Ek Omkar Satnam #18

Nanak has divided existence and the search for it into four realms. Understand these four a little. His division is very scientific. He calls the first realm Dharma, the second Knowledge, the third Shame, and the fourth Grace.

By dharma is meant law, discipline; that by which existence runs. What the Vedas called rta. Because of rta we call the changing cycle of seasons ritu. In those days when the Vedas were written, the seasons were absolutely fixed. Not a hair’s breadth of difference. Every year spring came on the same day it had always come. Every year the rains began on the very day they had always begun. Man has thrown nature into disarray. So even the seasons are no longer seasons in that sense. For we gave the word ritu precisely because they moved by an unchanging law. There was a discipline. Because of man’s so-called cleverness everything has been thrown into chaos. Even the seasons have slipped off their tracks.

Now in the West there is great worry about this. A new movement has arisen—ecology. They say: Don’t touch nature. We have done too much damage. Leave nature to herself. Any kind of human interference is dangerous. It threatens not only nature; now even the end of man is near.

When the Vedas called the change of weather ritu, they did so because of the word rta. Rta means the unchanging law; what Lao Tzu called Tao.

The method of knowing that law is dharma. Dharma is the art of recognizing the supreme law of life, its deepest discipline. Buddha used the word dhamma/dharma exactly in the sense of law. So when a Buddhist monk says: Dhammam saranam gacchami, he is saying, “Now I go for refuge to the Law. I renounce myself and take shelter in that supreme law from which I was born and in which I shall dissolve. Now I will move supported by that alone.” To know truth is to know that law.

Nanak calls the recognition of life’s fundamental ground Dharma-hood, the realm of dharma.

We live; but we live by thinking. We take each step by thinking. And the more we step by thinking, the more our steps go wrong. Whatever we do without thinking takes us onto the right step.

You eat food. But you don’t think about digesting it. The law digests it. Try it someday. Eat, then sit and think, “How will the body digest it?” Keep your attention on the stomach for twenty-four hours—“Is it digesting? Is it not?” You’ll get indigestion that very day. For the moment thought intervenes in an unconscious law, disturbance begins. You sleep every evening; one night try thinking your way into sleep: How do I sleep? How does sleep come? Think. That night sleep will go. So it’s no surprise that people who think too much often suffer from insomnia.

Life is already happening. When a tree brings a flower to bloom, it does not think, “When shall I? Is the timing ripe or not? Has the season arrived or not?” The tree knows from its roots, not by thinking. It is inherent in it. Rivers flow toward the ocean. Do they possess any sense of direction? Do they carry a map of where the sea is? Yet an unconscious law carries them to the sea.

This vast cosmos moves without thought. And nowhere in this immensity is there any mistake. No error is happening—everything is exactly right. Only man has gone wrong. Because man does not move by the law; he moves by thought. Man thinks, “Shall I do it or not? Is it right or wrong? Proper or improper? What will be the result? Will there be fruit or not? Profit or loss? What will people say?” He spins a thousand thoughts. And in the smoke of these thousand thoughts, the straight line of life’s law gets entangled and lost. The one who begins to live without thought—he alone is siddha, fulfilled. The one who begins to live thoughtlessly—he has entered the refuge of dharma.

So dharma is not cleverness, nor is it a conclusion of your intellect. Dharma is the quest of the man who is tired of the intellect—who has been harassed by it, who has tried every trick of his own and nothing came of it, who is exhausted on all sides and helpless—his quest is dharma. He drops the intellect. He says, “Now, lead me as you will.” Nanak calls that the hukm—the command. He says, “Now I will move by His hukm.”

Do not imagine that up there sits some great personage, a Father, a God, issuing commands. No one is sitting there. The command flows without a commander. The law is functioning. The law itself is God. We have to use language that people can understand, so we create symbols. But the foolish often clutch at the symbols. They imagine God has a face and hands and feet; that he sits on a throne and commands; that we may obey or disobey; if we disobey, we are irreligious; if we obey, religious. If we don’t obey, God will be angry, wrathful, will punish; if we obey, he will reward.

All this is pointless talk. You have stretched the symbol too far. There is law. No person sits there. When you take refuge in that law, your mistakes stop. For that law does not even know how to do wrong. And when things begin to be right with you, the music of joy starts to play. Right simply means: when everything is right, there will be a fragrance of happiness around you. That is the news that things are right. If something is wrong, the shadow of sorrow will be with you. The more wrong, the deeper the worry, the more pain. Do not take suffering as punishment. No one is punishing you. Take suffering only as a signal that something went wrong.

Like someone leaves the straightforward path and wanders into the jungle; thorns begin to prick and he understands, “This is no path. No one walks here.” The thorns are no punishment. Where no one has walked, thorns will naturally prick if you go. That man searches and returns to the right path. As soon as he returns, the thorns stop pricking. There are no thorns there. When you bang into a wall, your head hurts. The wall is not punishing you. What does the wall have to do with you? When you find the door, the injury disappears—you step out.

So it is. The day you recognize the law, you have found the door. And until you recognize it, you go on colliding with walls. How many wounds are there on your head! How many scars you have gathered over lifetimes! And all the wounds ooze. They ache. And you think someone is punishing you.

No one is punishing you. You reap what you do; you cut what you sow. And if you understand this—that whenever there is sorrow, know that somewhere you strayed from nature—then whenever illness catches you, understand you deviated somewhere from nature. Illness is only a pointer. And because it is a pointer, it is beneficial. For if you felt no illness, how would you know you had strayed from the law? If there were no sorrow, how would you know you are moving against the eternal order of life? Then you would keep wandering. There would be no way to return. Sorrow brings you back. That is why in sorrow you remember God. In happiness, you forget.

Saints have prayed: O God, keep a little sorrow with us always, so that remembrance remains and we do not forget you. Let prayer continue, let us go on calling you. If there is no sorrow, how will we call? In happiness we forget and get lost.

Sorrow means only one thing: somewhere you have wavered from dharma. Do not blame another, do not blame fate, do not be angry with God. Take it as a signal and search where you moved contrary to nature. Try to come back in accord. Coming into accord with nature is dharma.

Nanak calls the first realm Dharma. He calls the second realm Knowledge.

Dharma is. The day you recognize it—that day is knowledge. Dharma is present, but your eyes are closed. The sun has risen, but you have shut your doors. The lamp is lit, but you have turned your back to it. The rain is falling, but you are deprived of being drenched. You are hiding in a dark cave. Dharma is in motion, but you have moved far away.

Coming back is called knowledge. And every human being will have to return. For man has the capacity to go far. Animals have no dharma. Plants and birds have none. Because they cannot go far at all. They are incapable of doing anything unnatural. Whatever they do is natural. They do not even have enough awareness to stray. To stray needs a little intelligence. To go wrong needs a little courage. To step off the path needs a little consciousness. You have that much. But to return to the path requires even more awareness.

So there are animals—they cannot stray; they are in the right place. That is not a great glory; it is compulsion. Then there is the ordinary human being—he has a little knowing, he can wander, so he has wandered. Then there are the awakened ones—the Buddhas, Nanak and Kabir—they have the supreme awareness and they have returned.

What is available to animals by nature, you will have to attain by sadhana. The Buddhas return to where the plants have always been. The same supreme bliss that is available to an ordinary plant becomes available to a Buddha. But there is a fundamental difference. The Buddha is filled with awareness as he enjoys that bliss. The plant stands under that rain of grace; it cannot stray, but it has no awareness either.

Nature is unconscious. The enlightened one is consciously natural. And between these two are we. In nature, bliss is effortless. Bliss is happening—but there is no knower of it. There is no one to realize and witness that bliss. As if you are lying unconscious and jewels are raining all around you. Stones or jewels—what difference does it make? You are unconscious. Then you open your eyes. You fill with awareness. And then you recognize what an immeasurable rain had been falling around you.

The Buddha attains exactly what is naturally available in nature—even to stones. He returns there. But the return is utterly new. The place is the same—the rocks stand where they are. The tree under which Buddha became enlightened—that tree is right where Buddha is. Of course—because God is hidden in every particle. But what is the difference between that Bodhi tree and Buddha? The difference is immense. The place is one; the gulf is infinite. The difference is that Buddha, alert and aware, experiences that bliss, that boundless glory. That glory is also showering upon the tree, but it knows nothing. That glory is also raining upon you, but you are standing with your back to it. The tree faces it, but the tree cannot know. You can know, but you stand turned away. The day you face it, the day your eyes lift toward that glory and you recognize it—Nanak calls that knowledge.

The realm of knowledge is man’s attainment. If there were no man, dharma would be; knowledge would not. The world would run by dharma, but there would be no knowing. Which means existence has tried to discover knowing through man. That is why man stands on a great peak. You have no idea what immense splendor is waiting to be available to you. Through you God wants to become aware. Through you he wants to awaken.

In nature God sleeps. In man he has turned on his side. In man he wants to come awake. In nature it is midnight, deep sleep. In man it is the hour near dawn. If you miss, you will remain in dark night. If you open your eyes and see, you too will become a Buddha, a Nanak, a Kabir. And until you do, pain will remain. Take this as an eternal law: if you do not become what you can, you will live in suffering. If you do become what you can, your life will be filled with bliss.

Bliss means fulfillment—attaining what you had the capacity to attain. What was hidden as a seed within you will produce a tension until it becomes a flower. If you die without singing the song you were born to sing, you will die in sorrow. And to sing that song you will have to be born again and again. Nature does not accept the incomplete. The day you become whole, that day you are accepted.

So the Hindus say: the one who becomes complete has no coming and going. He does not return—because he has sung the song he had to sing. He has attained the bliss he had to attain. His stream has merged with the ocean. There is no reason to return. You return again and again because again and again you fail. Because of your failure, you must come back. And nature will keep sending you. She is in no hurry. Nature is never in a hurry. She has endless time. However many times you collide and fail, she will keep sending you back.

I have heard: on a train a gentleman from Bombay and a gentleman from Bihar met. The Bihari asked, “Your name?” The man from Bombay said, “Vinu.” He asked the Bihari, “Your name?” He said, “Shri Shri Satyadev Narayan Prasad Sinha.” The Bombay man’s eyes popped. He said, “Such a long name!” The Bihari said, “We’re not from Bombay. We have plenty of time to call each other by name.”

God is not a resident of Bombay. There is plenty of time there. Nature is in no hurry. You may waste yourself and fail a thousand times; you will be sent back. But you will suffer endlessly so long as you keep returning in failure. Until you have sung the song you must sing, until you have fulfilled your destiny, you will not be accepted. And there is only one sorrow—one pain: that existence does not accept you; it sends you back. When it accepts you, you dissolve in it. Then there is no return.

Nanak calls the second realm Knowledge—the awakening and knowing of that which is, that which surrounds you, consciously recognized.

He calls the third realm Lajja—Shame. Because only the one who knows discovers how profoundly ignorant he is! That is why “the realm of shame.” The ignorant strut around. They feel no shame. They have no idea how full of ignorance they are. The ignorant live believing themselves wise. Only the wise know how great is their ignorance! “What do I know?—Nothing at all.”

Socrates said, “When I knew, I knew only one thing—that I know nothing.” When knowledge is complete, then you know that you know nothing. Not only that—you know that you are nothing. You are a nobody. You become a zero. Nanak calls that zero the realm of shame. Then you are filled with great embarrassment: “I am nothing at all. How puffed up I was!” A bubble of water, swelling and swelling! How we exaggerate ourselves! And to exaggerate, we find a thousand tricks.

Mulla Nasruddin was telling his father. He had returned from a river journey. He said, “Listen, such a storm came that waves rose fifty feet high.” Nasruddin’s father said, “Don’t exaggerate so much! I know that river too. I travelled it for fifty years. I have never seen such waves. Rivers don’t have fifty-foot waves.” Nasruddin said, “Come on, be sensible! Everything is going up these days. Just look at the price of grain!”

Man looks for every kind of support for his exaggerations. On those supports the biggest exaggeration stands: I am. My being is the greatest lie in this world. If God’s being is the greatest truth, then my being is the greatest lie. Because there cannot be two ‘I’s here. Existence is one. It can have only one center. But everyone—every drop—declares its “I.”

The wise feel exactly this shame. He is filled with modesty. “How I exaggerated! How I made claims where there was nothing.” A bubble of water—you touch it and it bursts. A paper boat—it floats a little and drowns. A house of cards—the wind comes and it falls. Yet how many claims we made! How many proclamations!

In a court Mulla Nasruddin was brought in—he had called the village leader foul names; he told him, “You are a great donkey.” The magistrate said, “This is not proper. To a respected man, a leader, one whom thousands vote for—you used such insulting words?” Nasruddin said, “What could I do? It’s not my fault. This very man asked me, ‘Do you know who I am?’ When he asked, I had to tell him.”

Your eyes ask others, “Do you know who I am?” Watch—someone’s foot is stepped on, someone is jostled, he turns and says, “Do you know who I am?” He himself doesn’t know. Who knows? Those who know—their “I” disappears. As long as you don’t know, there is the “I.” Ask him, “Do you know who you are?”

But he speaks with swagger. He is saying, “Do you know my position? My wealth? My prestige? I can harm you. I can be dangerous.” Your being is only a claim to harm. It is a declaration of violence. You say “Do you know who I am?” precisely when you want to claim, “If I wish, I can destroy.”

All your swagger is violence. Ego is the seed of violence. The knower says, “Where am I? I can’t even be found. Who am I? Nothing can be said.” The knower disappears. The ignorant remains puffed up. He who is not says, “I am.” And he who is—falls silent.

So Nanak calls this third the realm of shame. He says the wise are filled with shame: “What can I say? To whom can I say it? There is nothing to say—no claim.” Even before God he is filled with shame: “How many false claims I made through lifetimes. Even before you I stood puffed up. Even my prayer to you was only that you too recognize me. If I did merit, charity, built temples, mosques, gurdwaras, it was only so that you would know who I am.”

The knower is filled with a great shame. How to show my face? When God appears, which face will you show? All your faces are false. All your masks are false. You painted and polished them to show others.

Think a little! If God met you today, which face would you take to him? The one you show your wife? The one you show your boss? Or the one you wear before your servant? The one you unveil to your beloved? The one you display to the poor and destitute? Or the one you present to the powerful? Which face will you show God?

Before the powerful, your tail wags. You flatter him. Your face is full of flattery. Before the poor you stand stiff—because you expect him to flatter you just as you flatter the rich. You want him to wag his tail. The one who wants flattery from someone is himself a flatterer somewhere else. He really wants an exchange. But the one who has truly looked into himself flatters no one and seeks no flattery. There is only one God—let praise go to him alone. From whom would he seek praise? For he is all around.

Nanak says, great shame arises. Standing before truth, one finds none of one’s faces are of any use. All are dirty and false.

Zen masters say to their disciples: if you find your original face, your search is complete. Seek the face you had before you were born. Seek the face that will be with you after you die. All the faces in between are false.

Even little children wear false faces—little children! Psychologists say: if a man could awaken his memory backward, it stops around four or three. If you try to recall, you reach five, four, three—and there you stop. There is no memory from birth to around three. Why? Because then you are so simple that you have no face. What would memory be made of? There was no claim.

Ego makes memory. All memory belongs to ego. It keeps account. Up to three you are innocent. You don’t know who you are. What claim? You have none. A three-year-old returns from kindergarten laughing and shouting, “I came last in class!” He has no idea what “last” means. Ego has not yet formed. No caste or status, no home and lineage. Brahmin or Shudra—no idea. Nothing is known. The face is clean. This is the face you can take to God.

But parents start wrapping the child in falsity from day one. From the very first day a mother wants that when she looks at the child, he smiles. Even if the child has no smile, he should smile. If he doesn’t, the mother is annoyed; if he does, she is pleased. In a few days the child understands: whether or not there is a smile within, when mother looks—smile. The lie has begun. The mask is on. Then falsehood piles on falsehood.

Will you take these false faces to God? Nanak says, great shame arises. When one knows, he is filled with modesty. He searches and cannot find which face is real. The more he searches, the more it is like peeling an onion—layer after layer, a new layer appears. Remove one falsehood—another. Layer upon layer of untruth has gathered. Lifetimes of untruth. You have accumulated only lies—nothing else. But when you peel layer by layer, at the end you find nothing remains—the onion is gone and your hand holds emptiness. Nanak says: when that empty hand comes, great shame arises. You were a nothing—and yet made claims to everything. He calls this the third realm.

And the fourth he calls Grace. He says: when you are filled with shame, then grace showers. When you become empty, the Full descends—never before. Your pride is a barrier to his grace. As long as you are puffed up, you cannot receive grace. You don’t even need it—you stand on your own feet. You have no need of support. You even pray while standing on your own feet. You ask him, but that too is just one more of your maneuvers—“Who knows, perhaps a little help will come from there as well.” And when something does come, you will claim, “I achieved it.”

Mulla was climbing a tree; the jujubes were ripe. As he climbed higher, fear arose because the fruit was on the topmost branch. He said to God, “Listen, if I manage to pick these without falling, I’ll donate one rupee to the mosque—count on it.” As he neared the branch, he thought, “A whole rupee for a handful of jujubes is too much. And I’m getting there by my own effort. Why drag God into it?” When his hand reached the fruit he said, “For a rupee I can buy more than this at the market. And you haven’t done anything. I’ll offer a few jujubes.” While he was thinking thus—his hand slipped, his foot missed, and he crashed to the ground. The jujubes didn’t come to hand. He shouted up, “What’s this? Can’t you take a little joke? If you’d just been a little patient, I would have given the rupee!”

Even when you pray and worship, it is the ornament of your pride, the jewelry of your ego. And true worship happens only when you are not. When the worshiper is gone, prayer begins. Nanak says: in shame you melt, you disappear—you do not remain. And then suddenly, the moment you are lost here, you find that from there a rain of bliss is falling. It was always falling. You were so full of pride there was no space within for it to enter. It isn’t that only when you fill with shame grace begins to rain. Grace is always raining. When you are filled with shame you become empty; now entry is possible.

These are Nanak’s four realms. And this division is immensely valuable. Today we are to speak of the second realm.

धरम खंड का एहो धरमु। गिआन खंड का आखहु करमु।।
केते पवन पाणि वैसंतर केते कान महेस। केते बरमे घाड़ित घड़इहि रूप रंग के वेस।।
केतीआ करम भूमी मेर केते केते धू उपदेस। केते इंद चंद सूर केते केते मंडल देस।।
केते सिध बुध नाथ केते केते देवी वेस। केते देव दानव मुनि केते केते रतन समुंद।।
केतीआ खाणी केतीआ वाणी केते पात नरिंद। केतीआ सुरती सेवक केते नानक अंतु न अंतु।।

As soon as a person awakens to existence, he is filled with supreme wonder. He is surrounded by great astonishment. You are caught by no wonder at all. You move as if you know. The pundit never wonders. He has answers to everything—what wonder! Wonder happens to the child. He walks along and asks about everything. Don’t think he asks because he wants answers. His questions are only his way of expressing wonder. That’s why he doesn’t even wait for your answer. He throws the next question. He doesn’t care about your reply—because he is not eager for answers.

A butterfly passes by and he asks, “Why so many colors on the butterfly?” He is not saying, “Give me an answer.” “Why so many colors?” He is only saying, “I am dumbstruck. I am full of wonder.” Why are these trees green? Why are flowers colorful? Why the clouds in the sky? Why does the sun rise on time every morning? The child is asking—he is only raising wonder. These questions do not demand answers. He asks because everything fills him with astonishment.

A pundit never asks questions—for he has answers to everything. A pundit means one who has no questions, only answers. And a wise man means one who has questions, and no answers.

Understand this carefully. The wise remain dumbstruck like children—more dumbstruck. Because what can children see? Butterflies, flowers. The wise sees the entire existence. How far can children’s vision go? The wise sees through and through. And what he sees leaves him bewildered and enthralled.

These words of Nanak voice his wonder. He says, “How many winds, how much water, how many fires… how many Krishnas, how many Maheshes, how many Brahmas, how many of their creations, how many forms, colors, costumes; how many karmic realms, how many Meru mountains, how many polestars, how many teachings; how many Indras, moons, suns, how many constellations, how many worlds; how many siddhas, how many Buddhas, how many Nathas, how many forms of goddesses; how many gods, demons, sages; how many jewels, how many oceans; how many species, how many languages; how many kings, how many emperors; how many scriptures; how many realizers, how many servants—Nanak says, it has no end, no end.”

This is the sense of wonder. Nanak says, “I have no answer to this.” That is the mark of the wise. You would recognize a wise man only if Nanak gave you answers. You would have left Nanak saying, “This one knows nothing. Why this chant of ‘how many, how many’? Give some answer!” You have come asking “why” and he is listing “how many!”

You want answers; you want information—because you can possess information. Wonder cannot be possessed. Wonder possesses you. Wonder surrounds you and drowns you. In wonder you are not saved; you dissolve. You want answers because you can hold them in your fist, you can use them. With answers you can defeat others, silence their questions. Answers inflate your ego. People are not seeking knowledge; they are seeking answers. They want all answers so they may be called wise.

Remember: no one ever becomes wise by seeking answers. One becomes wise by going deep into the question. And the deeper one goes into any question, the more doors of wonder open. You enter one door and a thousand more open. Nanak is speaking of that wonder.

Nanak is a rustic—a village, unlettered man. Don’t fuss about his language. But even a rustic, when he enters the realm of wonder, becomes eloquent. In such astonishment he says:

केते पवन पाणि वैसंतर केते कान महेस।

“How many Krishnas!” When you see, you will find how many flutes are singing! How many gopis are dancing the rasa! Existence is infinite. It is not limited to your earth. And you, full of conceit, think perhaps it is limited to you. You think perhaps the whole dance is being performed for you.

It happened that a villager was caught on a train without a ticket. The ticket-checker was obstinate. The villager begged profusely, “I have nothing,” and opened his bundle to show it. The checker pulled the chain in the middle of the forest and said, “Then get down here.” The villager pleaded, “Let me get down at the next station. Any station. But not here, in the jungle.” The checker was adamant. The villager slung his bundle over his shoulder, got down, and began walking along the tracks in the direction the train was headed. The driver saw a man with a bundle walking along the track and began to blow the whistle. The villager turned and shouted, “Blow as much as you like—I won’t get on. Why did you throw me off in the first place?”

The villager thinks the whistle is for him to climb aboard! The whistle is for him to get off the track. You are asked to move aside, but you think you should stand firm and climb on. You are to disappear—that’s why the whistle blows. You are asked not to block the way—that’s why the whistle blows.

But everyone thinks all the songs are being sung for him. Everyone thinks, “I am the center and the whole universe revolves around me.” That’s why people loved the old belief that the earth is the center and the sun goes around it.

Bernard Shaw made a joke. He said, “I cannot accept the theory that the earth circles the sun. I simply cannot. The theory is wrong.” Someone stood up in a meeting and said, “In the twentieth century even children know the earth goes round the sun. What proof do you have? Science has proved it.” Bernard Shaw said, “Who cares for proof? The proof is that where Bernard Shaw lives—that earth cannot circle anything. Let the sun do the circling.”

He is joking about all our egos. You too cannot accept that your little earth could circle anything else! That is why man created such a fuss; churches opposed, priests fought, popes rejected: “We cannot accept this theory!” They asked Galileo to recant. Galileo’s recantation is remarkable. He apologized. He was very intelligent, very true. He had no silly desire to be a martyr—nor fear of it. He said, “If you insist, I will say the earth does not move, that the sun circles the earth. But my saying it will change nothing. The earth will still move around the sun. What difference does my saying make? I’ll write and sign whatever you want. But does what I say matter? This is not a theory I invented that will collapse if I deny it. It is simply how it is. Even if a thousand Galileos deny it, nothing will change.”

The reason is that man has always thought this way. And Christianity, in this respect, is poor compared to Hindu thought. The Hindus have always held that there are infinite earths. Our earth has no contract. Now science too says there are at least fifty thousand planets where life is possible. But the Hindus have always said, there are infinite worlds, infinite species. Everything does not end here. This earth is nothing. The sun is sixty thousand times bigger than it. And compared to other suns, our sun is nothing. There are suns millions of times bigger. Now science accepts that our sun is very mediocre—middle-class, not at all great. So what to say of our earth!

Russell wrote a little story. A priest dreamt one night that he had died. He went and knocked at the gate of heaven. He was astonished. He had thought that, being so religious, having served hospitals and schools, massaged the feet of thousands of patients—God would be standing at the door to welcome him. No one was there. The door was closed and so vast that however he tried, he could not see its end. He shouted. But the door was so huge that he realized his voice could never reach within. Even its echo wouldn’t return. He banged his head and grew exhausted. Like an ant at your door banging its head—would its voice reach you? All his ego was ground to dust. He had thought God would welcome him at heaven’s gate—after so much charity, merit, service, worship, prayer, making thousands into Christians—and here, no reception! What a shock!

After eons passed—by then he had shriveled, forgotten himself—the door opened. A thousand-eyed figure looked at him with great curiosity, as one might watch an insect through a telescope. He shrank even more. He thought, “This must be God.” He said, “O God, don’t look at me so intensely. Your eyes frighten me.” Each eye was like a sun; it was hard to look. The figure laughed and said, “I am not God—I am the gatekeeper. And what are you doing here?”

His courage broke. “This is the gatekeeper! I thought it was God. Facing God will be even harder.” A man with a thousand eyes, each like a sun—this is only the guard! He said, “I have come from the earth. On earth my church is renowned. I am a devotee of Jesus.” The guard’s face showed nothing. He said, “Jesus? Earth?”

He asked, “Which earth are you talking about? Index number? There are infinite earths. From which one have you come? And which Jesus do you mean? Every earth has its own Jesuses.”

Imagine that poor priest’s state. He said, “I mean the only begotten son of God.” The guard said, “You’re mad. On countless planets such Jesuses are born. And their devotees everywhere make the same claim. But the record will show—first give the number.” He said, “We never thought of numbers. We believed there was only one earth.”

“Then give the number of your sun. From which solar system do you come?”

He said, “We know only one sun.”

“Difficult—but if you wait, we’ll research and find out.” Then, they say, endless time passed; the guard never returned. The search is no small thing. He will check the index in some cosmic library, find the number. And this man knows nothing. But his hope of reception—of band and music, of sitting beside God—faded. In that panic and sweating, he awoke. It was a dream. But after that day his confidence broke.

And the dream is true. Nanak is speaking the truth of that dream.

Nanak says, “How many winds, how much water, how many fires, how many their gods, how many Krishnas, how many Maheshes.”

Had that priest asked Nanak, he would have said, “How many Jesuses!”

“How many Krishnas, how many Maheshes, how many Brahmas, how many creations, how many forms, colors, costumes, how many karmic realms, how many Merus, how many polestars, how many teachings; how many moons, how many suns, how many Indras, constellations, countries; how many siddhas and buddhas, how many nathas, how many forms of goddesses; how many gods and demons, how many sages, how many jewels and oceans; how many species; how many languages; how many kings and emperors; how many scriptures; how many servants—Nanak says, it has no end, no end.”

केतीआ सुरती सेवक केते नानक अंतु न अंतु।।

Nanak is only expressing his wonder. From this very wonder shame will arise—claims will fall away. What claim can you make?

A famous incident: the richest man in Greece, a very wealthy man, went to meet Socrates. Naturally, he carried a swagger. Those with nothing swagger; he had much. Socrates seemed to pay no attention. The man said, “Do you know who I am?” Socrates said, “Sit. Let’s try to understand.” He had a map of the world brought and spread out.

He asked the rich man, “Where is Athens?” Athens is a dot on the map. The man searched and put his finger on it. “Here!”

“In this Athens, where is your palace?” It was just a dot—how to point out a palace? He said, “How can I show my palace in this?” Socrates said, “And in that palace, where are you?” And this map is only of the earth. There are infinite earths, infinite suns—who are you? They say as the man left, Socrates gifted him that map: “Keep it with you always. Whenever swagger grips you—‘Who am I?’—open it and see. Where is Athens? Where is my palace? Who am I? Ask yourself.”

We are nothing. And we are gripped by the swagger of being everything. That is our suffering, our hell. The day you awaken and look around, what can you say you are? You will keep dissolving. You will grow smaller; God’s vastness will reveal itself. His immensity will appear; you will become a zero. He manifests only when you become utterly nothing.

And wonder will annihilate you. Wonder is suicide—not of the body, but of the whole “me.” The ego dies entirely. That is why you want answers. The wise give you questions. And they give you such questions that cannot be answered—so that you can never again raise swagger.

Wake a little, brush the dust from your eyes, and look around—does man have any answers? Science has found so many answers—but which answer is an answer? None. Every answer only pushes the question one step further back.

A child asked D. H. Lawrence while walking in a garden, “Why are these trees green?” Lawrence didn’t lack a reply. The answer is simple—ask science: “Because of chlorophyll.” But is that an answer? The question stands where it stood. We can ask, “Why is there chlorophyll in trees? What need is there for it?” Whatever answer you give, the question shifts behind it. Nothing changes. Lawrence was certainly a very intelligent man—he would have resonated with Nanak. He said, “If you want the right answer: trees are green because they are green. I won’t get into more nonsense.”

That is a poet’s answer. A seer’s answer. It does not destroy your wonder; it increases it. Is it even an answer? It is not. Lawrence is saying, “I myself am wonder-struck—why are they green? All I can say is, they are green because they are green. What more is there to say? There is no way to know ‘why’.”

The day you give up the search for answers—because every search for answers only drives the question back—that is why philosophy reaches nowhere. It keeps asking, keeps seeking answers; each answer raises new questions. Bertrand Russell wrote: “When I was a child and went to university, I chose philosophy just so that I might get answers to all of life’s questions. Now, at death, I can only say—I have not received a single answer; my questions have multiplied a thousandfold.”

So there is the philosopher—he seeks answers. Every answer raises new questions. The weak stop the journey and clutch at answers. Those who are truly courageous go on to the very end. And if anyone goes to the very end in philosophy, one day he will see the folly—that this journey is futile. And only then religion is born. Only then mystery grips you. Nanak, overwhelmed by mystery, says: “There is no end to it.”

Nanak says, “There is no end, no end.”

गिआन खंड महि गिआनु परचंड। तिथै नाद विनोद कोड अनंदु।।
सरम खंड की वाणी रूपु। तिथै घाड़ति घड़ीऐ बहुतु अनूपु।।
ताकी आ गला कथीआ ना जाहि। जे को कहै पिछै पछुताइ।।
तिथै घड़ीऐ सुरति मति मनि बुधि। तिथै घड़ीऐ सुरा सिधा की सुधि।।

“In the realm of knowledge there is the intensity of knowing.”

गिआन खंड महि गिआनु परचंड।

In that dimension of knowledge there is an abundance of awareness, wakefulness. Not of answers, not of scriptures, not of doctrines—of awareness. Knowledge means awareness. Knowledge does not mean bookish information, data, words. Knowledge means wakefulness.

“In the realm of knowledge there is naad, vinod, kautaak, and anand.”

No mention of scriptures there, no theories. Not answers. What is there? Naad—the primordial sound. It is an experience. As you awaken… As in the morning you are in deep sleep; birds are singing but you do not hear. Then you begin to awaken, sleep breaks, awareness comes; you turn over—your eyes still closed—but the birds are heard. The morning breezes touch you. The naad around begins to be remembered. In the same way there is another morning, another awakening. Right now your whole life sleeps. You are sleepwalking. Whatever you do is in unconsciousness. You fight in unconsciousness, you love in unconsciousness. Union and separation—all in a stupor.

It happened: the editor of a village paper wrote an article against drunkards. The drunkards were very angry. A burly drunk picked up a stick and went to find the editor. He barged into the editor’s office—skinny editor, burly drunk, swaying. “Where is that editor’s brat?” The editor said, “Please sit—he’s just coming.” The editor stepped outside and saw another brawny drunk coming. “Where is the editor?” he asked. “He’s inside—please go in.” And you can imagine what happened inside.

That is what is happening. No one is awake. You have no clear idea what you are doing. Why you are doing—you have no awareness of the doer. But you keep doing. It is a crowd of sleepwalkers. What can come of such relationships but hell and sorrow?

Nanak says, “In the realm of knowledge, the intensity of awareness.”

You are presently in the realm of ignorance. There, unconsciousness is intense. There sleep is the essence.

There is naad. The first happening to the knower is naad—what they called Omkar, Ek Omkar Satnam. That is the name of the naad. Omkar is only a symbol to indicate it. Existence is woven of a profound music. Existence is music. And a deep music—anahata, unstruck. No one is producing it; it is not arising from an instrument. It has no cause. The way existence is, is music. That is why you are absorbed in music. And if music absorbs you, it only means that in that music there is a slight resonance of the naad, a faint shadow of it.

A great musician is one who can catch that naad in his instrument; who can weave a thread of Omkar into music and bring it into your sleeping world. Music does not mean arousing your lusts.

There are two kinds of music in the world. One is Eastern music, explored most deeply by the Hindus. They based it on naad. When music takes you toward naad, as you listen to it, meditation begins to arise.

Understand the difference. Meditation means you will become more awake. You will be filled with total awareness—as if a lamp suddenly lights within. You have heard that a master musician can light extinguished lamps with his song. Don’t think of outer lamps—that is not the point. You are the extinguished lamp. And only if the musician is himself in samadhi—only then! Because in samadhi alone can he catch the resonance of Omkar and thread it into music and bring it into your world. If even a glimpse, a single drop of that nectar comes, you will find yourself awakening, filled with awareness—as if someone has shaken you from sleep. That music becomes meditation.

And there is the other kind—its exact opposite—that lulls you to sleep. It takes you into trance. Listening to it, your lust will be aroused. Islam therefore forbade music—because it knew only this kind that excites passion. It did not know that the Hindus had discovered another music related to the sahasrara.

Two musics exist—one connected to sex, the base center; the other to the crown. The music of the crown is naad. The music of lust is only seduction. Islam knew only that; where Islam was born, only that music was known, that drags into lust, revelry. So Islam banned it entirely: don’t even play bands in front of a mosque.

And rightly so. Because ninety-nine percent of the music in the world cannot take you to the temple—it takes you away. In the West there are thousands of new streams of music. Almost all are distorted. In that music you lose your awareness—it is like alcohol. You won’t wake up; you’ll drown more in passion. The prostitute uses that music. Saints have used music too. The music is the same, but only one who has known naad can make music into naad.

Nanak is a musician. He does not speak—he sings. Even when he answers, he answers in song. And these are not fabricated songs; they are spontaneous. Someone asks something; Nanak signals to Mardana—he begins to play; Nanak begins to sing. He has said everything by singing—because the whole existence understands the language of song. And when one is himself in samadhi, naad descends into his music.

Naad means the supreme sound silently arising in existence—like at night you sometimes hear the sound of silence. Exactly like that, twenty-four hours a naad is flowing—a rhythm of existence. When nothing is happening, still it flows. But for that you must become very quiet—only then will you understand. All inner noise must stop—only then can you hear. Right now you are filled with the marketplace. You are full of noise. You like music that increases the noise, that is chaotic, that expresses your distraction—only that is felt.

In Nasruddin’s neighborhood someone began an alaap at midnight. Nasruddin went over and said, “You should take your music program to London, Moscow, Peking.” The man said, “I never knew you loved music so much. Do you like my singing that much?” Nasruddin said, “No. At least from there we won’t be able to hear you.”

What is going on around you in the name of music is mis-music. Better not to hear it. You are already full of enough discord. All efforts are afoot to raise that poison. People dance to arouse lust; sing to arouse passion.

But remember: whatever can arouse lust can also put lust to sleep. The same thing can be poison or nectar. It depends on use. From use alone the result depends. Poison becomes medicine; and poison can also bring death.

Nanak says, the first experience in the realm of knowledge is naad. The second is vinod—playfulness. This needs deep understanding—for you cannot conceive what saints have to do with playfulness. Vinod means life ceases to be serious. It becomes light, joyous. It becomes weightless. You see sadhus and saints—grim-faced, as if the world’s miseries have fallen upon them.

Nanak says: one who has heard the naad—how can he be sad? There will be no sadness in his life; there will be playfulness. He will laugh. He alone can laugh. How will you laugh? Even your laughter is false. There is no joy in your life-breath. How can it reach your lips? One who knows can laugh. Only he can.

And Nanak says: one who has recognized naad, his way of life will be playful. You will not find seriousness in his life. You will find authenticity, not gravity. You will find cheer, not gloom. There will be no dark shadows in his eyes—there will be a festival.

The third thing is kautaak—childlike wonder. His life is full of astonishment, not answers. He does not know answers. Even what others call answers are not answers for him. His wonder is awake. He is like a small child, thrilled. Everything speaks mystery. Wherever he looks he finds an infinite mystery. Where there is an answer, the ego finds a place to stand. Where there is nowhere an answer, the ego dissolves by itself—there is no ground to stand on.

Mystery means nothing can be contained within your fist. Yes, you can enter into the mystery; you cannot capture it. You cannot lock it in a safe, cannot imprison it in scripture. Mystery does not come into the fist. It can never be controlled. Yes, you can enter it—like one enters the sea. But you cannot lock the sea in your fist. Mystery is like the sky.

So Nanak says: first naad, then playfulness, then wonder, and then bliss.

Playfulness is the surface of bliss; bliss is the depth of playfulness. Playfulness is the surface—like waves on the sea; bliss is the depth. Smiles and cheer are the ripples of that bliss rising to your lips. You can laugh because within you is filled supreme joy. Playfulness is the surface; bliss is the depth. When bliss joins with playfulness, supreme blessedness arrives in life.

Your playfulness is diseased. Unless someone cracks a dirty joke you cannot laugh. You need filth even to laugh. That is why ninety-nine percent of jokes in the world are sexual, dirty, obscene. Unless someone says something obscene, you cannot laugh. Your laughter is diseased. Unless someone slips on the road—steps on a banana peel—you cannot laugh. Where compassion is needed, you laugh. Where you should have offered support, you mock. Your laughter is sick. It is not healthy.

If a man falls, what is there to laugh at? He needs a hand, yet you laugh. Why? Because within you is the desire to bring others down at any cost. And if the one you especially want to bring down falls, you laugh more. If a beggar falls you will not laugh much. If Indira Gandhi falls, you will burst into laughter. What is there to laugh at if a beggar falls? He was already fallen—you never wanted to bring him down. But unconsciously you desire that Indira should fall, and then you laugh. If a servant falls you won’t laugh much; if the master falls, you will.

Your unconscious violence is present even in your laughter. Your laughter is poison. So your humor is not humor; it is sarcasm. That is the difference between sarcasm and playfulness. Your humor is bitter; it has sting, thorns—not flowers.

A saint laughs too. But his laughter has no sting, no thorns. And often he laughs at himself—seeing his own condition. When he laughs even at you, he laughs at himself—for he sees his own reflection in you. When a man falls, he sees humanity fall, not a person. He knows man is helpless, laughable, ridiculous. How he strutted by—tie and all, decked out in finery—and one banana peel toppled him! The banana peel played a joke!

If he laughs, he laughs at man’s helplessness, at his own helplessness—with modesty. Not with condemnation, not with the desire to put someone down. His is playfulness. He is joyful within; the ripples of his joy reach his lips.

“Shame or sheel—the very voice of the realm of knowledge.”

The deeper knowledge grows, the more awareness increases, the more the shame.

Nanak says: Sarama khand ki vani roop. And that shame itself is the voice.

The wise speak with hesitation. Fools pound the table. That is why fools gather many followers—because followers think, “Whoever shouts loudest must be right.” If someone speaks with hesitation, you won’t follow him—you will think, “He himself is doubtful.” He is not hesitant because of doubt; he is hesitant because of shame. He hesitates because it is so difficult to say.

Many came to Buddha with fresh questions. Buddha replied to very few—especially he never answered “special” questions, because there are no answers to the ultimate. Only the non-ultimate can be answered—the troubles man himself has created. But the mystery of God has no answer.

So Buddha would fall silent. Many left thinking, “He doesn’t know—if he knew, he would speak.” You cannot understand silence. The shame in Buddha—few have had such. In Buddha’s time too, there were many doctrinaires who answered everything with swagger. People flocked to them. They too encouraged: “Go ask him that question. If he has knowledge, he must answer.” You too think the one who knows must have all answers.

The one who knows loses all answers. He has none. He is filled with shame: what is there to say to you? He is ashamed that you don’t even know what you are asking.

I have been stopped many times on the road—someone grabs me and says, “Is there a God?” I am hurrying to catch a train on the platform—someone blocks me: “Just a minute: What is meditation?”

What to say to them? They don’t know what they are asking. They want answers—like two plus two equals four.

If only life were mathematics—it would be simple. But life is not mathematics. Life is poetry. It needs the capacity to understand; the ability to listen in silence. Poetry’s “answers” are not like two plus two equals four. Poetry awakens wonder; it lifts you from where you are. It does not leave you planted with an answer; it uproots you and leads you on a new journey—into wonder and toward wonder.

Nanak says: “There is no end—no end.”

“Shame or sheel is the voice.”

Buddha falls silent. When someone asks, “Is there God?” Buddha is silent. This created two delusions. The Hindus thought: “He doesn’t know. If he knew…” Ask any village pundit—he will say, “Yes, there is God,” and give proofs. If our pundit can give proofs, what about this Buddha? The simple village pundit knows!

I have heard: in a foolish country a mega-fool became leader—prime minister. He could speak—good at speech. For leadership that is qualification enough. He would shout loudly and impress people—speaking loudly people believe, “He must know something.” He was uneducated. The trouble began when he became prime minister, because the rule was that the PM must read his speeches. He could not read—but he was shrewd, as leaders are. He thought, “No problem.” He would just hold any paper—clip a piece of newspaper and put it on the dais. He would give the speech he wanted, pretending to read from the paper. Being illiterate, he often held it upside down.

A foreign guest came, heard him speak, and was shocked. Not only was it an old newspaper cutting, he was holding it upside down. He stood up and said, “This is outrageous. He is not reading what is written. He cannot—he is holding it upside down.” But the leader was clever. The villagers liked his answer: “If you know how to read, what difference does it make if the paper is upright or upside down?” The villagers were delighted. “Correct—if you truly know how to read…” The leader said, “Haven’t you heard: ‘When you can’t dance, you blame the crooked courtyard’? What does the courtyard matter? You should know how to dance. If you know how to read, any paper will do. I can read it any which way.” The villagers were charmed. He is still their leader.

People would ask Buddha, “Is there God?” He would be silent. So one delusion arose: “He doesn’t know.” The other, among his followers: “Since he is silent, God is not. Otherwise why be silent?” That is why people call Buddha an atheist. Even his own followers do. And yet no one more theistic than Buddha has walked the earth.

Nanak will help you understand: shame is the voice. When you ask, “Is there God?” Buddha falls silent. He is silent because—how to say it? With what face? Who would say it? The mystery is so vast it cannot be spoken. Buddha says something in silence; you cannot grasp it. What you grasp is bound to be wrong.

Nanak says, “The creations that happen there are marvelous and matchless.”

In that shame, new formations of awareness arise—new waves appear. They are unique, incomparable.

“They cannot be spoken of in words. Whoever tries repents afterward.”

Why repent? Because the moment you shape something into words you feel: “What I wanted to say—this is not it. It has become something else. What I meant fell behind.” And when he sees the eyes of the listener, he feels: “What I wanted to convey never reached. Ninety percent was already lost in becoming words; the remaining ten percent didn’t reach either. He heard something else.” Buddha says one thing; the ignorant hear something else. And on what the ignorant hear, sects are built. And from the Buddhas those sects get utterly cut off.

That is why one repents—whoever speaks. Those who have tried to speak have always said alongside: “Do not clutch at the words.”

Nanak himself has said this—and he must be repenting. He will look at the Sikhs and repent. He could never have imagined this army. Buddha is repenting looking at the Buddhist hordes. Mahavira repents. They must be meeting in moksha and each lamenting his fate—certainly.

For you cannot understand by hearing. The listener catches the word. Then he hauls the word around. Then a sect is built around the word. The sect runs for thousands of years. And thousands of errors and distortions are born of it. It remains on the earth like a wound, like a disease on human consciousness.

“Whoever tries repents. There are forged there surati, mati, man, buddhi.”

In that realm of knowledge, where awareness awakens, there the streams of memory (smriti), of mati (understanding), man (mind), buddhi (intellect) are formed. There all forms of consciousness are cast.

“There are forged there the insights of gods and siddhas.”

In that awareness all these forms appear—fashioned like a thousand images from clay. Buddhi, man, smriti, surati, manisha, prajna—all are forms of consciousness.

But when you awaken beyond them, you see that all these are only forms of consciousness; and anything known through them will be limited. From form you cannot know the formless. Beneath mati, buddhi, smriti, prajna is the formless thread—awakening itself; bodh; awareness; consciousness.

Catch hold of that formless and let these forms be inside. The moment you grasp that thread within, you begin to recognize the formless everywhere. Whatever you know through buddhi will be limited, shaped. Buddhi is like standing at a window to look at the sky: the sky you see is only as wide as the frame.

Consciousness takes many forms. As matter takes many forms—somewhere rock, somewhere cloud, somewhere ice, somewhere space—so does consciousness. Somewhere it is intellect, somewhere remembrance. The intellectual has buddhi; the pundit has buddhi. The sagely has surati—remembrance. Those with great memory may have no intellect—memory alone.

Often very intelligent people have poor memory, and those with powerful memory are dull. There are many proofs where great memorizers were great fools—because memory’s task is different; to retain what is. Intellect’s task is different; to find a path where there is no path, to venture into the unknown. Memory is the past; intelligence searches into the future.

Now scientists say: if there is too much memory, consciousness gets trapped in it; intelligence cannot fully develop. And all current education emphasizes memory. So if there is great stupidity in the world, no surprise. Because we educate memory, not intelligence. A child returns from university more rigid, more fixed. Blessed are those who come back with their intelligence still alive—usually it is destroyed. Repeating and repeating, memory takes over.

Memory is one thing; intellect another. And talent (pratibha) is something else again. Talent means the capacity to glimpse life’s answers intuitively—without logic. Ask the greatest scientist, Einstein, and he will tell you: whatever I knew, I did not know by intellect; it came through talent. He will have no answer as to how. Talent manifests in many ways.

Madame Curie was researching what would later win her the Nobel Prize. For years she toiled, exhausted—nothing happened. One night, in sleep, she got up, went to her desk, and in sleep wrote the answer. Then she went back to sleep. In the morning she was astonished. Where had the answer come from? Up to evening she had struggled; there was none. Slowly she remembered—it was as if she had dreamed she got up at night and wrote something. She recognized her own handwriting. In the night she had written the answer she had been unable to find by day. That is talent. All poets say this: as long as you try, nothing happens. The song descends. That is the realm of talent.

But Nanak says: all these—mati, smriti, man, buddhi, talent, sudhi—are the play of consciousness. Different molds. Whatever you know through these molds will be limited. You must go beyond them. Know the One outside; know the One within. And when you recognize the One within, only then do you recognize the One without. Because only when you are one within can you recognize the oneness without.

And when you recognize the One within and the One without, they do not remain two. Suddenly you find that the within and the without are the same. Suddenly you find that “outside” and “inside” are our constructs. The same sky that is outside your house is inside. Walls you have built; doors you have hung. You cannot partition the sky. Do you think the sky is cut in two because you raised a wall? The sky is indivisible. Whether your wall stands or falls, today or tomorrow—the sky remains as it is.

The moment you recognize the One within and the One without, both dissolve. Nonduality is born. The final summit of the realm of knowledge is the experience of nonduality—the One.

Enough for today.