Ek Omkar Satnam #15

In the search for God, you must return by the very path through which God descended into the world. God became creation in a certain way; you must travel in the exact opposite direction. The path is the same; only the direction changes.

You left your home and came here. You will go back by the same road. The road is the same, you are the same, your feet the same, your strength the same—only your direction differs. As you came, your back was toward home; as you go, your face will be toward home.

Just as God descended to creation, so must you return. On the way down, your back was to God; on the return, your face will be to God. Hence turning away is the path into the world, and turning toward the Divine is the path back. The steps are the same, the road the same—everything the same—only the direction is reversed.

How God became creation—Nanak gives a sutra about this. Those who have sought have discovered the same. Not only the religious, but the scientists too. Here religion and science agree—and rightly so. Religion seeks the Creator; science seeks the creation. Religion seeks from one end; science from the other. Science begins where you are; religion begins from where you came and where you will go. Your beginning and your end are religion’s concern; your middle is science’s concern.

The most precious scientific discovery is that the universe is made of a single element. Scientists call it electricity—energy. That one energy is the foundational stone of the whole cosmos. Everything is made of its particles. The many arises from the one. In this, science agrees with religion. Religion calls that One “God,” science calls it “energy.”

It is only a matter of words. But words can make a great difference to you. How will you worship electricity? How will you fall in love with it? How will you call out to it? How will you pray to electricity? How will you build a temple to it?

Electricity stays in the head; no bridge to the heart. But “God” is the name of that very energy. The name changes everything. Say “God,” and the matter shifts from mind to heart. Where the heart is, connection is possible. The mind divides; the heart unites. Through mind we separate, because mind creates distinctions. Through heart we become one, because heart has no divisions. Boundaries melt there, not form; definitions fall apart.

The moment religion calls the One “God,” we give energy a presence, a personhood. Now a relationship becomes possible—and everything depends upon relationship. If you cannot relate, your life cannot be transformed. Science can use energy, but it cannot worship it. Religion can worship that very energy. So science will spread electricity into every village, produce atomic power, invent mighty means of destruction—but the scientist remains untouched within; no flowers bloom in his life.

The religious may not light up the villages, nor forge atomic bombs, but he can light up hearts—and that radiance is greater. He can fill heart to heart with a song, a dance—and that light is greater. Yet both agree in one regard: the many comes from the one.

They agree in a second regard: when the One differentiates, it differentiates into three. Science says electricity divides into three—electron, neutron, and proton. From these three particles the entire universe is formed. Religion also says the One becomes a Triad—the Trimurti. Christians speak of the Trinity.

Hindus shaped the Trimurti. Three faces, but within, a single being. Three faces. Move through the faces and you will come to the One—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. When the One dissolves into manifestation—when it descends to creation—it becomes three.

And the striking thing is this: the meanings Hindus give to Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh are exactly the meanings science assigns to electron, neutron, and proton. The very same! The process of creation requires birth; there must be a giver of birth. That which is born must die; there must be death and a destroyer. And between birth and death time will pass; there must be a sustainer. Brahma is the principle of birth, Vishnu the principle of sustenance, and Shiva the principle of dissolution. The electron, neutron, and proton carry the same three qualities: one sustains; one is the basic ground from which birth happens; and one moves toward disintegration, toward destruction.

The One became three, and then the three became infinite. If you wish to return to God, you must first gather the infinite into three, then unite the three into one, and then be the One. This is the reverse journey. You must take the Ganges back to Gangotri, to the source. So from the many, fix your gaze on the three; three is the middle station. After three, only the One remains.

The ordinary worldly person is lost in the many. How many desires, how many cravings—no count! Each desire sprouts countless more, like leaves on a tree. No end. So many wants, and no way to fulfill them all. And even if you acquire every resource, the one who acquires remains unsatisfied. The more you get, the more you wander in multiplicity; the farther you drift from the One. The farther you are from the One, the more miserable you become. As the distance grows, so does suffering. Move away from the source of light and you fall into darkness; go far enough and you are in deep night.

To go toward the many is to become distant from the One. And we are all in the many. This is what we call “worldly”—being in multiplicity. The one who moves from the many to the three is a seeker—standing in between. The one who moves from the three to the One is the realized—returned to where God is in the original.

Let us understand this a little. How will you distill three out of the many? The method of bringing three out of the many is called witnessing. If you watch your desires—be their witness rather than their enjoyer—the enjoyer is the method of becoming many. “I am the doer, I am the enjoyer”—then you will be scattered in the many. The method to bring the many into three is witnessing. Whatever you are doing, not as the doer but as the watcher, the observer. Whatever pleasures or pains arise in your life, see them as the seer. Then you will suddenly find that the three have appeared: there is the seer, there is that which appears—the entire world of the many has become a single panorama, a scene. Its multiplicity is gone; it is all “the seen.” And between the two is their relationship—seeing. Seer, seeing, and seen—you have returned to the three.

The moment witnessing takes root, you become a seeker. That is the state of the sannyasin. To come from the many to the three is renunciation. Whatever you do—walk the road, eat food, wear clothes, your leg breaks and there is pain, you fall ill, you win a lottery—whatever happens, keep watching. Only one thing must be protected: do not lose your witnessing.

There are two ways to lose it. If you become the enjoyer, it is lost. If you become the doer, it is lost. If you say, “I did this,” in that instant you cannot remain a witness. Intoxication has taken hold. The swagger of “I” arises. And as soon as intoxication takes hold, you are no longer who you were in sobriety.

I once asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Every morning I see your servant carrying a tray with two glasses of whiskey to your room. You are alone there. It looks as if someone else is with you.” Nasruddin said, “When I drink one glass, I become someone else—and it is my duty to serve that someone as well!”

The moment you are intoxicated, you are another person—not the one you truly are. The distance between the intoxicated and the un-intoxicated—that is the distance between worldly man and sannyasin.

And the greatest intoxication? The greatest intoxication is ego. Other intoxicants fade; they hover on the surface and pass. Ego’s intoxication is the greatest because it lasts lifetimes. You try to drop it, and still you find it standing there. You run from it, and like a shadow it runs with you. You make a thousand attempts to evade it, and still you find it has survived within you. You practice humility, and still you discover it lurking inside.

Ego is the subtlest intoxication. Witnessing is awakening; ego is falling asleep. The moment you become the doer, you fall asleep. The moment you become the enjoyer—“I am enjoying”—you fall asleep. The moment you become the witness, awakening arises; awareness dawns.

With awareness the many fall away; the three remain: the one who is aware, that of which he is aware, and the relation between them. Hindus call this the triputi—the triad. Whoever is caught in this triad is a sannyasin; he begins to be immersed in practice.

As you dwell in the three and your wandering in multiplicity wanes, gradually a state comes when the many no longer arise—only the three remain. When all possibility of the many is destroyed, when you remain a witness always—then one day, suddenly, you find even the three are gone. The witness, that which is seen, and the relating between them—when you are utterly still—you discover that the three are one.

This is why Krishnamurti keeps saying: “The observer is the observed.” The one who is seeing is the very one that is being seen.

But this happens only at the final moment when even the triad merges into one. As practice deepens, the arising of the many ceases, the world dissolves, only the three remain. Then slowly, slowly, you find the three are indeed one. Suddenly, one day, you wake and see the three were never three. The seer is the seen. When the seen and the seer are one, the relation between them vanishes—relation exists only while there are two. Where there are two, there will be three, because there will be a relation between them. Where only One remains, how can there be a relation? Who will relate to whom? So the relation disappears.

This is the return journey. Where you become one, there you are God. Where you are many, there you are the world. The Trimurti stands in between. This is what Nanak is saying in these sutras. Let us try to understand.

Ekā māī jugat viāī tini chele parvāṇu.
Ik sansārī, ik bhandārī, ik lāe dīvāṇu.
Jiv tis bhaavai tivai chalāvai jiv hovai furmāṇu.

“One mother, by her device, gave birth to three disciples. One is Brahma, the world-maker; one is Vishnu, the sustainer, keeper of the stores; and one is Mahesh, the judge who brings dissolution. Yet God moves even them according to His wish, His command.”

From One to three, from three to the many. However far you go, you cannot step outside His command. However much you scatter and break into multiplicity, He remains present within you. For if He were lost, you would not remain at all. You can wander, you can go far—but not so far that return is impossible. There is no such place you can go from which return is not possible.

Therefore no one is incurable. Even one sunk in the deepest sin, the darkest night, is not beyond remedy. In spiritual terms there is no incurable disease. All are curable. In spiritual terms you cannot go so far that return becomes impossible.

Wherever you go, He is. However far you go, it is He who carries you. You need His support even to go far. Even to sin you need His support—because He is breathing in the sinner too. He is beating in the sinner’s heart as well. We can go far, we can forget, but there is no way to lose God.

So when you ask, “How do I find God?” your question is off the mark—because you have not lost Him. You could not lose Him even if you tried, because He is your very nature. He is you; how will you lose Him? If He were other than you, you could misplace Him somewhere. You cannot put Him aside, even by mistake, because He is you. You cannot forget Him; you cannot lose Him. Then what happens? You can only fall into forgetfulness. One can forget even oneself. One can forget one’s own nature—yet the nature remains within.

I have a friend, a lawyer—absent-minded, very absent-minded. He forgets everything. In court he forgets which side he’s speaking for. He forgets who hired him. Yet he is a great lawyer. Once he went to another town for a case, and there he forgot his client’s name. From the station he wired his clerk: “What is the name?” The clerk, thinking perhaps he had forgotten even his own name, wired back his boss’s name: “Lakshminarayan.”

Even oneself can be forgotten. You are the proof—this whole world is evidence that it is possible to forget oneself. And how does forgetting happen? In the very way it happens, remembrance will happen. The route of the forgetting is the route of the remembering.

What is the way of forgetting? When your attention gets caught up too much in objects, you forget yourself. Attention gives rise to memory—and attention gives rise to forgetfulness. What you attend to, you remember; what you stop attending to, you forget. When you chase an object, your attention moves to the object, and behind attention falls darkness—darkness under the lamp. You look at the world and you forget yourself. In seeing, you become so absorbed that you forget yourself. There is one remedy for awakening: break this absorption in the seen. While seeing, remember that you are seeing. Do not forget the seer. However beautiful the scene, shake yourself into remembrance. However fascinating, however gripping, still shake yourself awake.

But in fact you do forget. Even watching a film, you forget yourself. You forget that it is only a screen, a play of light and shadow. People cry, tears flow; people laugh; people grow sad. In a tragedy, watch the audience as they leave the hall—they walk as if someone has died, deep mourning. If the film is very sensational, look around mid-show: people jolt themselves awake, sit up straight, then sink again. They forget there is only an empty screen and a play of light and shadow. It is not only the simple who forget; the very learned forget too.

There is an incident from Ishwarchandra’s life—he was called Vidyasagar, an ocean of learning. He went to see a play. In it was a man—adulterer, sinner, thief, hoodlum, bully—tormenting everyone. Finally, on a dark night in a forest, he seized a woman. Vidyasagar was seated right in front, a revered guest. He grew so angry he forgot it was a play. He leapt on stage, pulled off his shoe, and beat the actor.

The actor proved wiser than Vidyasagar. He took the shoe and said, “This I will not return. It is my greatest award. No one has ever been so overwhelmed by my acting. I will not give your shoe back.” Vidyasagar later regretted his lapse.

But when attention fixes strongly, this forgetfulness happens every day. In seeing, the seer is forgotten; the seen becomes all. Then you walk into a mirage. If the habit grows strong, whatever you see becomes your reality.

That is why dreams at night feel real. You have seen them so many times, and in the morning, every time, you know they were false—and still at night you forget again. When in the dream someone is killing you, you scream; even after the dream breaks, your chest pounds for a while. Someone dies in your dream and you weep. You wake to a wet pillow. You have seen so many dreams; every morning you find them false—and yet twelve hours later you forget again.

Why does the dream feel real, after so many exposures? Because you have cultivated the habit of believing whatever appears to be real. Until this habit breaks, the difficulty remains.

In Tantra there is a very ancient process. Until you know within the dream that the dream is false, you will not be able to know that the world is false.

This flips things around. You have taken the world as real; therefore even dreams seem real. Tantra says: until you know in the dream that the dream is false, you will not be able to know that the world is maya. Tantra has developed very subtle methods—how to know within the dream.

Try a few experiments. Decide on some simple act. As you fall asleep, resolve it. Resolve: “Whenever a dream starts, I will immediately raise my left hand high,” or “I will bring my palm before my eyes—in the dream.” Fall asleep repeating this. Let the echo sink inside. Perhaps in three months—if you repeat this nightly—in or around three months, suddenly in a dream you will find the memory has sunk so deep into the unconscious that as soon as the dream begins your palm appears before your eyes. And as soon as your palm appears, you will understand: “This is a dream,” because the two have been linked. The palm before your eyes appears in the dream.

In Tantra there is another method: within the dream, whatever you see—suppose you are walking through a market, shops on either side—look closely at one thing. Fix your gaze upon a shop and really look. You will be amazed: as you look with full attention, the shop disappears—because it is not really there; it is a dream. Then look closely at something else. People pass on the road—whatever appears, look at it one-pointedly. You will find it dissolves. If you observe the dream completely with total attention, the whole dream dissolves. As the dream dissolves, even within sleep attention has arisen—samadhi descends.

One who begins awakening from the dream will find this whole world to be a dream—an open-eyed dream. But our habit is deep: we get absorbed in the seen; the seer is forgotten. The arrow of our consciousness is one-pointed in only one direction—outward.

Gurdjieff used to tell his disciples: “The day the arrow of your consciousness becomes double-pointed—sharp at both ends—that day you will be realized.” So all his effort was: when you look at someone, keep looking at them while also trying to see yourself seeing—“I am seeing.” In this way you grow a new edge on the arrow—toward the other and toward yourself.

You are listening to me. In listening you get lost in me; you forget the listener. When you forget the listener, you fall into error. While listening, remember the listener. I am speaking here; you are hearing there; and you also know simultaneously, “I am listening.” Then you will go beyond the listener. A transcendence happens; the witness is born.

And as soon as witnessing is born, man moves from the many to the three. The Triveni—the confluence of three—appears. From Triveni to the One is easy—just one more step! And as the Triveni grows dense, only the One remains—because the three rivers merge into one.

We call Prayag the king of pilgrimages for this reason—it is Triveni. Two rivers are visible and one is not. Saraswati is invisible. Ganga and Yamuna are seen.

Whenever you give attention to something, two are visible—the subject and the object: the one who attends and that which is attended to. The relation between them—the flow of attention—is Saraswati; it is not seen. But all three are there meeting: two visible rivers, and one invisible. When the three meet, the One happens by itself.

Nanak says:
Ekā māī jugat viāī tini chele parvāṇu.

From one Mother, one maya, three authentic disciples are born: one is the worldly Brahma, one is the keeper Vishnu, and one is the lord of dissolution, Mahesh.

Have you ever seen a temple of Brahma? There is only one in India. People did not build Brahma’s temples—because Brahma is the world-maker.

He gives birth to the world—what is the point of worshipping him?

Temples of Shiva are the most numerous in the world. In village after village, in every lane—set a stone under a tree and you have a temple of Shiva. For with Shiva the world ends; he is the god of death. He is worthy of worship. Brahma brings the world into being; Shiva dissolves it. And India’s deep longing is: how can the world come to an end—how can one be free? Hence Shiva’s temples are everywhere.

There are temples of Vishnu as well. Many among us are frightened of dissolution—afraid. They worship Vishnu. Merchants worship Vishnu; they are fearful, they want to hold on to the world. Vishnu is the sustainer, the middle, the preserver—hence Lakshmi is his consort, the goddess of wealth. Those who are held by wealth, worship Lakshmi.

This too is telling. If you wish to capture the husband, there is no better way than through the wife. In petty bribes or great ones, it is the same. Please the wife, and the boss is pleased. Please the wife, and the minister is yours. Please Lakshmi, and Vishnu is won. The human mind works the same.

Vishnu sustains the world; those who aspire to remain in the world worship him. Shiva is the end—great death—the god of sannyasins, and so his temples are everywhere, and cheap to build. The Birlas will build Vishnu’s temples; who will build Shiva’s? Hence Shiva’s temple is simple: find a round stone, place it—it becomes a Shiva-linga. Two leaves are enough—no flowers needed. Offer bel leaves, and the worship is done.

These three deities are the three formulas of life: birth, life, death. Notice: birth has already happened—what point in worshipping Brahma? What is done is done. Life is here now, so some are absorbed in Vishnu’s worship. But they are not very wise—life is slipping away. Until the awareness of death dawns in you, you cannot become a sannyasin; you will remain worldly.

What is the difference between the worldly and the renunciate? The renunciate understands that all life ends in death; all becoming ends in non-being. What is made will be unmade; what is decorated and adorned will be laid waste; the mansion built will fall. To the one who sees death, whose memory fills with it, a revolution enters life.

Look: animals, plants, birds—none have religion, because they have no awareness of death. They will die, but they do not know that death is approaching. The consciousness required to see death is not theirs.

Among humans, you too remain animal until death becomes clearly visible to you. When you see that the end is approaching, your values change. What seemed important yesterday becomes futile. What seemed meaningful becomes meaningless as death appears. The great dreams you wove, the rainbows of desire you tied—when Death knocks, they all fall.

Death knocked the day you were born. The day Brahma began, Shiva’s work was already done. But you are not aware. Let awareness of death arise—and with it, there is a turning, a conversion. As death-awareness arises, you turn back toward the source. Your face changes direction. You do not go toward the world, for there is nothing there but death. You turn toward your own center—and to turn toward yourself is to turn toward God. One who truly knows death—death’s blow will awaken the remembrance of God. Less than this will not do. One who forgets death will also forget God. Many times you have died, many times been born—yet you keep forgetting death.

Remember death. Make it the central fact of life. Nothing else is certain—only death is certain. Everything else is uncertain—may be or may not be. Death will be, without doubt. Make that certainty the center; build your life’s journey upon it. Then you will find yourself moving from the many toward the three. And one who reaches the three finds the door to the One opening.

Nanak says: “Yet God moves even them according to His wish, His command.”

Keep this in mind. Whatever you do—sin or virtue, good or bad—whether you draw near or wander far—remember one thing: you cannot go outside His boundary. If this remembrance remains, even sin becomes a doorway out—by its very remembrance you come back. This remembrance frees you from “virtue” as well. For this remembrance means: I am not the doer. He is the doer; I am only an instrument, a channel. Whatever He makes me do is what is done. Nothing is “my doing.” Then where can pride take hold? Where is the ego’s root? He gives birth, He sustains life, He takes it away—why should I strut? Why should I stand anxiously in the middle?

You have heard the story of the fly sitting on a chariot wheel. The chariot raised a great cloud of dust—many horses were yoked. The fly looked around and said, “Today I am raising a lot of dust!” A fly sits on the wheel and thinks she is raising dust.

You too are on the chariot wheel. This is the cosmic chariot. The dust is not rising because of you. The day you understand this, supreme peace will descend—for all restlessness belongs to the ego. The ego needlessly takes things upon itself—even those you are not doing, it carries upon its shoulders.

As soon as your understanding is clear that you are no more than the fly on the wheel, that this is a vast chariot and the dust rises from the chariot itself—on that very day you will be at peace. Who remains to be restless when “I” is not? As long as you are there, you will be restless.

People come to me and ask, “How can we be at peace?” I tell them, “As long as there is ‘we,’ how can there be peace?” They say, “I cannot find peace—give me peace.” I tell them, “As long as you are, peace cannot be given. The absence of you is peace.” Step aside. You are a fiction, a dream. Properly understood, you are a dream within a dream.

Sometimes in a dream you dream again—you dream that you’re going to sleep, lie on the bed, and then dream that you are dreaming. A dream can contain a dream—and within it another.

There is an ancient Chinese tale: A woodcutter was cutting wood in the forest. Tired, he lay down. He dreamed that a treasure was buried nearby. He went and saw jars buried—only a little dust covered them—full of jewels. He thought, “I’ll come at night and quietly take them. If I take them now, I will be caught.” He marked the spot by driving a stick into the ground and went home. At night he returned—saw the stick in place—but the jars had already been taken. He was amazed. He told his wife, “I cannot tell if I dreamed or it was real! The stick is there—that proves it was not a dream. And the holes are empty—that too proves it was not a dream. But someone took the jars.”

His wife said, “You must have dreamed it. You must have dreamed that you went at night and saw the stick and found the jars gone. Sleep peacefully.”

But another man had also dreamed that night—he saw the same jars and a woodcutter driving a stick. When he awoke, he ran to the forest. The stick was really there. He dug up the jars and took them home. He told his wife, “I don’t know if I dreamed or had a vision. Whatever happened, I brought the jars home. Here they are. This proves it was not a dream.”

His wife said, “The jars are here. And if you saw a woodcutter drive a stick, it is not right that we keep them. Send them to the emperor and let him decide.”

The man was honest; he delivered the jars to the emperor. Meanwhile the woodcutter’s complaint arrived. The emperor was perplexed. “Whether you both dreamed or saw reality—who can decide? One thing is sure: the jars exist. Let us not complicate matters; I will divide them evenly.” He split the jars in two and returned them.

That night he told his wife: “An astonishing thing happened today. Two men had such dreams. Dreams or reality? But there were the jars, so I divided them.” The wife said, “Be quiet and sleep. You must have dreamed it.”

For thousands of years in China people have debated: Who was dreaming? At life’s end it comes to the same: all that happened becomes dreamlike. It is hard to decide if there were truly jars, truly a stick, truly husband and wife and children, friends and family, wealth and sorrow, friends and foes, struggles and competitions, victories and defeats. At the time of death, a person’s whole life repeats before him—and it is difficult to decide: did I dream this, or did it happen?

Those who have known say: it is an open-eyed dream. The eyes are open, but it is still a dream—because it has no relation to that which abides. It is an in-between state—an in-between notion. What does it matter whether you saw it awake or asleep? The mark of a dream is: now it is, now it is not. So too this life: now it is, now it is not. At death, it all disappears.

And within this dream you harbor another dream called “ego.” Within all these dreams you take yourself to be the doer—and you strut. The whole world sees your ego except you. And the world does not see its own. Your ego is visible to all; their own is not.

People come to me and say, “So-and-so is very egoistic.” That very man will come and see others as egoistic.

Mulla Nasruddin used to say, “I can eat a hundred and ninety-nine kachoris.” I said, “Elder brother, why don’t you eat one more and make it two hundred?” He said, “What do you take me for—a godown?”

Up to one hundred ninety-nine it is not a godown! One’s own never appears; but if another adds one, it becomes visible. We are blind to ourselves. Without the other, we would not see. Therefore the other is a great benefactor. A seeker understands that without others you would never know your ego or your illness. That is why, in his final moments, a seeker thanks all those who reminded him—who broke the dream.

This is why Kabir says: Keep your critic close; build him a hut in your courtyard. One who criticizes you—bring him into your home. Give him a dwelling near you, for he sees what you cannot.

Until your own witness awakens, you are utterly blind. Within maya you dream another dream: “I am.” The world is illusion, and within illusion there is the feeling of a doer: “I am.” A dream within a dream—and it is the obstacle. And the day you truly see death, the first thing to fall is “I.”

What will you do before death? How will you save yourself? If breath does not come, what can you do? In the face of death, your powers collapse. That is why we keep death at a distance. Remembering death punctures pride. Our ego says, “I—helpless? I, mighty, strong—I helpless?” Better to forget death, then the ego will not be wounded.

The wise remember death—for death cuts the ego. When you comprehend death fully, how will you preserve your ego? What remains to protect? Before death there is only defeat. No Alexander, no Napoleon, no Hitler—no one has ever been victorious there. Everyone is defeated; everyone is a have-not before death. Hence we hide it. We clutch the ego, which is false, and forget death, which is true. If you truly want to go toward the One, remember death—for it is a great truth—and its greatest fruit is that the ego falls.

Chuang Tzu was returning home one night, passing a royal cremation ground. In the dark he kicked a skull. It was no ordinary cemetery; only the rich and the royal were buried there. The skull was not ordinary either. He picked it up and said, “Forgive me. Had you been alive today, what would have become of me!” He took the skull home. His disciples protested, “Throw it away. Who keeps a skull at home?”

Why not keep it? Displayed well, what could be more antique, more precious? What could remind you more? Keep it right on your dressing table: see your face in the mirror and your skull beside it.

Chuang Tzu did just that. He kept it by his side. He forgot everything else, but carried the skull. People asked him to discard it. “What are you doing?”

Chuang Tzu said, “Why are you so upset? What has this skull done to you? I keep it with me as my memory: today or tomorrow, my skull will lie somewhere just like this. Beggars’ feet will strike it. No one will ask forgiveness. And I will be able to do nothing. The skull remains the skull. I keep it so that if you hit me on the head with a shoe, I won’t look at you—I will look at this skull. Then I will smile: this is bound to be; it will certainly be. How long can I avoid it?”

When death becomes a stark fact, ego dissolves. The remembrance of death is poison to ego. That is why we forget death. And as long as ego is, you cannot awaken. The moment death is seen and ego breaks, you understand: all happens by God’s command. I am not the doer.

“He watches them, yet He does not come into their sight. This is a great wonder.”

This is astonishing. Understand it well.

Ohu vekhai, onā nadar na āvai; bahutā ehu vidāṇu.

Nanak says: He, the Lord, sees these three—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. But the three cannot see Him.

Understand. This is precious, invaluable—and the seeker should remember it. Through your eyes you see the world, and the witness hidden within you also sees your eyes—but your eyes cannot see the witness. With your hand you can touch the world, and the witness within sees your hand—but your hand cannot touch the witness.

Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh are God’s three eyes, or three faces. These faces see the world; they cannot turn back and see God. The One hidden within them is beyond their reach. Hence you will see Him only when your outer eyes close completely. With these eyes you cannot see Him. With this face you cannot recognize Him. Forget this face entirely—only then will you know Him. To go within, all the methods that take you out must be dropped; they are of no use. Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh are methods for going out—the Trimurti faces outward. What is hidden within the three cannot be reached by the three.

India tells sweet stories. Many tales say: whenever a Buddha appears—like Gautam—Brahma himself comes to lay his head at the Buddha’s feet and asks for knowledge.

This is sweet. Nanak points to this. The Buddha rises above Brahma; the realized one goes beyond all the gods. Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh are left behind—because they are three faces of the One, while the Buddha knows the One. One who knows the One is above those who know the three—even above the makers of the three. Brahma himself comes to seek the secret of the One.

It is valuable—because Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh are still three, and you cannot know the One through the three. The One is known by dropping the three. Hindus have created wondrous myths—unmatched in the world—and hard for others to grasp.

One story: Brahma created the earth—his daughter. As soon as the earth took birth, Brahma became attached to her and chased her. To protect herself, the daughter assumed many forms; whichever form she took, the father took the corresponding form and pursued her. The daughter became a cow; the father became a bull.

When these tales first reached the West, they said, “What kind of gods are these! They do not seem divine.” But India’s stories are profound. India says: the gods too are worldly; their faces look outward. Brahma can become attached even to his daughter. “Daughter” means: one becomes attached to what one has created.

Are we not doing the same? We become attached to what we create, to our own projections, our own dreams—we chase them. The desire that arises out of us—we pursue it. That is the meaning of the story: the desire is a play of our own mind; we gave it birth; it is our daughter—and we spend our lives chasing it, in countless forms, hoping somehow it will be fulfilled. Gods are as bound as men are. So Brahma must come to the feet of the realized, seeking the secret of the One.

Nanak says: It is the wonder of wonders—He sees them, the three—but they cannot see Him. Astonishing—and yet not. Astonishing because one among them is seeing; why cannot the three see? Not astonishing because how could the three see? If they turn inward, they become One; then they are no longer three.

Understand it simply. I say again and again: you will never “meet” God—because the day you meet Him, you won’t be there. Before meeting, you must disappear. As long as you are, meeting cannot happen. So “you” will never meet God. As long as you are, God is not; when you are not, God is. How will there be a meeting?

The same happens to Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. If they turn inward, they become One. Becoming One, they are no more. And as long as they are, they haven’t turned inward. Hence both a wonder—and not a wonder. And note: this is not only about Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. It is about you; they are merely symbols.

“If you must bow, bow only to Him.”

So Nanak says: Are you bowing to Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh? They cannot even see Him. He alone sees them. If you must bow, bow only to Him.

“He is primal, pure, beginningless, unstruck; age after age, of one form.”

Ādes tisai ādes.
Ādi anīl anādi anāhadu jug jug eko ves.

Bow only to the One who is always One. Seek only Him who is the beginning of all and Himself without beginning—who is before all, with none before Him; who will be at the end of all, with none after Him. Bow only to the One. Bow to anything less and you will wander.

But we lack the courage to bow to the One—because even our bowing is for a purpose. To bow to the One, you must drop all purposes. We bow with motives.

If you bow with motives, go to the gods—for they are like you. You have desires; they have desires. Ask them, and they will fulfill your worldly asks—because you and they are in tune. They may be more powerful than you, but not different in kind. Their desires are like yours. So praise them, pray to them—but you will ask only for the world. Then worship Vishnu if you want the world.

You can ask for the One only when you are ready to drop the world. And remember: only one who attains the One has attained anything; all else is wandering. How many labor in this world—and what comes of it? Yet you do not open your eyes. No intelligence awakens. So many seek, some achieve—and still nothing is gained. Here the losers are losers—and here the winners are also losers.

Two friends were sitting in a hotel, one older, one young. A beautiful woman entered. The young man sighed deeply: “Unless I get this woman, I can’t be happy. I am crazy for her. I’ve lost my sleep, my peace; I can’t think of a way. Until I have her, there is no joy for me.”

The older man said, “If you decide to seduce this woman, let me know.” The young man asked, “Why should I inform you?” He replied, “She is my wife. Since I met her, all my peace has vanished. If you manage to take her, my joy will return.”

Here those who get are weeping; those who don’t get are also weeping. Here, to be is to weep. You will find everyone weeping—the poor and the rich, the successful and the failed, the defeated and the victor. In one respect there is great equality here: everyone is unhappy.

Only by attaining the One is anything truly attained. The One has no temple. Brahma has one temple; Vishnu has many; Shiva has countless. The One has not even one temple. It cannot have a temple.

Hence Nanak named his temple so sweetly—Gurudwara. It is not God’s temple; it is the Guru’s door. Through it you reach the One; it is only a doorway. There is nothing “inside.” The name is beautiful—it is only a door to pass through. It is not a place to stop. One who stops at the Gurudwara is foolish—sitting in the doorway. What sense is there in sitting at the door? You must pass through, go beyond. The Guru is the door—do not stop there. Go beyond; beyond is the One. The One cannot have a temple.

And Nanak says: If the feeling to bow has truly arisen—if your heart is ready to bow—Ādes tisai ādes—then bow only to the One.

“World after world is His seat.”

Therefore He can have no temple.

“World after world is His storehouse; once and forever He has placed in it all that is to be attained. The Creator, having created, looks upon His creation. Nanak says: the True One’s work is true. If you must bow, bow to Him alone. He is primal, pure, beginningless, unstruck, and through all the ages of ages of one form.”

Nanak says: “The True One’s work is true.”

Nanak sache kī sācī kār.

Whatever belongs to that God is truth. Whatever belongs to you is untruth—because your very being is untrue. Truth cannot be born of untruth. Whatever you build will be houses of cards; a mere breeze will bring them down. Whatever you make will be paper boats; they will sink as soon as launched. No journey can happen in them. Everything made by ego will be untrue—because ego itself is untrue. Whatever is His is true. Whatever is yours is false.

The day you understand this, you will stop laboring to manufacture the false. You will labor to recognize the false. “Worldly” means one who is engaged in producing the false. You do not sense the falseness of your world because you are so absorbed in it. Stand a little apart and look: the falseness is immense.

A man accumulates currency notes. He never reflects that a note is only a convention. If the government changes, the law changes, and it declares those notes void, they become paper. He is piling up a social agreement—of uncertain value.

In America, during the crash around 1930, a hotel owner found his bonds worth millions had become worthless. He papered the hotel walls with them—millions in bonds became wallpaper. No other use remained.

And a man spends his life upon notes—counting them, filling his locker, not seeing that for every note he is exchanging his life. Each moment is precious. The same energy by which one meets God is being poured into notes. And notes are only conventions. Thousands of conventions have come and gone—thousands of coin forms.

In Mexico, into the early twentieth century, people used pebbles as currency. Pebbles served—because it is a matter of agreement. You use paper. Pebbles are more valuable than paper. Gold is gold by agreement. If the wind of the world changes—and it can change anytime—and people stop valuing gold and start valuing iron, you will hang iron ornaments!

There are tribes in Africa who value bones, not gold—so they wear bones around their necks; gold is useless to them. Tell them to wear gold, and they refuse.

It is all convention—and for convention you squander life. For prestige in others’ eyes, you lose life. What is this “others’ esteem”? Who are these people whose respect you crave? They are the same who crave your respect. What is their worth? If fools esteem you, what have you gained? And what measure is there of foolish crowds?

Winston Churchill went to America and spoke in a hall packed to the brim. Afterward a lady said, “You must be pleased—wherever you speak the hall is overflowing.” Churchill replied, “Whenever I see a packed hall, I remind myself that if I were being hanged, at least fifty times more people would come to watch. These very people would come to clap there as well. So when I see a full house, I first think: these are the same who would bring their children to enjoy my hanging—as a rare event. Their loyalty is not to be trusted.”

These same faces will clap when you fall, and when you rise. Counting faces, weighing their approval—where will you reach with that? Even if they hoist you on their shoulders, what is their height? How high will you be on their shoulders? Yet a man spends his life for prestige, for position, for respect.

Nanak says: Whatever comes from ego is false. All this is the ego’s seeking—and it is mutual.

The leader comes to your door, bows his head, asks for your vote. You give him your vote; he gains office. A mutual feeding of egos.

I heard of a village where the man who rang the town clock used to phone the small telephone exchange every morning at nine to ask the time. The exchange would tell him, and he would strike nine. And at nine, when the exchange operator heard the clock, he would set his watch by it. This went on for years. One day the exchange operator asked, “Who are you who calls every day at nine?” “I am the clock-keeper,” came the reply. “I ask to know when to ring the hour.” The operator said, “This is too much! Now we have no idea what time it really is—because we rely on you, and you rely on us.”

A mutual condition: I look to you, you look to me. I respect you, you respect me. I support your ego, you support mine. Thus a vast web of falsehood.

Nanak says: “The True One’s work is true.”

Seek truth first. Do nothing before that—because whatever you do before that will be untrue. There is only one thing to do: know the truth. Then do whatever you do—because then the truth within you will do it.

“If you must bow, bow only to Him. He is primal, pure, beginningless, unstruck; age after age, of one form.”

Remember “of one form.” Whatever changes is maya, world, untruth, dream. What remains forever the same, never changing—that is God. If you grasp this sutra rightly, sooner or later you will find within yourself that which never changes.

Perhaps you have noticed—or not—that within you there is something that never changes. Anger comes, but it does not remain twenty-four hours—so anger is maya. Love comes, but does not remain twenty-four hours—so love is maya. You become happy, but happiness does not last—maya. You become sad, sadness does not remain—maya.

What, then, remains twenty-four hours? The witness remains—the one that knows. It is there twenty-four hours, whether you notice it or not. Who sees anger? Who sees greed? Who recognizes love and hate? Who says, “I am sad,” “I am happy,” “I am sick,” “I am well”? Who says, “I slept well,” “I dreamed a lot,” “I could not sleep”?

Twenty-four hours there is a knower within you—awake. That is the constant. Everything else comes and goes. Hold to that, for in it there is a glimpse of God.

Hence Nanak says: bow only to Him—because He is unstruck, and through ages and ages He is of one form.

Ādes tisai ādes.
Ādi anīl anādi anāhadu jug jug eko ves.

Enough for today.