Ek Omkar Satnam #13

There is a Sufi story. An emperor became angry with his vizier and imprisoned him in a tower that scraped the sky. There was no way to escape by jumping; a leap would have meant death. But as the vizier was being taken away, he whispered something into his wife’s ear.

That very night, his wife came close to the tower. She placed a tiny, ordinary insect on the wall and smeared a little honey on its whiskers. The insect caught the scent. To get the honey, it began to climb upwards toward the tower. The honey was right on its whiskers, so the fragrance kept drawing it on—and in its search for honey it kept crawling up. Tied to the insect’s tail was the thinnest silk thread. Crawling and crawling, the insect reached the top of that three-hundred-foot tower where the vizier was waiting. He picked up the insect; with it came the fine silk thread. He tied a slightly thicker twine to the silk, then a stout rope to the twine, and, holding the rope, he climbed down to freedom.

The story says the vizier not only freed himself from that prison, he also discovered, in the very method of his escape, the key to liberation from life’s final captivity.

If even a slender thread falls into your hands, nothing can obstruct your release. The thinnest thread can become a path to freedom—provided you catch hold of it. If even a small ray is recognized, by that very ray you can reach the sun.

All religions, all masters, have taken hold of some slender thread and reached the Divine. The threads can be many; many kinds of “insects” can bear a thread. It isn’t necessary that honey be applied to an insect’s whiskers; something else may do. These are secondary matters. The real thing is that the thread reach the prisoner. That very thread becomes a bridge to liberation.

The thread Nanak grasped is very clean and utterly clear. But since we are blind and deaf, we have not heard it.

If you look closely at life, the most manifest thing in existence is song. Even now the birds are singing. As soon as morning breaks, the birds’ music begins. Gusts of wind strike the trees and sing. Waterfalls descend from the mountains and a tone is born. Clouds gather in the sky and a tumultuous proclamation resounds. Rivers flow. The sea’s waves crash against the shore. If you look and listen all around, you will find the whole of existence singing.

Nothing in existence is clearer than song. Only when life falls silent—when it dies—does the singing cease. Only when someone dies does sound vanish. Otherwise, life is sound. But man is deaf. So even with a clean thread right in his hand, he fails to grasp it.

If life is so full of song, then the hand of God must be behind this music. And God is hidden somewhere within it. If we too can sing, if we too can dissolve into this song, the thread will fall into our hands. To be absorbed in song is the thread. Then it is not long from the prison of this world to the liberation of the Divine.

Nanak made song the vehicle of his sadhana. You too, whenever you sing, begin to catch a certain ecstasy, a certain intoxication. But people have grown afraid of singing. No bird worries whether its voice is sweet or not; man has become terribly fearful. Only a few dare sing—those with very sweet voices. The rest, at most, hum a little in the bathroom, and even there, timidly. They hum in the bathroom because no one is watching, no one is listening. And remember, even a bath won’t refresh you as much as humming will. A bath touches only the body from the outside; humming sinks within. Whoever does not know how to hum has severed all ties with God. He is far from existence; living, he is a corpse.

Kabir said, “These are villages of the dead.”

He said this of our villages: villages of the dead. The song of life does not resound here. No one dances in wonder, no one sings from a fulfilled heart, no one loses himself in his own song.

The question is not whether the note is sweet or not—because song is not for sale in the marketplace. Song is for wonder. The true meaning of song is not its sweetness but your absorption in it. You can be absorbed. You can be so absorbed you utterly disappear. You remain not, only the song remains. The humming remains and the doer is lost. Only the song remains and the singer dissolves. This can happen—and it’s the simplest thing. You will not find a simpler thread. Birds can sing, plants hum, streams sing. Are you so incapable that you cannot even match streams? Cannot even match birds? Cannot even vie with trees?

But you have become afraid. And you have put song up for sale in the market. You sell it. Then an odd thing happens: when song is for sale, not everyone can sing. Song is no longer a natural act of life; it has become a commodity. Then you start wondering whether your voice is adequate—whether you have had training—whether you have learned music.

No bird goes to learn music. No stream goes to learn music. Music is life’s spontaneous river. There is no question of learning. It is unlearned, already there. Only a little courage is needed. The courage to be a little mad—and music will burst forth. And if birds don’t go to universities, why should you? Birds don’t care what anyone says, whether their song will sell in the market. Birds sing from delight.

Because we sell song, slowly another misfortune befalls us: we can no longer sing; we can only listen. Passivity is born. Someone sings and we listen; someone dances and we watch. Consider it—what poverty! A day may come when someone is happy and we will merely watch.

Do you see the difference? Someone is happy and you watch—and you are happy—can’t you see the gap? Someone loves and you watch—and you love—can’t you grasp the distinction? Will anyone ever know love by watching it? Love can only be known by loving.

Another may sing with a cuckoo’s throat, a great musician—but by listening you will not know music. That is borrowed. Someone else sings and you sit like a corpse, listening. This will not connect you to music. To enter music, you must be active. Only by dancing can dance be known; watching will not do. Watching is a substitute, a supplement; it is false, not authentic.

And slowly, slowly, we have left everything to others. Others do; you watch. Someone plays; millions watch. Someone dances; thousands watch. Someone sings; thousands listen. You neither sing nor play nor dance. What is the point of your being alive? Why live at all? The specialists will do everything!

And the amusing thing is that the watcher attains nothing—and the performer doesn’t either, because his eyes are on the money. His dance is not of the soul; it is a display of outer skill. It has no purpose. He is not truly dancing. The dance does not sink deep enough within him for him to be lost in it, for his gaze is fixed on the reward.

It happened that Akbar asked Tansen, “I want to meet your master. For when you left last night after singing, I felt that no singer has ever been greater than you—nor will there be. You are the ultimate, the last. But as I was thinking this, it occurred to me that you must have learned from someone. You must have a guru. A curiosity arose in me—who knows, perhaps your master is beyond you. I wish to meet him. I wish to hear him.”

Tansen said, “That is a little difficult. My master is alive. Hearing him may be possible, but it is hard. He cannot be summoned to court. He does not sing upon request. His singing is like the birds’. Beg the cuckoo as you like to sing—because of your entreaty, even if she was singing, she may fall silent: ‘What is this?’ He can be heard only when he sings. If you want to hear him, we will have to go to his hut. And even then, we will have to listen from hiding. For if we appear, he may stop. I will find out when he sings these days. When he sings, we will hide and listen.”

They learned he rises at three in the morning. He was a fakir—his name, Haridas. He rises at three. His hut is on the bank of the Yamuna. There he sings in his hut, singing in his own ecstasy—song like the birds’. That song has nothing to do with anyone.

Akbar and Tansen arrived at two in the night and hid near the hut. At three the music began. Akbar stood like a statue, stunned. Tears streamed from his eyes. On the way back in the chariot he could not speak to Tansen at all—he was so overwhelmed, he even forgot Tansen. As he entered the palace he said only this: “Until today I thought you had no equal. Today I think, before your master you are nothing. Tell me why there is so much difference.”

Tansen said, “Do you really need to ask? I sing for you; my master sings for God. And when I sing, my eyes are on the prize: what will I get? I sing so that I may receive. My singing is a profession. My master does not sing to get anything. The situation is precisely the reverse. My master sings only when he has received. When he is so filled with the feeling of God, when he has received something, when his throat brims, when waves rise in his heart, when he is overflowing with His gift—then he flows. When he has received, then he sings. Singing is his shadow. Receiving comes first; song follows. I sing first and hope to receive later; my eyes are on the fruits of action—therefore I am petty. You are right. How can I be compared with my master? However skillful I become, however trained my hands, however accomplished my throat—still the soul will not enter. I will remain a specialist, and my master is no specialist at all. His song is the song of a bird.”

Those you listen to—most of their singing is a business. The listener sits empty, idle, passive. The singer is a businessman. You have drifted far away from the Divine Song. The one who displays love on the screen—love is his trade. Whatever he does in that love is acting; and the watcher sits passive, strapped to his chair.

Life’s truths are known through activity. You must enter them. If someone else swims, how will you taste the joy of swimming? Think a little. If mere watching gives so much pleasure, how much more joy must there be in becoming! Sing, dance; forget the whole world. It is only the memory of it that keeps you from singing and dancing. Then you stand at the door of God.

Nanak says this in exquisitely sweet words. He says—

So dar keha, so ghar keha jit bahi sarab samale?
Where is that Door, where is that House, where You sit and care for all? Where shall I seek the Door of Your House within which, hidden, You sustain everything? And he answers—

Baje nad anek asankha, kete vavan hare.
Kete rag pari siu kahi-an, kete gavan hare.
Countless tones resound; numberless are the players. Endless are the ragas and ragini-s; countless are the singers.

Where is that Door, where is that House where You sit and care for all?

This is the question. And he answers—

Countless tones resound; numberless are the players.

Nanak is saying: nad—sound—is Your Door. Hidden in the nad, You hold the whole world together. Omkar is Your Door. Hidden in it, You sustain all. And if even one link of the song comes into your hand, holding that thread you can reach the Gate of God. When nad resounds within you, when you are absorbed in nad, in that very moment you will find yourself before the Door.

So dar keha, so ghar keha jit bahi sarab samale?
Baje nad anek asankha, kete vavan hare.
Kete rag pari siu kahi-an, kete gavan hare.

How many ragas, how many raginis, how many tones, how many singers! This is His Door. From morning to evening, evening to morning, countless melodies are playing.

Begin to recognize those melodies in life. All human music is born of the ragas of existence. All instruments are fashioned in imitation of existence. Birds sing, streams sing, winds sing, clouds thunder—the nad in man arose from all these. From this arose the ragas and raginis. From this all instruments were made.

Try to recognize the melody in existence. On waking, let your first awareness fall upon the sounds all around. And if you begin to hear them, you will find they keep sounding for you all day long—because they are always there. Only you are deaf.

Sit in the silence of night and listen to the silence. The sound of silence is very close to Omkar. Whenever Omkar resounds within you, at first you will hear the sound of silence. A soft sibilant hum—like crickets chirping in the utterly quiet night—will begin to be heard in you, twenty-four hours a day. In the marketplace, at the shop, in the office—you will find that hum goes on sounding. For it is sounding. The market’s noise only drowns it; it does not cease. The uproar hides it; it does not end. Once it falls into your hands, you will recognize it at any time. And as your grip grows surer and recognition clearer, you will discover that day and night there is a fair of ragas and raginis at His Door.

Remember: whoever has known Him has called Him sat-chit-anand—truth, consciousness, bliss. Whenever anyone overflows with joy, he overflows with song. Song and bliss are very near—very intimate. No one sings in sorrow, except in the movies! In sorrow one weeps, one does not sing. Tears flow in sorrow, not songs. When someone is delighted—blissful—he sings. And even if tears flow then, those tears have song in them. In the moment of joy, whatever you do will have a note of song; a hint of melody will be there. There will be song in your rising and sitting. There will be song in your walking and moving. There will be song in your breathing in and out. There will be nad in the beating of your heart. As you come closer to joy, you come closer to song. Surely song is His Door—for within is supreme bliss.

There comes a moment when even song ceases—for song is the Door. When you enter within the Door, even song is lost. There comes a moment when even song feels like a hindrance. Then only His Song moves; yours disappears. Infinite sounds resonate in you; you have no sound of your own. You become an empty house.

We built temples in such a way that sound would echo. The architecture was designed for resonance—to convey a message: first, the temple is empty; we keep nothing in it. It must be empty, symbol of our ultimate inner emptiness, where we will be utterly vacant and where nad will resound. At the door of the temple we hung a bell. Whoever comes should first ring the bell—for at the Door there is nad.

These are all symbols of that Supreme Door. No one should enter a temple without ringing the bell—for entrance is through nad. And the beauty of a bell is, once you strike it, it keeps resonating. As you enter through the Door, the bell’s nad still resounds. Entrance is arranged through that nad. Without ringing, do not enter—for it is in that very nad that you will enter the Divine as well.

The temple is the house of God—a symbol of His house. There, you will not need to ring; the nad is already sounding. But even in the symbol, we made the arrangement. And when you return from the temple, ring the bell again—return within the echoing nad. Worship and prayer begin with the bell’s tone.

Nanak says: countless tones are sounding; numberless are the players.

He is not describing something far away; he stands at the Door. Hence the directness of his words.

Where is that Door, where is that House, where You sit and care for all? Countless tones are sounding, numberless are the players.

As if all this stands before Nanak’s eyes.

Countless singers, endless ragas and raginis—wind, water, fire sing Your praise. Even Dharmaraj sits at Your gate and sings.

Understand a little. Dharmaraj’s task is to discern dharma and adharma—right and wrong. Dharmaraj means the pinnacle of law, the deity of righteousness. What is auspicious, what inauspicious—that fine discrimination is his work. Nanak says: I even see him sitting at Your gate, singing.

For there can be no one more serious than Dharmaraj. He measures, inch by inch: what is right, what is wrong; what to do, what not to do; what is worthy, what is unworthy—and yet, I see even him singing in ecstasy at Your Door. Chitragupta sings too, whose entire work is to record sin and virtue. One who keeps accounts of merit and demerit—how will he sing?

Look at a courtroom—how does the magistrate sit? These are little Chitraguptas—stiff-backed. Even his clothes are designed to announce seriousness—black—signs of gravity, of death. The old arrangement demanded that when a magistrate sits in court, he should wear a white wig—black clothes, white hair, a wig—all false. And a grave face—he must not laugh. Laughter in court is contempt; one can be punished for it. What place for song there? And Chitragupta is the last court.

Nanak says: I see even Chitragupta singing—as if all seriousness dissolves at Your Door. Your Door is a Door of celebration.

Understand this, lest you become so serious, weighing sin and virtue, that you wither. Whoever becomes serious—loses. Do not shrivel up, do not dry out, in the tangle of what is right and what is wrong. For at His Door, the withered, the inert, the grave have no entry. Gloom has no entry there. Only those who dance may move there. Only those who sing may gain entrance. Hence it often happens that your so-called sadhus remain forever far. They have become hyper-serious.

Understand: seriousness is always part of the ego. A serious man cannot be egoless. The serious man will be egotistical; the egotistical will be stiff. There will be no childlike simplicity.

And Nanak’s very name was Nirankari—egoless. Maradana is ever ready to strike the strings, and Nanak does not speak—he sings. Ask him the most serious question, his answer is joy. Ask him the deepest question, his answer is celebration. He answers by singing. Maradana touches the strings—and Nanak begins to sing. He chose this method for a very particular reason: for at His Door instruments are playing, nad is sounding.

Celebration is the mark of the religious man. But generally, when you look at a “religious” person, you find the very opposite of celebration—stiffness. You will not see song in his eyes, for in his eyes is condemnation. Brooding over good and evil, he has gone numb. He is dying in this thinking—who has time for song? Should I eat this or not? Shall I rise at this hour or not? Wear these clothes or not? His life is shackled, twenty-four hours a day, in the rigidity of imposed discipline.

Certainly celebration has a discipline—but not one imposed from outside. Celebration has a discipline that arises from within—an inner discipline. Gloom also has a discipline—but it is imposed. Whatever is within, you sit with a grave face. You make the body corpse-like. These are not the marks of a religious person; they are the marks of the terribly frightened. He is so scared he cannot even laugh. If he laughs, he fears he will fall into sin. Laughter has become sin. Gloom and a long face have become signs of virtue.

In Nanak’s way there is celebration, there is music. And holding this thread of celebration, anyone can enter His Door.

He says: in samadhi the siddhas sit and sing; in meditation the sadhus sing. The renunciates, the chaste, the contented, the great warriors sing. Pandits, scholars, the rishis and their Vedas sing of You through the ages. The enchanting apsaras of heaven sing Your praise—and the fish in the netherworlds sing Your song. From heaven to the netherworlds there is no other tune but Yours. The fourteen jewels You produced sing; the sixty-eight sacred places sing; heroes, strongmen, champions sing. Beings of the four species sing. The continents, spheres, and universes You created and uphold—these too sing Your song. Those who are dear to You, who are in love with You—such rasik devotees sing Your glory.

Nanak never tires of saying that your song pervades all. From every side, existence is a celebration. God is laughing, not weeping. Weeping faces do not please Him. What has existence to do with gloom? To be gloomy means you have slipped out of tune with existence, fallen against God.

Whenever gloom descends upon your life, know you have taken a wrong step. When you overflow with sorrow, know you have gone astray. Sorrow is only an indicator. Do not make sorrow your manner of living. Do not make sorrow your style. Do not become a self-tormentor. That is a disease. Psychologists have a name for it: masochism. There are those who suffer from the disease of inflicting pain upon themselves.

There was a writer named Masoch—from whose name the term masochism is derived. He used to beat himself with whips, prick himself with thorns, draw blood. He kept wounds on his hands and feet. He fixed nails inside his shoes; when he walked, they pressed into his sores.

You will find such masochists everywhere. In Kashi you will find them lying on thorns. They are self-tormentors—sick people. You will find them fasting, rotting away. In monasteries and temples, such pathological people sit—and people worship them too.

Why? Because there is another sickness—what psychologists call sadism. Some people take pleasure in seeing others in pain. These two illnesses fit together nicely. There are people who like to inflict pain, and people who enjoy seeing others suffer. So beware: when you honor someone who is sad and self-tormenting, you too are sick. He is sick with one disease; you are sick with the other. But the two pathologies match. Hence around these wicked ones who torture themselves, you will find another fraternity of wicked ones who enjoy seeing them tortured. They say, “Ah! What austerity! Blessed are you, lying on thorns!” Thus they flatter the ascetic’s ego and encourage him.

Remember: never offer support when you see someone in pain. To support another in pain is a sin—it is equivalent to causing pain. It is a subtle trick. If I stab a dagger into your chest, it is a sin. If you stab yourself and I say, “What sacrifice! You are a martyr,” that too is a sin, for I become a partner in it.

The one lying on thorns is a partner in sin—and so are all those who lay money and flowers at his feet. They encourage him to continue. They tell him, “You are a great saint.”

There are two kinds of pathological people in the world: those who torture themselves and those who torture others. Both are diseased, perverted states of mind. Beware of them.

A healthy person tortures neither others nor himself. A healthy person does not torture at all. The healthier he becomes, the more blissful he becomes. He shares his joy. He is honored always for his joy.

When you see someone dancing, lay flowers at his feet—but you have never done this. Otherwise the ashrams of the world would be different; the monasteries different. There would be celebration there—songs and dances. But there they are filled with the sick, who ought to be in madhouses and need psychotherapy—but there they sit because of you, because you honored them, flattered their egos, inflated them. Have you ever honored a joyous person?

Only yesterday a sannyasin came at dusk and said, “A strange thing is happening: as meditation deepens I feel a great bliss. But along with the feeling of bliss, it seems I am making a mistake, committing a crime—as if I am going down a wrong path. The feeling of joy brings with it this sense.”

This will happen to everyone, for from childhood you have been prepared to be sorrowful, not joyous. If a child sits gloomy in a corner, the parents say, “Very good—our princeling.” But if the child dances, bubbles with joy, the whole house becomes his enemy: “Be quiet! Sit still! What are you doing? Stop that noise!” Whenever the child is joyous, someone arrives to say, “Stop—that’s wrong.” Even eyes say more than words; wherever the child goes he finds that whenever he is happy, somehow he is at fault. When he is sad, everything is fine. Slowly this sinks into the unconscious: to be happy is a mistake; there is some great merit in being unhappy.

So when someone goes deep in meditation, the reverse process begins. For as one moves into meditation, joy, song, and the gate of God draw near; celebration approaches. As celebration approaches, repressed tendencies, others’ eyes, condemnation, the fear of condemnation—stand in the way. They say, “You are becoming happy?” They find a thousand tricks to repress you.

A friend came and said, “Meditation feels fine. But a thought arises: when the whole world is suffering, to make myself happy—is that not selfish?”

He found a very intellectual trick. He is afraid of his own joy. Six months ago he came saying, “I am unhappy—by any means I need joy.” He had no concern with the world then. Now as he draws near joy, as the first crack opens and the first note sounds, he is frightened and quickly closes his mind.

He told me, “I have stopped meditation—it feels like great selfishness.” I said, “Then be miserable! That will be a great service. Weep, beat your chest, torture yourself, kill yourself—that will truly uplift the world!”

How will your misery redeem anyone? Your misery will only add to the world’s misery. If you are unhappy, you increase the amount of suffering in the world. If you are happy, you decrease it. And even one happy person begins to radiate waves that enable others to be happy too.

If in one house a lamp is lit, first the neighbors become aware of their own darkness. And once a lamp is lit, how far is it from a burning lamp to light an unlit one? How much difficulty is there? One lamp can light all the lamps in the world.

But the mind has been conditioned for sorrow. The whole world is divided into two kinds of unhappy people—those who want to be made unhappy, and those who want someone to make unhappy. Religion has nothing to do with either, for neither will ever hear the Song. These are two sides of the same coin of suffering, and suffering has no relationship with God.

You are unhappy when your connection breaks. Illness means your body’s link with nature has broken. Sorrow means your consciousness has fallen out of step with God. When the body moves in tune with nature, there is health. When the soul moves in tune with God, there is bliss.

Nanak says: songs stand at His Door. Song itself is His Door. This whole existence, he says, is filled with His song. You are deaf—so you neither see nor hear. On every leaf, on every flower, that is what is written. With so many colors He has painted—these rainbow colors are His song, His celebration.

Those who delight You, who are in love with You—such rasik devotees sing Your glory.

Nanak’s words are sweet—

Air, water, and fire sing of You; the King of Dharma sings at Your portal.
Chitragupta sings, who records and judges what is written, and Dharma judges again.
Shiva, Brahma, the goddesses sing, ever adorned and beautiful.
Indra sings seated upon his throne; gods sing at Your gates.
Siddhas sing in samadhi; sages sing in contemplation.
Renunciates, the chaste, the contented sing; warriors of mighty valor sing.
Pandits, learned scholars, singers of the Vedas through the ages sing.
Enchantresses who bewitch the mind sing; in heaven and in the netherworlds, the fish sing.
The jewels You created sing; the sixty-eight sacred places sing.
Heroes, men of great strength, champions sing; beings of the four species sing.
The continents, spheres, universes sing—You have created and uphold them all.
Those sing who delight You, dyed in Your love—Your rasik bhaktas.
How many others sing—I cannot bring them to mind, says Nanak; what can this poor one say?

Nanak says: I cannot even estimate how many sing Your praise. What can I think or say? Only He is the true Master, only He is Truth, only His Name is True. He is, and ever will be; He neither departs nor will He depart.

He alone, forever, is the True Master; true is His True Name.
He is, He will be; He does not go nor will He go—He who created this creation.

God alone is the one Truth—and all else is that Truth’s celebration.

Nanak separates out the sting within maya—the flavor of condemnation—and he opens the secret that Shankara could not. Shankara’s difficulty is great. He is a rigorous, logical thinker. His aim is to explain the entire order of the world logically, mathematically. He is in a bind.

Maya and Brahman: on one hand, Shankara says maya does not exist—for what does not exist is called maya: that which appears and is not. Brahman is that which does not appear and yet is. Maya is always changing, like a dream. Brahman is ever true, eternal.

The question before Shankara—and before all Advaita Vedanta—is: how does maya arise? Why should it? If it does not exist at all, then what is there to ask? To say to someone, “Why are you entangled in maya?” is foolish—how can one be entangled in what is not? To say “Drop maya” is nonsense—how can one drop what is not? And how can one grasp what is not? Then maya must be. Only then can one drop it or grasp it.

And if maya is, how could it be without God? It needs a ground to be. Even a dream is because someone is dreaming. So the difficulty is acute: if God Himself creates maya, these great saints telling people to “drop maya” seem to be enemies of God. If God Himself imposes it, how can we drop it? What power do we have? And if it is His will, then His will must be right.

Whence comes maya? If it arises from Brahman, how can that which arises from Truth be untrue? From Truth only truth should arise. Or if maya is untrue, then the Brahman from whom it arises must be untrue as well. They must share one quality—either both true or both untrue.

Shankara cannot untie this knot. Nanak does. What the philosopher cannot solve, the devotee can. For Nanak, maya—this boundless play of forms and colors—is celebration. These countless ragas sounding are the day-and-night nad at His Door. The many colors of butterflies, flowers, trees, leaves—this is His mood of joy. He is appearing in uncountable forms, rejoicing in uncountable ways, blooming in uncountable flowers. This is the outpouring of His supreme energy. So maya and Brahman are not opposites. Maya is celebration—Brahman’s dance, Brahman’s song.

Shankara’s Brahman is dry as dust, for maya is entirely cut away. It is like a mathematical axiom: no raga, no color, no sorrow, no joy—nothing. It is like a zero. How will you love that? It is hard to love Shankara’s Brahman. How can you love a theorem? Two plus two makes four—good, clear—but how to love it? Shankara’s Brahman is mathematical.

Nanak’s Brahman is wholly different. It is not the conception of a mathematician but of a lover of beauty, a poet. Nanak is a poet, not a philosopher. What the philosopher cannot resolve, the poet can; the philosopher must square logic, the poet need not. He can be beyond logic. He can join what refuses to join in logic—in his love, in his devotion.

Remember: for Nanak, maya is His celebration. Hence Nanak never told his disciples, the Sikhs, to renounce the world. Where is there to renounce? What to renounce? That which is His—why flee from it? Nanak said: live in the world and seek Him there, for the world is His. Find your path to Him through the world. Do not run from maya; do not fear it. It is His play.

Only this is certain: do not be lost in the play—remember the Player. Do not be lost in the dance—remember the Dancer. Look at the trees, listen to the birds’ song—but do not be so lost that you forget who is hidden behind the song. Maya is Brahman made manifest. In the manifest, keep seeking the unmanifest. In the visible, keep seeing the invisible.

Nanak says: I cannot even estimate how many sing Your praise. What can I think? He alone is the true Master, the Truth, the True Name. He is, and ever will be. He neither departs nor will He depart. He created this creation.

He who created this creation—
He made things of many colors, kinds, and moods; He brought maya into being.
Making and remaking, He looks upon His creation,
And thus bestows greatness upon what He has made.

Whatever pleases Him, that He does; His Command no one can oppose.

A very wondrous thing Nanak is saying: God creates—and having created, He looks upon His creation.

Like a painter with his painting. If you have seen a painter at work, he paints, then steps back four paces and looks closely; he stands to the left, then to the right; looks from the window, from the door; places the canvas in light, then in shadow. He looks in a thousand ways. The sculptor fashions a form and views it from every angle.

Nanak says: He makes—and keeps looking upon His handiwork. And by thus looking at what He has made, He bestows greatness upon it.

So God is not opposed to the world—why otherwise would He create it? Nor is God the enemy of maya—why otherwise would there be maya? What is a difficulty for logic is not for love. Nanak says: He not only makes, He keeps looking—and bestows honor on what He has made.

Remember: if you understand that God has made you, and keeps viewing you from all sides—keeps looking—and gives you dignity and glory because you are His creation, if you remember this, sin will drop of itself from your life. You will rise and walk in a manner fitting one whom God has made. You will speak and behave in a way fitting one whom God has made—and not only made, but keeps protecting, carefully adorning, repeatedly looking upon, gazing at. God is pleased with you. However far you wander, His eye is on you still. He is not saddened or disappointed in you—otherwise He would erase you at once. However bad you become, the lamp of His hope does not go out. However far you go, even if you turn your back completely and forget Him altogether, still He is watching. He knows that today or tomorrow you will return. Whoever goes far must come back. Return is certain; only sooner or later. For the farther you go, the more miserable you become, the more lost.

Like a little child who runs away from home...

A little boy—no more than four—carrying a tiny bedroll, a bundle, walking up and down on one corner of the road. A policeman asks, “What’s the matter? Where are you going?” He says, “I’m running away from home. But Mother has forbidden me to cross that crossroads or to go to the other side of the road. So I’m running away from home—between the crossroads and home I keep going back and forth. I cannot go that way—Mother forbade it.”

A little child—how far can he run away from home? And even if angry with Mother, how can he cross the limits she set?

How far can you go from God? You will wander only between the crossroads and home. Where can you go? Wherever you go, it is within His boundary. Wherever you are, you are in Him. Your anger is a child’s anger—part of love. God is not angered by your anger.

Nanak says: He makes—

Making and remaking, He looks upon His creation—and bestows greatness upon it.
Whatever pleases Him, that He does; His Command no one can oppose.
He is the King of kings. Nanak says: abide in His will.

Hukam na karna jai.
So patshah, shahan patshahib—Nanak, remain in His raja-i.

Abide in His raja—His pleasure, His command, His hukam. Stay within it. He will not be angry if you step outside—but you will suffer without cause. Suffering is not a punishment given by Him; suffering is the natural result of going against Him. If you try to pass through a wall and break your head, the wall is not breaking your head—you are. You are trying to pass through a wall—when the door is available.

Nanak rahan rajai.
That Door is His raja—His will. When the door is available, why try the wall? Try it and you will smash your head. And understand: God does not smash your head in anger—you smash it yourself in ignorance. And when you smash your head, existence feels only compassion for you. However much you smash your head, existence keeps repairing it. However much you wander and break your limbs, they heal again. Existence tends you without end. Who knows for how many births you have been banging your head against the wall! Yet here you are—whole still. The soul is not fractured. But you create needless suffering with your own hands.

Therefore Nanak says: Nanak rahan rajai—remain in His will, His hukam.

How to know what His hukam is? How to be sure? Great thinkers have stumbled here. It is fine to say “remain in His command”—but what is His command? How will you be certain it is His voice—and not yours, not someone else’s? Amidst the fair of a thousand inner voices, how will you grasp it?

There is a way. It does not open through thought. Through thinking you will never decide what His command is. The way opens as you sink into His tune, as your ego dissolves, as you are absorbed in meditation and samadhi—suddenly His voice is heard. Your ego creates a clamor within; that is why you cannot hear. Let your ego fall silent, let thoughts cease their nuisance—at once His voice will be heard. He is always calling. Not for one instant are you severed from it.

Within man there is an inner organ. As you see with the eyes, as you hear with the ears, so within you there is an instrument that catches the voice of God. The eyes catch light. Scientists still do not understand how. How does the eye send the news to the brain that a beautiful woman stands outside, or a flower has blossomed, or the sun has risen? How does the eye bring light within? How does it make a picture from light? The secret is not yet known.

The hands touch. When you touch someone, it is the hand that touches—but the mind knows the touch: that the skin is rough or smooth, soft or delicate, velvet-like. The whole event takes place on the skin of your fingertips—how does the entire message reach the mind instantly?

Just as there are five senses for relating to this world, there is a sixth—what we have called the antahkaran, the conscience. That sixth sense is also within you, working at every moment. But you are entangled in other things. You are entangled in thought, and its soft voice is not heard. When all becomes silent within, suddenly you discover His voice has been coming all along.

Nanak says: Nanak rahan rajai—remain in His command.

But first find that command. It is not hard. It has nothing to do with your thinking of what is right or wrong. Your thinking must stop. As soon as thinking stops, what is right begins to be heard. Then all your worry vanishes, all burden drops. Whatever is His will—that is what you do.

His will—this is Nanak’s path. He called the supreme principle of life hukam—His will. And you have the means to connect with it. You were born with it—but you have not used it yet. Meditation will take you to the antahkaran, that’s all. And the antahkaran is linked to God. That inner wire, joined within, is telling you at every moment what to do and what not to do.

Nanak says: once you begin to hear it, remain within its bounds. Then there is no sorrow in your life. Then there will be a dense shower of celebration in your life.

In that very instant, Kabir has said, the heavens thunder and nectar rains down—anand is born. The sky thunders; not water but amrit pours.

The moment you connect to the antahkaran, a direct link is formed between you and God. On God’s side, it is already there. On your side, not yet. The art of becoming silent is the means of joining the antahkaran. Silence is the path.

Enough for today.