Ek Omkar Satnam #14

Each word is precious. Try to understand each one in depth.

Munda santokh, saram pat jholi, dhyan ki karahi vibhuti.
“O yogi, adopt the seal of contentment and modesty. Wear the pouch of true dignity. And anoint yourself with the ash of meditation.”

This has happened again and again, and it will keep happening; because the human mind has certain basic faults that repeat themselves. Whenever a religion is born, many methods, many devices, many experiments are discovered to reach the divine. Near the source they are only symbols, supports. But as the source recedes and religion turns into tradition, the symbols become dead. Their meaning is lost. Then people carry them like a corpse. Gradually they even forget why they were first accepted. They become mere formalities, to be observed as social duties.

Understand this. I gave you sannyas, ochre robes. In a little while even the inner meaning of the ochre will fade. The farther you go from me, the more the ochre will become just an outer sign. But by dyeing your clothes, has your soul been dyed? Dyeing the cloth was only a device of remembrance—that now the soul too must be dyed.

It is like a man going to the market who ties a knot in his kurta so he won’t forget to buy what he needs. The knot itself is not what he has to bring from the market! The knot has no meaning in itself. You can tie a thousand knots—what will that do? It is only a support for memory. The whole day he will be caught in work, but again and again his attention will go to the knot and he will remember, “I must buy that and take it home.” The likelihood of forgetting will decrease. Even when entangled in a thousand tasks, he will still bring back what he meant to buy. But the knot by itself means nothing.

His son, seeing that whenever the father went to the market he tied a knot, may think there is some secret in it; he too will tie a knot when he goes to the market. He has nothing to remember, and the knot has lost all relation to remembrance. The knot becomes a mere traditional formality. His son will do the same. And then it will go on for thousands of years. In that house, knot-tying will become a tradition. Whoever breaks it will be considered irreligious; whoever follows it will be called religious. The one who follows is said to honor the ancestors. The one who doesn’t is branded rebellious. But neither the follower can explain why the knot, nor the non-follower why not the knot.

This mischief is natural in all religions. The mind clutches the hollow and forgets the deep. Mind has no depth; it cannot retain the deep.

I have given you ochre robes. They are only to keep a twenty-four-hour remembrance alive within you that you are a renunciate. You must rise, sit, walk as a sannyasin should rise, sit, walk. You must speak only what befits a sannyasin. Your way in the world should not be that of a prisoner, but of a master—thus I have called you “swami”—not bound, but with the bearing of freedom. Granted, you will not become free in a flash today; but a beginning must be made somewhere. These clothes are like a knot tied on your body. Their use is that through them remembrance is kept alive. And for now, remembrance is the most important thing.

These words of Nanak are addressed to the monks of the Nath order. In his time the Nath yogis had great influence. Their monasteries were in every corner of the land. And the man from whom the Nath tradition arose was unique—Gorakhnath. But as soon as Gorakh was gone, his methods fell into common hands. They all became hollow.

Nath yogis pierce their ears—they take the “nath.” That too is a knot. And a very useful one.

Acupuncture is a very ancient science in China, now accepted in the West as well. It recognizes seven hundred points in the human body through which life-energy flows. The lobes of both ears are a very important acupuncture center, deeply connected with inner memory. If the ear is pierced, a blow is delivered to the inner energy there—a deep shock. In China, certain mental disorders are treated simply by piercing the ear; the disturbance disappears as soon as the ear is pierced.

Because of this deep insight, Nath yogis pierce their ears. A whole subgroup, the Kanphatas, go further—they tear the ear. The body has energy-points, and when the ear is torn, the obstruction that was receiving the blow is gone. Life’s electric current then flows directly toward the brain; an intermediary barrier is removed. It is a valuable device to awaken inner memory.

You can try a little experiment. No need to pierce your ears, but whenever you feel sad, anxious, agitated, full of anger, grab the lower lobes of both ears and rub them strongly. Just the rubbing will begin to change your inner state.

But one thing is clear: by tearing the ears no one becomes a siddha. Nor is everything achieved by getting your ears pierced.

There is an old rural Indian custom—you can still find it in some villages. If you ever meet someone named Kanchedi Lal or Natthu Lal, ask why that name. In families where children have kept dying—two, four children born and gone—there is an ancient practice that the next child, as soon as he is born, will have his nose or ears pierced immediately. If the nose is pierced he is named Natthu Lal, if the ear is pierced, Kanchedi Lal.

It has been found by experience that after piercing the nose or ears, the children stop dying. Something foundational changes in the flow of their life-energy. The child survives. This device has been discovered slowly across thousands of years of experience.

Now there has been significant research in Russia. Kirlian photography has reached important conclusions: that the electrical flow in the human body determines the whole play of health and sickness, birth and death. And that flow can be altered from certain points; its channels can be transformed, blocked in one direction, guided in another.

The entire art of acupuncture is this: when a person is ill, hot needles are pricked into certain specific points of the body; a slight prick and the inner electric current changes. With that change, hundreds of illnesses disappear. The Chinese have been using this for five thousand years. The points they recognized in the body have now been accepted by science. In Russia at least, it is accepted; Russian hospitals have begun to use acupuncture. They have even invented instruments: they stand the patient in a device which, like an X-ray reveals inner defects, shows where the electric current coursing through the body has become “sick.” Where it is sick, they apply an electric shock. The moment the shock is given, the current resumes its flow and the illness vanishes.

Ear-piercing was discovered by the Nath yogis as a significant shock. Such shocks have been found in many forms. You know Jews and Muslims practice circumcision. That circumcision is also such a shock, and a very significant one. Jews circumcise within fourteen days of birth, removing the foreskin of the genital organ.

Much study has been done on what benefits might come of this. The benefits appear profound. It is hard to find a people more talented than the Jews. Their numbers are small, but no other group has taken as many Nobel Prizes. Whatever field a Jew takes up, he tends to be at the forefront, pushing others behind. Jews seem to have a surplus of talent.

In this century, those who have shaped profound currents have been Jews: Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, and Albert Einstein. These three have made this century. The number of penetrating thinkers and scientists produced by Jews has no match. A thought has arisen that perhaps circumcision within fourteen days has some deep relation to talent.

Muslims did not reap the same because they circumcise much later. Jews believe that the first shock given to the child within fourteen days—because the circumcision is of the genital skin—strikes the energy gathered there, the electrical energy. That shock is so deep that energy shifts away from that place and hits the brain directly. In such a small child, that impact becomes significant for life. His life-current changes.

This is possible. Kirlian research in Russia agrees. Acupuncture has long held this to be true. The genital organ is the most sensitive region in the body. There is no more sensitive part. Cutting the skin of a small child is a tremendous shock. With that jolt the energy leaps toward and enters the brain.

When such things were discovered, their use began. Then their meaning was lost. People kept lugging around the outer thing, forgetting why they were doing it.

Gorakhnath discovered many things. He was a rare explorer. His impact was strong; millions joined the Nath order because the results were clear. But by the time of Nanak, things had become foggy. People carried the forms; the meaning Gorakh gave them was gone.

So Nanak says, “O yogi, adopt the mudra, the posture, of contentment and modesty.”

Gorakhnath discovered many mudras. Mudras are important. Perhaps you have noticed in your own life that your mental states are linked with your bodily posture. When you are peaceful, your face, your hands, the posture of your whole body are different. When you are angry, they are different. When you are filled with compassion for someone, they are different. In a moment of compassion you won’t stand before someone with a clenched fist—that would be absurd. In compassion, even your hands will carry compassion. They will carry fearlessness, the gesture of giving. A fist is to destroy. A clenched fist is the miser’s hand. In compassion the hand will be open; anything can be given through you.

There is a deep connection between mind, feelings, and the body’s positions. Gorakh discovered many mudras which, when cultivated, change the inner state of consciousness.

Suppose you stand in a complete posture of anger. There is no anger in you, but you adopt an angry stance—eyes bloodshot, fist cocked, ready to kill, poised to attack. Suddenly you will find a rustle of anger arising within. You only made the posture, and anger was born.

In America, two great psychologists in this century, James and Lange, developed a theory called the James-Lange theory. They said a very contrary thing. We say, “One feels fear, therefore the frightened person runs.” James and Lange tried to prove that one runs, therefore one feels fear. Posture is crucial, they said. We think a person runs because he is afraid; they say he is afraid because he runs. If he stops running, fear will disappear. If he changes his posture, his inner state will change.

Every state of consciousness has a corresponding posture. It means body and mind flow in parallel streams. When you are joyous, your body is in a certain condition. When you are sad, in another.

Observe: when you are happy, elated, you feel as if your body is expanding, as if you have become larger. A vastness is available. You keep spreading. When you are unhappy, disturbed, you contract, as if closing in. Like a tree wishing to shrink back into a seed. And you will notice a sad person’s body is contracted.

If you study postures, you can tell a person’s inner state just by watching their body. When one is happy, the body is in a state of expansion. When sad, contracted. In anger, the forehead is different, lines alter. In worry, different furrows appear. When free of worry, the furrows vanish.

James and Lange did not discover this. In India, this secret is very ancient. From Hatha Yoga Pradipika to Gorakhnath, hundreds of thousands of yogis have experienced it. No one has experimented on body and mind more than the yogis; none have investigated and observed so much.

They found that each mental state has a bodily mudra attached to it. Then a key was in hand. If you want to change the mind, changing the mudra will help. Change your posture. When anger arises, adopt the posture of calmness. Suddenly you will find a transformation of energy within. The energy that was becoming anger becomes peace.

Energy is neutral. The frame you give it, it takes. Energy is fluid like water. Pour it into a glass, it takes the shape of the glass; into a pitcher, the form of the pitcher. Mudras give form. Energy itself is neutral. Give it the form of anger, it becomes anger. The mudra is the mold. Give it the form of love, and the same energy becomes love. This is a very deep discovery.

If you understand the body’s mudras, you will find you have begun to change the inner mind. But where is the danger? That you forget and remain busy only in practicing postures, forgetting their connection to inner transformation. It can happen that you perfect bodily mudras and nothing changes within.

They are only supports. The real revolution has to happen within. Use as many outer supports as you can—that is good. When building a new house, you erect scaffolding first. But if you erect only the scaffolding and never build the house, you cannot live in it. The scaffolding is a helper. When the house is built, it is removed. The scaffolding is not for living in.

Mudra is scaffolding. By Nanak’s time people had begun to live in the scaffolding. The yogi sits in a mudra of compassion, but forgets that something must also happen within. The mudra is of compassion, and inside anger is boiling. He holds his hands in a gesture of fearlessness, but peer inside and he is dangerous and can harm you. He stands at the door begging... people began to fear Nath yogis; if they begged and you didn’t give, they would curse you. The beggar’s guise was false.

Buddha and Gorakh told their renunciates to beg because it would bring humility. When you ask, what pride can remain? Standing at someone’s door with a bowl, where is ego? Ego feeds on doing. As a beggar, what ego? A beggar means, “I am nothing. I have no worth. This bowl is my all. If you give, I am grateful; if you say go away, I will quietly go. What force does a beggar have? How can he demand? Giving is your will; not giving is your will.”

Buddha told his monks: stand at the door; don’t even ask. Asking can exert pressure. Asking may make it difficult for the person to refuse; out of shame he might give. But that is not true giving; it is violence. Just stand at the door. If he wants to give, he will. If not, quietly move on. Do not put him in a quandary. Even if you ask, at least he has to say no; a shy person may not want to give but find it hard to refuse—do not exploit his shyness. Stand silently, eyes lowered. Wait a little and move on, so he need not even suffer the pain of a “no.” Do not create a situation of compulsion. Remain so humble that “I have no value. If he gives, it is his wish; if he does not, it is his wish.” In all cases, bless him. Your blessing must not depend on his giving or not giving.

There was a monk of Buddha named Purna. When he became accomplished, attained buddhahood, Buddha said, “Now go. Give to others what I have given you. Many lamps are extinguished; go light them. You need not stay with me; you have attained.” Purna asked permission to go to a region in Bihar called Sukha. Buddha said, “Better not go there; people there are very hard and harsh. They will insult and abuse you.” Purna replied, “But where people are ill, that is where a physician is needed. Give me permission to go. Those people need it.”

Buddha said, “Answer me three questions before you go. First, if they abuse and insult you, what will happen to you?” Purna said, “I will feel how good these people are! They only abuse and insult; they don’t beat me. They could have beaten me.”

Buddha asked, “And if they throw stones, greet you with shoes, then what?” Purna said, “How good they are! They only beat; they don’t kill me. They could kill me.”

Buddha said, “One last question: if they kill you, then in that dying moment what will happen?” Purna said, “I will feel how good they are! They freed me from a life where mistakes could still happen.”

Buddha said, “Now you are a complete monk. Now you can go.”

Only with such humility is one a bhikshu. But by Nanak’s time, Gorakh’s monks would stand at the door and not stand still; they would shuffle forward and back, shake their staff, rattle their tongs, creating fear in the household. Their swagger, their eyes—if you say “no,” they might wreak havoc.

Nath yogis frightened people so much that alms were given out of fear. Blessings were not in their repertoire; if you gave, there was no question of blessing—you were the one favored that they took from you! And if you didn’t give, a curse was sure. Gorakh had said: whether one gives or not, bless. But the situation had inverted. And they stood bound in their mudras.

There are Nath yogis who have stood for ten years without sitting. There was a value once: if you remain utterly still for a long time with inner remembrance, consciousness too will become still. If the body becomes motionless, consciousness can become motionless. But beware: the body may become inert while consciousness keeps moving. Standing, you will travel the world—thousands of dreams and thoughts.

Support can come from mudras, but they are not the end. By Nanak’s time, the mudras were corrupted. The sects were distorted.

So Nanak says, “O yogi, adopt the mudra of contentment and of modesty.”

Mudras alone will not do. Contentment itself is the mudra. Modesty is the mudra.

“Wear the pouch of true dignity.”

The cloth bag on your shoulder will not serve.

Understand. “Contentment” is a most important word, and it has been distorted. When a person finds himself helpless, he “makes do” and calls it contentment. That “contentment” is consolation. It is not true contentment. When nothing can be done, when he has done all he could and finds himself failed, he says, “All is well.” That is not contentment; that is compulsion.

It is like a devotee who used to sacrifice goats at the festival of Kali—he would slaughter hundreds. Suddenly he stopped. Ramakrishna had often asked him to stop, but he never listened. Ramakrishna asked, “What happened? Why did you stop killing goats? When I told you before, you never listened.” He said, “Before I couldn’t listen. Now I have no teeth. One doesn’t slaughter goats for Kali; one does it for one’s teeth. Now that the teeth are gone, I have reconciled.”

In old age people reconcile. In poverty they reconcile. But that is false. True contentment is strength, not weakness. It is creative, positive energy, not negative. It is not helplessness; it is supreme help. It is a high state. Contentment means, “I have more than I need. I have received more than I asked for—indeed, even what I did not ask for.” Contentment is the feeling of grace: “O God, Your will is wondrous. You have given so much.”

It is not the tone of consolation grasped by a defeated mind. It is the march of victory. It is available only to victors, to warriors. Mahavira said it is attained by the jin—those who have conquered all.

Nanak says, “O yogi, adopt the mudra of contentment.”

Enough time has been spent cultivating hand-and-foot postures. They produce nothing. Drop them. Cultivate the inner mudra. The greatest mudra is contentment.

Why? Because in contentment all anxieties fall. Every anxiety is born of discontent—of the feeling that what should have been mine has not been received. They arise from lack. The day you are content, you will sell your horses and sleep. No worries. No dreams at night, because dreams are born of daytime discontent; the discontent you harbor by day becomes dreams by night.

Discontent means beggary. Contentment means you have become a master, a swami. That is the sign of a renunciate. He is content in every condition. You cannot create a situation in which he becomes discontent. In every situation he will see the auspicious. In every situation he recognizes the Divine hand. In the deepest sorrow, you cannot steal his ray of joy. In the darkest night he knows, “Dawn is near.” When darkness is deepest he smiles—this is the sign of the approaching morning. You cannot throw him into darkness. Even in the blackest cloud he sees the pure flash of lightning. In the deepest pain you cannot snatch his thread—his thread of contentment remains in his hand. He accepts all. He has adopted supreme acceptance.

This is what Nanak calls the mudra to adopt, O yogi. Nothing will happen through bodily practice. Practice awareness. The first key to awareness is contentment.

But beware—there is false contentment, born of helplessness. “I did all I could…” and so on.

Mulla Nasruddin was traveling through a forest with a friend. They were going in their ox-cart when bandits suddenly attacked, standing with guns some fifty steps away. They shouted, “Stop!” Instantly Mulla pulled five hundred rupees from his pocket and handed them to his friend: “Brother! Let us settle the debt I owe you. Now our accounts are clear.”

Your contentment is of the same kind. When you see there is nothing left to do, when everything is being taken—only then you “let go.” In truth you do not let go; it is snatched from you. And when it is snatched, where is contentment? The one who lets go can be content. The one from whom it is taken—he may adopt any posture outwardly, inside there is discontent. He may say “All is well,” but in his voice you will hear that nothing is well.

True contentment looks like this: first, the sense that what I have is already more than needed. What more could there be? For the happiness I have received, I have gratitude. As for suffering, behind it, too, a joy is hidden. There are thorns, yes, but roses are blooming somewhere. Keep your eyes on the roses, not on the thorns. If someone abuses, the contented person thinks: either what he says is true—in which case I should thank him for showing me the truth; or it is false—in which case poor man labored in vain, came all this way, suffered for nothing. If it is true, there is gratitude; if false, there is compassion. But anger cannot arise in a truly contented person. He will find something good in every case.

I love the story of two mendicants in Japan. They were returning to their hut for the monsoon. For eight months they wandered from village to village singing the song of God; during the rains they returned to their hut. The master was old; the disciple young. As they neared their hut by the lake, they saw the thatch fallen to the ground. A strong wind had come in the night; half the roof had blown away. A tiny hut—and half its roof gone. The rains were upon them. Nothing could be done, the place was far out in the forest.

The young monk said, “See, we pray and pray, remember Him and remember Him, and this is the result! I keep saying there is no essence in all this prayer and worship. What do we get? The palaces of the wicked stand firm, and the wind blows down the hut of poor fakirs. And the wind is His.”

While he raged, he saw his master kneeling, hands folded to the sky in joy. Tears of supreme contentment were flowing from his eyes. He was humming, “Beloved, Your grace! Who can trust the wind? It could have carried away the whole roof. Surely You intervened and saved half. Half is still above us. Who can trust the wind? It is a wind. It carries all. Surely You blocked it and saved half.”

They both entered the same hut—but as two different beings. One discontented, one contented. The situation is the same, but their hearts are different. In truth, they are entering two different huts, though it looks like the same one from outside.

At night the discontented one could not sleep; he tossed and turned, “Who knows when the rain will come?” Though it hadn’t yet begun, he was worried and upset: “How can one sleep in such a place?” He fumed.

But the master slept deeply. At four he awoke and wrote a song. Through the missing half-roof he could see the moon. He wrote, “Beloved, had we known earlier, we would not have put Your wind to such trouble to remove half the roof; we would have removed it ourselves. Until now we were ignorant. We can both sleep and see the moon. Since half the thatch is gone, Your sky is so near, and we had blocked it with a roof. Your moon came and went so many times, and we blocked it with a roof. We did not know. Forgive us. Otherwise we would not have troubled Your wind; we would have removed half ourselves.”

The one who can sing this knows contentment. Not out of compulsion, not out of helplessness. That is the path of the impotent. They always do this—when everything is taken, they become “content.” Had they become content earlier, nothing could have been taken. You cannot take anything from a contented one. Try to take it—you cannot take his contentment; what else can you take? You may strip him of everything, but he remains where he was, because his wealth is inner.

Nanak says, “Adopt the mudra of contentment, the mudra of modesty, O yogi. Wear the pouch of true dignity.”

He is giving inner pointers. Gorakhnath too had said the same—outer signs were to serve inner remembrance. The inner point was forgotten. The knot remained on the shirt, and one forgot what he had come to buy, even why the knot was tied. Now one only carries the knot. The knot itself is a burden.

Try to understand the word “modesty” (lajja). It is a deep, very Eastern word. Western languages have no equivalent, for modesty in this sense is a unique Eastern discovery. We have considered lajja the supreme, final quality of the feminine soul.

The prostitute we call shameless because she sells the body. To sell the body is shameless, for the body is a temple of God; it is not for sale. It is for worship. It is not to be traded for potsherds. It is a ladder for attaining the supreme treasure. Whoever sells the body—whether prostitute, or merchant, or you—if you sell the body to gain potsherds, you are shameless.

“Shameless” has only one meaning here: anyone who uses the body for anything other than the search for God. There is no modesty in that person’s life. You condemn the prostitute; what of others? What is the difference? If you sell the body for money, for worldly respect, how are you different? The prostitute sells her body for money; you sell yours for money.

Modesty means the body is not to be sold for money. It is a temple of God. One day God will be its guest. You must teach it to wait for God. That waiting is like a beloved waiting for her lover. When the lover approaches, the beloved draws the veil. She hides herself. To display herself before the lover is shameless. She conceals, becomes veiled. She waits for him, invites him, and when he comes close, she hides. To flaunt herself before the lover would be ego. The urge to show off is exhibitionism, ego.

Before God, would you want to display yourself? You would hide, you would wish the earth to swallow you. You would veil yourself before God. To show yourself before Him is ego. You will go to Him like a beloved, not like a pundit. You will go so quietly the sound of your footsteps is not heard. You will go hidden. What do you have to show? Modesty says: what do I have to show? There is nothing, so I hide.

Thus India has regarded lajja as the supreme virtue of woman. Therefore, in Indian women a certain grace can be found that cannot be found in Western women, for the West has never taught lajja; it seems a vice there. There one must show, display, attract—as if standing in a marketplace.

In the East we taught women modesty—hide yourself. From this grew the veil. The veil was part of modesty. Then the veil was lost. As soon as the veil was lost, modesty began to be lost. The veil was its outer aspect. Now our women go uncovered, wanting to be seen. If you dress up to be seen, inside you are standing in the market.

Nanak says our modesty before God will be like that of a beloved before her lover. She hides herself. What is there to show? So, modesty. What is there to tell? Modesty. Hence the veil.

Notice, the more modest a woman is, the more attractive she becomes. The more she displays, the more her charm disappears. In the West the charm has gone—and will go. Anything displayed in the market loses its allure.

Before God we are not going to sell ourselves. Nor do we have anything to show. We will go like a beloved—on trembling feet: who knows whether we will be accepted? With shy hesitation: who knows whether we are worthy? With modesty: there is nothing in us to display.

Modesty is a deeply humble state. Only one who goes to Him with such humility is received. The more a devotee hides himself, the more attractive he becomes to God. The more he shows himself off and beats the drum—“See, I am worshiping! See, I am praying! See, I go to the temple! See, how much fasting, chanting I have done!”—the farther he goes. For there is no ego there; meeting God is a matter of egolessness.

So Nanak says, “Adopt the mudra of contentment and modesty. Wear the pouch of true dignity.”

What “dignity”? The moment one feels “I am not the body; I am the soul,” dignity is born. The sense of the Self is dignity. In the body you can never be “established.” The body is a wayside inn, not the destination. How can there be true status there? You can pause there for a moment; you cannot make it your home. “Established” means rooted in that which is eternal. One who has put roots into what never dies is established. One who floats with the untrue cannot have any dignity.

Until you stand with God you are not established. You may sit on a royal throne—no dignity will come. Prestige in this world is not prestige; here all is a play of waves. Who will remember you after four days? Even today, while you are on the throne, who cares?

Look at those on thrones—wherever they go, shoes are thrown; stones are the welcome. If you seek flowers, you receive stones; if you seek honor, you get insult. Force yourself onto a post, and someone will always be tugging your leg. Ask politicians: your name appears in the papers, yes, but in equal measure there is condemnation and insult. In this world, if you try to win, you end up losing. If you seek respect, you end up with dishonor. Prestige is only in being with God.

So Nanak says, “Wear the pouch of true dignity.”

Do not carry the bag of swagger and ego. Egolessness, modesty, and contentment—and your roots will begin to reach into God.

“Make the ash of meditation your sacred ash. Smearing ashes on the body will do nothing.”

Attain the ash of meditation within. Let that be your ash. Daub yourself with that.

“Make death your patched coat, so that its remembrance remains always.”

One who remembers death cannot forget God. One who forgets death forgets God. And we all live having entirely forgotten death, as if we are never going to die. That is why we forget God.

“Make death your patched coat, O yogi. Make the body your ‘virgin.’”

Among the Nath and many tantric sects, they search for a virgin girl for certain practices, believing that through special tantric intercourse with a virgin one may attain meditation. It is true—it can happen. Tantra discovered that way.

But man is cunning. In the name of tantra, thousands of yogis and tantrics were wandering with virgins. Millions found cover under tantra—declaring, “We are tantrics; this virgin walking with me is my tantric consort.” In this name much debauchery went on. Buddhism fell because of such debauchery; the Nath order was wiped out by it; a significant tantric lineage was lost. Man finds cover for anything. He saw a great cover here: “We are tantric practitioners; we can take any virgin along.”

Nanak says, “Make your body the virgin, O yogi.”

He says something very significant here, the deepest tantric formula: let your body itself become the consort. Let your soul be the male, your body the virgin female. Their union can happen within. That union is the supreme union; through it one attains liberation. That is what tantra intended: the outward virgin is only a support; through that support you slowly must find the inner virgin.

Within every man a woman is hidden; within every woman, a man. When your inner man and woman unite, the final state of samadhi blossoms.

Modern psychology now accepts that man is bisexual. How could it be otherwise? Each of us is born of the union of father and mother. You carry the mother’s part and the father’s part within. You are both woman and man. If these two energies unite within, the outer intercourse is momentary; this inner union can be eternal.

So Nanak speaks a deep tantric truth: “O yogi, make the body the virgin. Make faith your staff. Seeing all as companions of one path is the true Nath way. Conquer the mind and you have conquered the world. If you must bow, bow only to That One—He is primal, stainless, beginningless, soundless, wearing the same raiment age after age.”

Munda santokh, saram pat jholi, dhyan ki karahi vibhuti.
Khintha kal, kuari kaya, jugat danda, pratiti.
Ai panthi sagal jamati, man jeetai jag jeet.
Ades tisai ades.
Adi anil anadi anahat, jug jug eko ves.

Bow to That One who is ever the same. Bowing to anyone else will do nothing. Bow in temples, bow in mosques—but if the bow is not to that One, it is futile. Wherever you bow, let it be to Him. Keep that remembrance alive.

Remember this. Even when you bow to the guru, be aware that through the guru the bow is to That One—Ades tisai ades. When you bow before a temple image, remember the bow is to That One—Ades tisai ades. Then the image is a support, the guru is a support.

Otherwise the image is a danger, the guru is a danger. If your bow is not to the One, then to whomever you bow becomes a bondage, a blockage. If you learn to bow to the One, every stone becomes a gateway. Because the bow is to Him—what does it matter where you bow? Mosque, gurudwara, temple, church—only keep one thing in mind: Ades tisai ades. The bow is to Him.

“To Him who is primal, stainless, beginningless, soundless—ever in the same form.”

“Make knowledge your enjoyment, O yogi, and compassion your storehouse. Let the unstruck sound resounding in every heart be your conch. The true Nath is the One in whom all are strung. Riddhis and siddhis are paltry tastes. Union and separation—these two run the whole show. And each receives his due according to destiny’s script. If you must bow, bow only to That One—He is primal, stainless, beginningless, soundless, ever in the same form.”

“Make knowledge your enjoyment, compassion your storekeeper.”

Knowledge and compassion—prajna and karuna—are two wings. One who masters both begins to fly in God’s sky. Knowledge within, compassion without. There is a danger: if there is only inner knowledge and not outer compassion, you will not become whole. You will remain incomplete. Has anyone ever flown with one wing? If there is compassion outside but no knowledge within, you remain incomplete. Can anyone walk on one leg?

Knowledge means knowing oneself; compassion means recognizing the other. Then the event is complete. For when knowledge truly knows itself, it finds “I am within all.” Knowledge that has not discovered “I am the inner of all” is not knowledge.

When the real lamp of knowledge is lit, its light falls on others as well. A lamp does not illuminate only itself; it also casts light around. That light falling on others is compassion. An infinite tenderness arises when knowledge arises. Then you will give, share. Then you will become a support for others to reach that God. All are wandering—then you will not disappear into your own knowledge, for that too is a kind of selfishness; the ego is still alive. This is why Nanak reminds you.

There are such people—like the Jain monks—who drown in their own knowledge. They care only for themselves. What is happening outside, what others suffer, they have no concern. They are closed within, pursuing only their personal release. Their circle is their little self. Even their compassion, if any, is to perfect their own knowledge; it is false compassion.

If a Jain muni steps carefully lest even an ant be killed, do not think it is out of pity for the ant. Mahavira did it out of compassion; the Jain monk does it out of fear of sin. Note the difference. He fears that if an ant dies, it will be sin. Sin causes wandering. His gaze is on himself, not on the ant. If killing the ant did not bring sin, he would not care. He filters water, not because the micro-organisms would suffer, but because killing brings sin, and sin binds one to samsara. He is doing outwardly what Mahavira did, but his inner gaze and motivation are different. He is calculating, always doing only what will bring his own liberation, and avoiding whatever may lead to hell.

Such “compassion” is false. True compassion is: even if to carry you across I must go to hell, I am willing. Only then is compassion real. Otherwise it is the shopkeeper’s arithmetic—do whatever brings your bliss and moksha; never do what may cost you moksha. No wonder those who followed Mahavira became merchants. Mahavira himself was a kshatriya, but his followers turned into baniyas. Strange! What happened? All twenty-four Tirthankaras were kshatriyas, yet the community became mercantile. Why? Because Mahavira’s compassion was compassion, but the clever followers converted it into arithmetic, into business. They dropped occupations where “sin” might occur—farming, because plants would be uprooted; warfare, because there is violence. What remained? The shop. They shrank into it.

It is worth pondering: of the realized beings in India, ninety percent were kshatriyas. Nanak too was kshatriya. Krishna, Rama, Mahavira, Buddha—all kshatriyas. There is some quality in the kshatriya that eases the journey to truth: courage, daring. He can risk; he can stake his life. A kshatriya cannot forget death, for death stands at his door each moment. One who remembers death begins to remember God, for God is the antidote. When death presses, whom will you remember? Whom will you call? Who will save you? The memory of the immortal arises naturally.

“Make knowledge your enjoyment, compassion your storehouse.”

Running kitchens and storehouses outwardly will not do. Yet only the outer runs. The Nath order ran bhandaars; Sikhs run langars. What is the difference? Only the name.

Nanak says, make compassion your langar. Let compassion be present at every moment. Consider the other. Let your actions take into account the other’s welfare, goodness, blessing. Seek your own knowledge—and help others seek theirs. Walk toward liberation—and bring others along.

The more you master both—compassion outside, knowledge within—the sooner you will arrive. No one has ever reached with one wing. Both are necessary.

On the other side stand the Christians. On one side the Jains; on the other, the Christians—immersed in service. Hospitals, schools across the world—no one serves like them. But they do not care for knowledge. They too carry a delusion—just as Jains think it is enough to safeguard oneself, Christians think it is enough to serve. Whoever serves will attain salvation. They do not care whether any real transformation happens in the leper whose feet they massage, or in the orphan child they teach. Their concern is that the more benefit they confer on others, the more assured is their own salvation. Man’s self-interest is astonishing—he extracts it from knowledge, he extracts it from compassion.

An old Chinese tale: a fair was on in a village. There was a small well there, and a man fell in by mistake. He cried for help. But the fair was noisy; who would hear? People were busy selling and buying; evening was near; who would listen? A Confucian monk came by the well and heard the cry.

He said, “Brother, be quiet! I am going now, and I will do everything I can. It is against the law that a well be made without steps. There is no ghat here; that is why you fell. But trust that we will bring revolution to the whole country and build steps on every well.”

Confucius is devoted to rule, society, order—he is a reformer, a revolutionary. “Don’t worry,” he said.

The man cried, “What will steps on wells do for me? I am dying now!”

The Confucian replied, “The issue is not you; it is society. Not the individual but the collective. There is no way to save individuals one by one; save society, then individuals will be saved.”

He went off to arouse revolution, shouting in the fair that every well must have steps. After him, a Buddhist monk came by the well. He peered down and said, “Brother, you must have done certain karmas in past lives, whose fruits you now suffer. Each must endure his own fruit; nothing can be done.”

The man said, “Explain this later. First pull me out.”

The monk said, “I have renounced karma. Karma binds; bondage keeps one wandering. I want to be free of coming and going. If I save you, who knows what you will do afterward? If you murder someone, I become a partner. Better I do not save you and you do not murder. Or you might set someone’s house on fire—why should I get entangled behind you? And be quiet; I have stopped here to meditate at this well. Do not create a commotion. You suffer your lot; let me suffer mine. Each to his own. No one comes onto another’s path.”

Hearing too much noise, the monk left; meditation is a big thing. If you start saving people at each well, how many wells are there? How many fairs? What can you do? He safeguarded his meditation, thinking all is safeguarded.

After him a Christian missionary came. Hearing the cry, he quickly took a rope from his bag, lowered it, climbed down, and hauled the man out. The man fell at his feet, “Brother, you are the only true religious. The Confucian went, the Buddhist went; no one heard us.”

The missionary said, “I have only one prayer to you: keep falling, so we can keep saving. We always keep a rope in our bag. If you do not fall and we do not save, how shall we reach salvation?”

No one cares for anyone. Human self-interest is deep. The rescuer rescues for himself; the non-rescuer avoids rescuing for himself. The meditator minds himself; the server, too, minds himself.

Compassion means caring for the other—truly. The other is alive; the other has value, exactly equal to yours—not a whit less or more. And God manifests in the other as well. See the God within yourself—that is knowledge. Do not forget the God in the other—that is compassion.

Nanak says, “Make knowledge your enjoyment; make compassion your storehouse. Let the unstruck sound resounding in every heart be your conch, O yogi.”

What will blowing conches do? The sound that is continuously resounding within without any cause—let that be your conch. What will blowing outer shells do?

“The true Nath is the One in whom all are strung. Remember only Him. Riddhis and siddhis are petty tastes.”

So you have done a few miracles—materialized ash, become a Sathya Sai Baba, produced talismans—what of it?

“Riddhis and siddhis are petty tastes.”

Why? Because they feed the ego. They strengthen your pride that “I am special.” The only true siddhi in religion is: “I am nothing.” One who knows this nothingness becomes everything. One who dies here becomes God. Do not settle for less. If you settle for less, you settle for small tastes.

What will you achieve by producing talismans? Your conjuring is no good to you or to anyone else. Yes, in this marketplace you may gain some prestige. But in front of God, what is the value of your talismans? Your handful of ash before the One from whom the whole cosmos arises? You think your ash will win you prestige there? You may fool people and satiate your ego a little—but there will be no self-knowledge.

So Nanak says, “Riddhis and siddhis are petty tastes. Union and separation—these two run the whole show.”

There is only one real siddhi: to be free of union and separation. Things that join will separate. Things that are made will unmake. What is born will die. What is found will be lost. Today’s wealth will be tomorrow’s misfortune. Today’s happiness will become tomorrow’s sorrow. Everything turns into its opposite. The wheel turns on union and separation. Whoever understands that the world’s wheel runs on opposites, and stands beyond both—neither happy in union nor sad in separation—has attained the siddhi. Cultivate this.

“And according to the script of fate, each receives his share.”

Therefore, remain quiet with whatever comes. It is your portion. What was to happen has happened—so why discontent? Why the weeping? Whom to complain to—and about what? Accept quietly what is in your destiny. Free yourself from union and separation. That is the siddhi. All else is petty taste.

“If you must bow, bow only to That One. He is primal, stainless, beginningless, soundless—ever in the same form.”

That is enough for today.