qualities are priceless. His dealings are priceless. His merchants too are priceless. His stores are priceless.”

Who are his merchants? Those we call saints, siddhas, buddhas—they are his merchants. They have come to sell you something you hesitate to buy. They wish to give you something priceless. But you are not ready. You think what comes free must be worthless. God comes free, so you do not care. If even he had a price tag, then you would care. Buddha, Nanak, Kabir—merchants indeed, but their business is all topsy-turvy, beyond our grasp. They don’t even look like merchants to us.

There is a story. Seeing Nanak idle at home, his father said, “At least do something. Don’t become completely lazy and useless. Be of some use!”

Even Nanak’s father couldn’t see his value. Sometimes others came and told him how precious Nanak was. But the father never believed it. “Valuable? He can’t earn a penny; he only knows how to lose! Valuable—how?” In this world, what is earning in that world appears as losing; what is earning in that world appears here as loss.

So the father said, “If nothing else, take the cattle to graze in the jungle. Surely you can do at least that. It’s the last job even a dullard can do. When people scold their sons they say, ‘If nothing else, you’ll herd cattle.’”

Nanak agreed—but for a different reason. He had always found more peace in the company of animals than of men. Animals at least don’t practice economics; they don’t tally profit and loss. They simply live. So he happily went; he had always liked to sit among cows and buffaloes—no talk of money there, only silence; no egos.

He took them to graze. But with such a man trouble follows. The animals strayed into a neighboring field and devoured the crop. The field’s owner came running, enraged. “You’ve ruined me! You’ll have to pay for every stalk!” Nanak opened his eyes and said, “Don’t be anxious. The cattle are his, he grazed them; the field is his. Don’t worry—a great blessing will shower upon you.”

“Stop your nonsense,” the man shouted. “Blessing? I’m ruined!”

He ran, fetched Nanak’s father, and took him to the village head to demand compensation. The headman, Shah Bular—a Muslim—was a devotee of Nanak. He said, “We should ask Nanak what happened.” Nanak was called.

Nanak said, “Everything is happening by his will, his hukam. All will be well. He sent the animals, he grew the crop, and he who grows once can grow a thousand times. Why panic? I don’t feel any harm has come.”

The man protested, “Come see my field; it’s destroyed.”

They all went. The story says that when they arrived, the field was flourishing; no loss at all. In fact, compared to surrounding fields, this one was abundantly rich—never seen such a crop.

Whether the story happened or not, it carries a great truth: for one who lets go into him, what a harvest life brings! Nanak surrendered, and the harvest in his life was such as rarely comes to any life. But the courage to let go...

The field’s owner could not believe what had happened. The greatest miracle in this world is to surrender to God. Then daily your life is filled with happenings for which no explanations exist, no rational accounting is possible.

This is the meaning of the story: for those who surrender, every moment events arise that the intellect cannot solve—mysteries, riddles.

Why? Because when the immeasurable enters your life, the riddles begin. Mystery simply means you have lifted your eyes from the measured to the immeasurable. You have shifted from the finite to the infinite. You have loosened your hold on the known, and the Unknown has entered your life. Give the Unknown a little space and miracles begin to ripen.

Nanak is a merchant of another world—and we have always mistreated such merchants. We crucified Jesus. We made Socrates drink poison. And even when we didn’t give poison or a cross, we still didn’t listen to the merchants of that other world. Even when we worshiped them, we did not listen. Our worship is a device to escape. We say, “You are very great. How could we ever reach you? We offer flowers at your feet—but we will remain as we are.”

And after worship we remain as we are. Your worship is false if you remain the same. There is only one touchstone of true worship: that it transforms you. If you truly revere Nanak, you will not be the same person afterward. If you honor Nanak yet remain unchanged, your honor is false—another trick to avoid. “Yes, we agree you are right. But it isn’t our time yet. When our time comes, we too will walk this path. For now there is much worldly business to finish. What’s the hurry? Tomorrow.”

We postpone. Our reverence is very clever. Beware—reverence is a more cunning trick. Giving poison is straightforward: “We want to be rid of this man.” So the Greeks gave Socrates poison; the Jews crucified Jesus. India is more cunning—the oldest race; more crafty. We did not crucify Buddha, Nanak, Mahavira, Krishna. We worshiped them.

And note: the Jews, having crucified Jesus, are still not free of him. He haunts them, because when you crucify, guilt is born in you—and guilt keeps the memory alive. They will never be free of Jesus.

We rid ourselves in advance. No one haunts us. We are very shrewd: we assigned days to remember: “On your birthday, we will remember you. The rest of the time, please bless us—let us mind our business. We are not yet interested in the commerce of that other world.” India is clever. So we never built gallows—we know simpler ways to get free. Why make such a fuss? A cross means we took you very seriously.

We will worship you—that’s the simplest, most nonviolent way of getting rid of you. We’ll call you God, Guru, saint, siddha—but let us remain “us.” You stay on the temple altar, we will stay in the world. When we need something worldly, we will ask you. We will use you, but we will not change because of you.

This is a cleverer, craftier race. Old races become cunning—their long experience teaches them the art of escape. Why go to the trouble of buying poison and erecting crosses? Seat them on the altar—we are free. We turned all those merchants who brought tidings of the other world into objects of worship—and thus settled the affair. “We are the devotees; you are the gods. We are the priests; you are the adored.” Case closed.

The real matter is to become Nanak—not to worship Nanak. The real matter is not offering flowers to the Guru Granth, but becoming the Guru Granth—so that your words vibrate with the sound of that One Omkar. For that you must pass through transformation.

“His merchants too are priceless.”

This is why we do not recognize them. What they say does not fit our logic, does not agree with our understanding—so we build a wall between us and them. We compartmentalize ourselves within.

When you are in the gurdwara you are one kind of person; when you sit at your shop you are another. In the temple your mood is different—tears in your eyes, overflowing. Watch yourself praying in the mosque, then see yourself in the market—you won’t believe you are the same man. It seems two different persons. Another clever strategy of escape.

We’ve made a separate corner for religion—our Sunday corner. We go to church in the morning, and as we step out we leave that corner behind. For seven days we don’t even glance at it—as if religion had to do only with our being in church! And the rest of life? We live by our own rules. In church, gurdwara, temple, we hear the talk of those merchants—but even that we don’t really hear; it’s a social ritual.

Nanak says, “His merchants are priceless.”

If you want to move toward him, try to understand his merchants—and you will find them inexhaustible as well. You will not be able to measure them. Your intellect will tire there; your measures will fail. However you try to weigh them, you will find they exceed your weighing.

“Priceless is he who comes to receive; priceless, what he carries away.”

There the whole commerce is of the priceless—the boundless, the immeasurable. The customer who comes is priceless. What he takes away is priceless. The sale is only of the One—Ek Omkar Satnam.

“Priceless is his feeling; priceless, his samadhi.”

If his feeling is even born in you, you have entered the other world. You are no longer here. If his feeling arises in you, you have gone elsewhere.

In Ramakrishna’s presence, if anyone mentioned God’s name, he would freeze where he stood; eyes would close, tears stream, the body turn rigid—he would be gone, not here. Just remembrance! and a new dimension would open within; instantly another world opened, this world closed, its doors shut, and a new realm’s gate swung wide.

Nanak says: his feeling—mere remembrance, a trace of memory—and you are elsewhere. When the feeling becomes complete, we call it samadhi.

Understand the difference between feeling and samadhi. Feeling is a glimpse, a wave. For a moment you are immersed, but you remain. You took a dip, but you did not dissolve—like one who plunges into water. How long can one stay under? Soon he rises. Even while under, he still is.

There was a siddha near Nanak’s time, Sheikh Farid. One day on the way to bathe in the river, a devotee asked, “How is God found?” Farid said, “Come with me. On the bank I’ll tell you. Better still, if the chance comes, I’ll tell you in the water.”

The devotee was unnerved. “I asked about God—and he says he may tell me while bathing if the moment comes!” He was afraid, but having asked, he was caught; he couldn’t refuse. Curiosity gnawed—perhaps he would show something in the river. He entered the water.

As soon as he dipped, Farid climbed on his back and shoved him under. The devotee thrashed and flailed with all his might. He was slender; Farid was strong. With great effort he managed to throw Farid off and burst out, gasping: “I took you for a saint—you seem a murderer! Is this any way? Are you mad or sane? If you didn’t know, you should have said so.”

Farid replied, “We’ll sort out later who is mad and who is sane. For now I ask—because the moment will pass and you’ll forget; your memory is weak—tell me, when I held you under, how many thoughts were in your mind?”

“Thoughts? Are you crazy? Only one feeling: somehow get out and take a breath. Thoughts? No—just one feeling to reach air and live!”

Farid said, “Then you’ve understood. The day there is no other thought and there is only one feeling for God, that day you will know. Until your very life is at stake, God remains hard to find.”

Feeling means the mind is empty of thoughts and there is only his remembrance—but you still are; soon you rise out of the water. Samadhi is feeling brought to completion—you have gone to the point of no return. You do not come back. The feeling remains forever; you have become one with it. It is no dip, it is immersion—you become water itself. Who will now go out or in? Like a puppet of salt that melts in the sea and disappears. Like a lump of sugar that dissolves in water; now whoever tastes the water tastes you—but you are no longer separate. In feeling, you remain separate—there is a fleeting glimpse. In samadhi you become one—the glimpse becomes eternal.

Nanak says: even his feeling is priceless. What then of samadhi!

Priceless is the feeling; priceless, the absorption.

“His dharma is priceless; his court is priceless. Priceless the scales; priceless the seal of approval. Priceless his gift; priceless his emblem.”

Understand this. Even his emblem is priceless. Yet symbols are tricky. Hindus discovered thousands of symbols—made images, built pilgrim places—all symbols. The Muslim cannot understand what is in an image; he breaks it, and feels justified: “If this idol cannot protect itself, how will it protect its devotees?”

Dayananda had a similar experience. He was a worshiper. One night he saw a mouse climbing on the idol; the idol couldn’t chase it away! But the Muslim and Dayananda both missed. A symbol is a symbol; it is not God.

A symbol means it accompanies you on a journey; it is not the destination. Suppose your beloved has gifted you a handkerchief worth a few coins. In the market, no one would buy it; it’s old. But to you it is priceless. You keep it well, lest it be lost. For you it is not just a handkerchief; it is a symbol—your connection to your beloved. No one else will understand. To others it is only a handkerchief; to you it is not. In a deep sense your beloved is present in it—the cloth has touched her breath, felt her hands; she kissed it and gifted it; perhaps she stitched a few patterns with her own hands. In a deep way she has entered the kerchief. For someone else it is just cloth; for you it is not.

What is the difference? For you it is a symbol. For others, a handkerchief.

A Hindu’s image is a symbol for him—if he has preserved the feeling. For the Muslim it is stone. To the Jain, a Jain image is a symbol; for the Hindu it is just stone. Buddha’s statue is a symbol for the Buddhist; for the Jain it has no value. The value of a symbol depends on feeling. A symbol has no public value; it is private. Those who know, know. Those who are connected, are connected.

So never, even by mistake, speak against someone’s symbol. What is ordinary for you may be extraordinary for another—and both are right.

You may be right: “It is just a handkerchief—why clasp it to your chest? If it’s lost, what fear? We’ll buy you a thousand; they’re in the market.” But the one for whom it is a symbol is also right: “This one cannot be replaced. This handkerchief will never come again.” That uniqueness is a private event.

Nanak says, “His symbols too are priceless.”

He is priceless, of course, but if through some symbol you have had a glimpse of him, that symbol too is priceless. Respect every symbol, for who knows who might find a way through it? Never label a symbol right or wrong—they are not right or wrong. For some, they are; for others, not. The question of correctness does not arise.

Curiously, Muslims see all images as useless—but what of the Black Stone at Kaaba? They kiss it. No stone in the world has received so many kisses. That stone is saturated with kisses. Every inch has been kissed by countless lips over fourteen hundred years. For the Muslim, that stone is kissable; the Hindu’s image is to be broken—because the stone of Kaaba is his symbol and the Hindu image is not.

A religious person should understand: what is not a symbol for me may be for another. A symbol is a private event; there is no way to prove it publicly. It is a matter of feeling—inner, deep, subtle. Bringing it out, it is lost.

For someone, a peepal tree may be a symbol. Don’t tell him, “Are you worshipping a tree? Have you gone mad?” The question is not whom you worship; the question is worship itself—by whatever excuse. All excuses are right, and all are wrong. If you think like a scientist, a peepal is a peepal, a stone is a stone, a kerchief is a kerchief. But science has no place here. Religion is the realm of love, not logic.

Yet the amusing thing is: everyone cherishes his own symbol, and finds fault with another’s. You guard your beloved’s kerchief; let others guard theirs. Those are their beloveds’ tokens.

Nanak says: even a symbol—through which a hint appears.

Suppose someone, only before the peepal’s deity, feels delight and falls into samadhi, and begins to dance in ecstasy—then the tree is not the point; the point is the dance. Wherever the dance of delight happens, by whatever excuse—there is the priceless.

“Priceless his grace. Priceless his symbol. Priceless his compassion. Priceless his command. More priceless than endless praisings can express. In praising him, many slip into meditation.”

Understand this. Nanak keeps saying he cannot be described, no way to praise him—and yet he goes on praising. What then is Nanak doing? If he cannot be described, what are all these words?

Many ask me, “Buddha says the ultimate cannot be said—then why does Buddha speak?” They tell me, “You say it cannot be said, yet you speak every day! It seems inconsistent.”

Understand this. Nanak says he cannot be praised—and yet he praises. Because in praising, samadhi happens. The praise does not describe him; yet speaking of him is so sweet that, though nothing is said in the end—the unsaid remains unsaid—still, in speaking of him, meditation arises. Talking, talking—nothing is said; but talking, the talker is lost.

“In praising him, how many become absorbed! The Vedas describe him. The Puranas recite him. The learned describe and extol him. Indra and Brahma describe him. Gopis and Govind describe him. Vishnu and siddhas describe him. Innumerable buddhas describe him. Demons and gods describe him. Angels, men, sages, servants—describe him.”

The description is not for the sake of description; it is a method of meditation. Speaking of him is a device to be lost in him. Where his talk is happening, sit and listen—perhaps a drop or two will rain into you as well. Perhaps something will fall on your parched throat; perhaps, unexpectedly, something will be heard; perhaps a word will pierce your deafness; perhaps your blind eyes will fill with a hint of light; perhaps your mental chatter will be drowned for a while in the song, the color, the music of his praise. Maybe, for a little while, you will fall silent. Your internal dialogue may break.

That is why Nanak sings his songs—because singing, the singer can be lost, and the listener too. So Nanak did not “say,” he sang. Because in song it is easier. And he used music, so your inner note might be tuned; for a moment, to the beat, you might touch that deep silence for an instant—and once its taste is known, it is never forgotten.

Thus Nanak values sangat—the company of the holy—where his talk is alive. Sit where his name is being sung. Simply passing through a garden, unknowingly your clothes catch a little fragrance of flowers. If you stand by the morning sun, its warm new rays stir your blood. If at night you lie on the earth and gaze at the moon, a little of its coolness finds a path within. Sangat means where his praise resounds.

Hindus have said: where he is maligned, close your ears; where he is discussed, make your entire being an ear—become just listening.

Hence Nanak says again and again, “Listen.” He sings his praise, but keeps reminding: don’t fall into the illusion that by saying, you have measured him. Words point; they do not measure. What is said does not exhaust him. It begins; it does not end. So he praises—and says he cannot be praised.

“The Vedas describe him. The shastras describe him.”

And he says something wondrous:

“Gopi and Govind describe him too.”

Gopi and Govind do not speak; they dance—but in that dance, it is he who is being described. In that dance, his news spreads. Gopi and Govind do not discuss; they dance. Under the moon, the rasa unfolds—Govind dancing with the gopis. Nanak says: that too is his praise.

The modes differ. Some dance it, some sing it, some say it in silence, some say it in speech. But all are his description. One who has known him—whatever he does—each act, each gesture, speaks of him. If Buddha raises a hand, it points to him. If Buddha opens his eyes, they point to him. If Buddha is silent, he speaks of him; if he speaks, he speaks of him.

Each has his own way. Buddha cannot dance; it is not in his being—it would not suit him. He would look out of tune in a dance. He looks beautiful under the bodhi-tree, seated as he is—that is his dance. He does not tremble—no vibrations. Still, like stone.

Because of Buddha’s statues, in Arabic and related tongues the word for “idol” became “but,” a corruption of “Buddha.” Buddha is so statue-like that even living he looked carved in marble. That is why millions of marble images were made—his manner of being was such—utterly silent, without tremor. Dance is unthinkable; he sits as if stone. Marble best recalls him—cool, still. That is his way—and thus he speaks.

Krishna dances—the very opposite of Buddha. You cannot imagine Buddha with peacock plume; it would be theatrical, unfitting. But seat Krishna like Buddha and he too looks theatrical, false. Krishna’s being is different; the peacock-plumed dancer among the gopis is his element.

Nanak says: in the dance of Gopi and Govind, it is he who is praised.

A lovely insight of Nanak’s: it is always he who is being spoken—through thousands of ways. The awakened have said it in countless styles. The signals are many; the One to whom they point is one—Ek Omkar Satnam.

“Brahma and Indra describe him. Vishnu and siddhas describe him. Innumerable buddhas describe him. Many manage to describe—and many, praising, pass away. He has done so much; he will do more. No one can reckon it. Whatever he wills, so it happens.”

These words are worth contemplating.

He has done all this, and will do more.
No one can say how much.
As great as his will, so is what happens.
Nanak says, only the True One knows.

He cannot be described also because God is not a finished event. If something is finished, it can be described. But how to describe what is ongoing?

If you are to write a man’s life story, you must wait until he dies. Only after death can you complete the biography, otherwise it is unfinished. More chapters remain.

How write the life of God? He never dies; he never completes. There is no final chapter, no “The End,” no iti shri. He is ever-becoming, eternal expression. The flower keeps opening; its petals never reach a point where we can say, “Now it is fully open.” It has been blooming forever and will bloom forever.

Because of this capacity to be infinite, every description is partial. The clothes are always too small; he keeps growing. Hence all images and descriptions grow old. New religions arise; new awakened ones sing again. For a while their song fits, but soon the clothes are tight again. We always need awakened ones to keep singing his song. And every new song fits only briefly—even while we sing it, it lags behind; our singing is small, his becoming is vast.

Look at five thousand years of religious history: God’s “face” keeps changing. Not that God changes; our descriptions come up short. We cut and trim and revise—and by the time we do, he has moved on. Everything remains incomplete.

Hindus are astonishing; they even made images without features. Elsewhere, idols have faces. A Hindu will pick up a stone, smear it with vermilion—Hanumanji! No nose, no features—because the Hindu says, “Why carve features? By the time we finish, he’ll have moved beyond. This stone will do.”

Shiva’s emblem, the shivalinga, has no features; it is oval—an eternal symbol. It will always apply; whatever God becomes, it will not matter. But whatever description we make will be dated before we finish.

Nanak says:

He has done so much, and will do more.

Had he been complete, we might have tallied something. But he goes on happening. What will happen—no one can predict. God is unforecastable. We cannot prophesy what he will become, what shape the world will take. All is hidden in the Unknown.

“Whatever he wills, so it happens.”

His feeling—and the event occurs. Jews and Christians say: God said, “Let it be,” and the world was.

Between our will and act there is a gap, because our power is limited. You want to build a house; today the wish arises, two years later the house stands. If you had more power, perhaps one year; more still, a day. If the power is absolute—as God’s—there is no time between will and deed.

Hence time exists for us, not for God. Time is a human affair. For God there is no time, because time is born out of our weakness. The weaker you are, the longer time feels. Your wife is burning with fever; you rush, fetch medicine in five minutes, but she says, “You took so long.” In fever, time lengthens.

Science confirms: fever lengthens subjective time; illness makes time drag. Sit by a dying man a night—it feels endless. When you are healthy, time shortens; when joyful, brief; in sorrow, long. Time depends on our energy.

God is omnipotent—no time for him. His will is the act. Thus Nanak says:

As great as his will, so is what happens.

The moment he wills, it happens—no delay; simultaneous. The will itself is the deed.

Nanak says, “Whoever knows this—that one is true.”

This can be read two ways:

“As great as his will, so is what happens. Nanak says, only the True One knows.”

One meaning: whoever realizes God’s omnipotence becomes true—he is the truth. The other: only the True One knows himself; we cannot know him—for we know neither his future nor his past, and he will never be complete. He moves from fullness to fuller fullness, not from lack to fullness.

So either: only he knows; our guesses are guesses. Or: whoever experiences his omnipotence becomes true.

“But if anyone claims to have described him, write him down as the most ignorant of the ignorant.”

Whoever says, “I have spoken it, I have told it,” his name should be written at the top of the list of fools.

Nanak praises because praising is delicious. Praise drowns you. Praise is meditation. In speaking of his feeling, the heart opens; joy flows. But if someone thinks he can “describe” him—he is a fool.

The wise one knows he cannot be described—yet he describes, for his name is sweet. He speaks only of him—because in speaking, his door opens; praise is a knock upon his gate.

Have you noticed? When a woman’s first child is born, she talks only of the child. To neighbors, to guests—repeating the same things.

A lover too repeats to his beloved: “I love you.” Again and again: “None is as beautiful as you. You are unique, unmatched. None like you has ever been. I am blessed.” Neither does the beloved tire of this “repetition,” nor does the lover feel it is repetitious. Repeating deepens love; like a bee circling a flower, humming.

What happens in ordinary love happens in divine love—on a vast scale. The measure changes; the movement is the same.

So Nanak keeps saying. If you are not a lover, you will be puzzled: “Why drag this on? Japji could be said in three words: ‘Ek Omkar Satnam.’ Why repeat it?” But he is savoring it; and if feeling is born in you, you too will find this repetition utterly sweet.

A mother overheard her son’s bedtime prayer. He said one word and burrowed under the blanket. She went in: “Finished already?” “Why say the same thing every day? I just say, ‘Ditto!’ What I said yesterday—same today. Surely God is smart enough to understand.”

The mind wants to say “ditto”—why repeat? But the heart knows no “ditto.” The heart repeats—and in repeating, it becomes honeyed; the more it repeats, the deeper it sinks. This is the bee’s hum.

And this humming is precious. But only if there is feeling will you understand.

So Nanak ends by warning again: do not fall into the conceit that he can be described. If that conceit arises, you are the fool of fools. If, in describing, your ego drops—you are the wisest of the wise. But if, in praising, ego arises—“I have described; I have said what none could say”—then you are the fool of fools.

Enough for today.