Ek Omkar Satnam #19

Man is helpless—yet only so long as he is far from the Divine. Man is weak, poor, abject—yet only so long as he is far from the Divine. Our distance from That is our poverty. And the farther we drift from it, the more meaningless life becomes.

In the West, thinkers of this century have concluded that life has no meaning, no purpose, no destiny. Life is a futile tale, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. How could it not feel that way? It will feel that way. Look at your own life—so much noise! You are deeply engrossed in “big work.” You are not merely walking, you are running. But have you ever asked yourself where you are arriving? After all that running, you stand where you were when you were born. Not an iota of attainment. What have you found? If you look into your hands, they are empty. Your safe may well be full, but the safe will stay behind. You will be empty. And all the dreams of fullness you cherish have not a shred of truth in them.

Amass as much of the world as you like, at the moment of death it will all fall away. What must fall away can never truly be yours. Those who built their foundations on worldly wealth have raised palaces on sand—they will collapse. How long can you deceive yourself? Some day you will awaken; some day awareness will dawn; some day you will take stock: “I walked so far and arrived nowhere.” Your condition is like the oil-press bullock. It walks endlessly. There is much clamor around it all day because the press is turning and oil is being crushed. But where does it arrive? At dusk it stands exactly where it stood in the morning. Tomorrow its journey will begin from the same place.

Your life too is like the oil-press bullock. Decorate it as much as you like, hide it as much as you like, paint and polish it from the outside as much as you like—inside you know your heart is a beggar’s bowl. It begs, and it is empty. And it never fills. The farther one is from God, the poorer one becomes. Ownership belongs to That.

It would be one thing if we were only distant; worse, we are opposed. To be distant is not as bad as to be contrary. Whatever we do is contrary to That. If, even in our distance, we were aligned with That, revolution would happen this very instant.

Like a man in a river who struggles upstream against the current—he fights; he is not only distant from the river, he is its enemy. Here is the irony: the more you fight, the more you feel the river is your enemy. What does the river care whether you arrive or not? The river is not your enemy. It flows in its own current, in its own joy, seeking its ocean. You are moving in the opposite direction. Because of you, the river appears hostile. Because of you, enemies appear everywhere in the world. Then where is the chance to live? Time is wasted in defending yourself from enemies. How to protect yourself—that alone consumes your life.

Far from God, life will certainly be meaningless. Opposed to God, it will not only be meaningless; it will be a nightmare. Distance—dream. Opposition—dream of anguish. And what you call life is a nightmare.

Have you ever considered what a nightmare is? In a nightmare you want to wake up, but you cannot. It feels as though someone is sitting on your chest; you try to push them off, but your hands won’t move. You try to open your eyes, but they won’t open. You try to cry out, but no sound comes. This state of dream is a nightmare.

He who is distant from God is in a dream; he who is opposed is in a sorrowful dream. Look at your life—you will find the same. Eyes that won’t open, hands that won’t move, a weight that won’t lift from the chest. Yet you go on living. What can your life be but anguish?

Kierkegaard, Sartre, Marcel, Heidegger—great Western thinkers—say life is anguish. There is no way out of anxiety. Their statement is true for a long stretch. If one only studies life as you live it, life is anguish.

But there is another kind of life—Nanak’s, Kabir’s, Buddha’s, Krishna’s, Christ’s—utterly different from ours. Where we are crushed by anguish, their life dances. Where within us nothing resounds but sorrow, in them there is music, a deep soundless sound. Where we move as though heavy chains are fastened to our feet, their steps are dance and delight. Where seeing us it seems that to be is the outcome of a great sin, seeing them it seems that to be is a blessing.

There is another way to live. Its key is: not far from God, but near; not opposed to God, but aligned. Whoever begins to flow in tune with Dharma undergoes transformation. No need to fight the opposite. But the ego compels us to fight—because the ego believes the more you conquer, the greater you become.

The irony is just the opposite. The more you conquer, the smaller you become. In a poor man you may find a great heart; in the rich, the heart shrivels. The poor man may still give; the rich man loses the courage to give. The poor can still love a little; from the lives of the rich even the melody of ordinary human love disappears. Prayer is far away, God is far away; even the simple rhythm of love is lost.

The more you accumulate in this world, the more you shrink. It is a deep paradox. The more you have, the smaller you become; the sky within contracts. And what you have, for that very thing you are afraid and troubled.

Nanak says the source of strength is His grace. And His grace becomes available when you realize you are utterly helpless. Utterly! Total! Not a shred of cleverness will work there. If you say superficially, “I am helpless,” nothing will happen.

This realization must penetrate deep. It must reach the innermost core of your heart. It must resound in every cell. It should not be prayer of the lips, nor an outpouring of the throat—it must be the heart’s realization. It should be evident in your tears. It should saturate your every word and keep echoing even in your silences. Whether you stand or sit, you are such that you are utterly helpless.

What can you do? Nothing you do ever happens. From what you do, the undone is what happens. Whatever you attempt, the thing that should not occur is exactly what occurs. Nothing of your doing happens.

There is a famous saying, found in many languages: “Man proposes and God disposes.” Nothing could be more false. The situation is just the reverse: “God proposes and man disposes.” The Divine proposes, and man keeps refusing. Existence wants to give you everything.

Existence wants to be squandered upon you. But your doors are closed. It wants to shower upon you, but your pitcher is turned upside down. It wants to enter you from every side, but out of fear you have not left even a crack for anything to enter. And inside you have piled so much junk and clutter that there is no place left even to sit—no space fit for God to abide.

His grace becomes available when you become utterly helpless. The perfect realization of helplessness is humility, is shame in Nanak’s sense—lajja. Then you blush. You are ashamed even to say “I.” You say, On what basis shall I say “I am”? On what grounds shall I say anything happens by me?

Your whole life speaks the reverse. Whatever you did failed. Whatever you did was defeated and dissolved. The palaces you built fell. Still you do not awaken—you go on clinging to the doer. You still say, I am the doer. As long as you say, I am the doer, you will not be filled with humility. And Nanak says, humility is prayer. As long as you say, I am the knower, you will not bow. Can a pundit bow? He can bend his body, but his head remains stiff.

There is a famous story in Sufi lore. Two friends studied together in school and grew up. Fate and life’s journey took them in different directions. One became a great emperor, the other a great fakir. The emperor lived in a palace; the fakir wandered naked from village to village. Both became famous. When the fakir came to the capital, the emperor planned a grand welcome. The whole town was illumined with lamps and showered with flowers. “My friend is coming!”

On the road, some travelers told the fakir, “Do you know? The emperor wants to show off his splendor. He is arrogant. He has strewn flowers all along the way. Every house is lit inch by inch with lamps. The whole town is celebrating Diwali. He wants to show you who he is—and what you are—a naked fakir! The steps to the palace are plated with gold and studded with jewels. He wants to flaunt his pride.” The fakir said, “We’ll see to his pride.”

When the day came, the whole capital turned out to receive him. The emperor was astonished: it wasn’t the rainy season, yet the fakir’s legs were caked with mud up to the knees. In public it seemed improper to ask. After they had climbed the steps and reached a private chamber—and the priceless carpets and cushions had all been soiled by the fakir’s muddy feet—the emperor asked, “I am puzzled! It hasn’t rained, the roads are dry—how did you get so muddy?” The fakir said, “If you want to show your pride, I also want to show my fakiri.”

The emperor burst out laughing and said, “Come, let us embrace. Neither of us has arrived anywhere. We are just as we were when we parted from school. I have not arrived; you have not arrived.”

And remember: the emperor may yet arrive one day; for the fakir it is more difficult—because it is becoming clear to the emperor that he has not arrived.

You get puffed up with wealth; you get puffed up even with renunciation. Pride itself is the obstacle. When pride melts, that melting is humility.

Nanak says: whomever is filled with humility becomes the recipient of the Divine’s compassion. Humility is eligibility. As long as you are full of pride, you have no need of God. And that which you do not need, how will you receive it? You never truly called Him, never truly asked for Him, never desired Him. And if ever you did call, it was for something else—for your child’s illness, for a court case. You have never asked for Him for His own sake. Not for court, not for market, not for shop, not for illness, not for body—no other reason: “We want You alone.”

Until you call only for Him, your prayer is false. Your prayer too is for the world; it has nothing to do with the Divine. You are asking for something worldly—maybe, if asked of God, it will be obtained.

A rich man was dying. His lifelong arithmetic had been that everything can be bought with money. He called his priest and asked, “If I donate a hundred million rupees to your temple, will I gain entry to heaven?”

The priest said, “There is no harm in trying, but I cannot promise. I have never heard of anyone buying entry to heaven with money. But there is no harm in trying. The money will be left behind anyway. Make one last attempt.”

If you have obtained everything through money, somewhere within you you will harbor the feeling that prayer, worship, meditation can also be obtained thereby. Money is obtained through ego, through ambition. But worship, prayer, meditation are obtained through humility. They are found where all ambition has fallen away; where you have found yourself utterly futile; where nothing you do bears fruit; where you are absolutely helpless; where you see, “What can I do?”—right there.

Not only the pride of doing, the pride of knowing must fall. You are learned in the Vedas, a chaturvedi, you know the four Vedas; you have the Quran by heart; you are the greatest knower of the Bible—no, not through such knowledge will you find Him. Knowledge too is a subtle posture of the doer: “I know.” Neither your knowing nor your doing—both are faces of the same ego. Where both fall…

What do you know? Have you ever asked with full awareness: What do I know? You do not know the stone lying at your door—and you claim to know God! No one has yet fully known even a flower.

The English poet Tennyson said something very significant: “If I could know even one small flower completely, what would be left unknown? All would be known.” If you know the blossoming of one flower, you have recognized the blossoming of existence. If you have recognized the beauty of one flower, you have recognized the beauty of the whole cosmos. If you have entered the truth of one flower, what remains? Whoever knows the drop has known the ocean—for their properties are one. The drop contains all; it is the ocean’s condensed version. Whoever has known one atom has known all.

But what do we know? Our “knowledge” is borrowed, stale, second-hand. It has passed through a thousand hands. If a thousand people had already worn a pair of shoes, you wouldn’t consent to put your feet in them. But your knowledge is exactly like that. Not only have you put your feet in them—you have put your head in them. Borrowed, stale. Whether anyone ever truly knew or not, you have no certainty. You read from books, from scriptures; you hear from someone. And you don’t even know whether the one you heard from knows, whether he himself has known. More likely he also heard from someone else.

I heard of a film actress. At night, after taking off her jewelry—very clever, very cunning—she would leave a note beside it: “These jewels are fake. The real ones are in the bank.” One morning she woke to find the jewels gone. On the table lay another note: “I only need fake jewels—because I am a fake thief. The real one is in jail.”

From whom you hear, from whom you understand, whose words you borrow—are they genuine? You have no way to know. You have no touchstone to test who is real. The touchstone will be your own experience. And when experience comes, you won’t need to hear from anyone.

That’s the trouble: when the gold is in your hand, you don’t need a touchstone; when you have the touchstone, the gold is unnecessary. When you have the direct experience by which to test, you no longer need to test. And until you can test, you have a great need—but you keep covering your ignorance with borrowed knowledge. From that comes the pride of “I know.” That pride is the obstacle.

Neither knowledge nor doership—when you disappear, when both props fall, when the edifice collapses into dust—Nanak calls that fallen state “lajja,” humility. And when humility becomes dense, His grace begins to pour. Only in your humility will His compassion descend. It meets only its counterpart. Humility is like a hollow; grace is like rain. Rain falls on both hills and hollows, but the hills remain empty while hollows fill into lakes. The rain falls on all without discrimination.

Nanak says: For Him there is neither low nor high; neither deserving nor undeserving. He showers on all. But some are like hollows—they fill. Some are like mountain peaks—they are so full of themselves there is no space.

Become like the hollow—then Nanak’s humility is attained. The hollow is ready; the rain was already falling. You will become a lake—a lake of knowing, a lake of consciousness. Your whole way of being will change. “You” will no longer be. A hollow means you are gone. Within you, God has become. Then you are not helpless. Then none is more powerful than you.

“The speech of the Realm of Grace is power.”

“Within the Realm of Karam the speech is power; there is nothing else there. There dwell warriors, great in might; in them Ram pervades, overflowing.”

“Just as one becomes filled with humility, grace begins to pour and fill. The destitute becomes a sovereign. The saints have said: by His grace the lame cross mountains; by His grace the blind begin to see.” These are not about the physically lame or blind—they are about you. The deaf begin to hear.

As long as you are full of ego, your ears will remain deaf, your eyes blind, your heart stone—rock-like. There will be no sensitivity, no perception. You will remain almost dead. Your life will be like a lamp flickering to die; the last oil nearly spent. You will not blaze into life. Your life will lack urgency, density, depth of feeling. Your heart will throb like a corpse. Life will not be a flood. You will not only be full—you will have so much you can share. Within you will be an inner splendor, a fragrance that never runs out however much you give. A source of life inexhaustible.

This happens with grace. It’s a great reversal, a paradox. Hence the saints’ words sound mysterious—simple, yet arcane. They say, “Die—so you can be.” They say, “Lose yourself—so you become worthy to receive. Die—so immortal life may be yours.”

You keep saving yourself—therefore you do not exist. The more you clutch at yourself, the more poor, the more meaningless you become. The more you try to hold yourself together, the more you wander. Upside-down teachings—immediately they don’t make sense, because they are the very opposite of our logic. Our logic says: if you want to be saved, protect yourself. The saints’ logic says: want to be saved? Lose yourself. Has anyone ever saved themselves by clutching? Our logic says: beware of death; grip life tightly. The saints say: those who gripped, died sooner; even before their time. Those who went to meet death of their own accord knew the nectar. They found that death is only a face—behind it immortality hides. Out of fear you fled death and missed the nectar. You went to embrace death, and met the immortal.

In the realm of grace, the hallmark is power.

I am reading Carlos Castaneda’s fourth book, Tales of Power. It pertains to this fourth realm. As soon as a ray of the Divine descends into your life, you become infinitely powerful. An immense capacity arrives. You touch clay and it turns to gold.

Before, it was the reverse—you touched gold and it turned to clay, because “you” were there. Now wherever your gaze falls, heaven appears. Before, wherever your gaze fell, hell appeared. Wherever your feet stepped, inauspiciousness followed. Whatever you did turned to melancholy. You went to love and it became hatred. You went to make friends and enemies were born. Whatever you did—because you were wrong—produced the opposite. You were moving contrary to God—the source of power. You had your back to Him. Because of you, nothing could happen. Now “you” are gone; now all is possible. Now a magic enters your shadow. Wherever your eyes fall, heaven’s gate opens. Wherever you sit or stand, the fragrance changes. Whoever stands in your company becomes anointed by your glory; a little fragrance clings to him.

That is why Nanak says: Sadh-sangat—company of the holy. Live near those who have found the source of power. Sit with them. Their satsang is blessed. Because just by sitting near them…

Power is contagious. Health is contagious. Not only disease catches—remember this—health also spreads. Not only evil infects; goodness too descends and flows through you. Near a fresh person you feel fresh. Near a stale, depressed, dead person, soon you begin to feel dead. Sit with a group of long faces sunk in gloom; in a short while you will find you came one way and you leave another—you too are sad, you too weep. Sit for a while where people smile and blossom; you may have come weeping, but your tears will dry and a smile will appear.

Man is not so separate as he thinks. Deep within we are connected, we flow into one another.

Nanak presses greatly upon sadh-sangat. What can happen by your doing? Stay near those who have found His support. Through them, His hand will touch you. Through them, His breezes will reach your heart. Even if someone just passes by a garden, a little fragrance clings to his clothes. Even one who passes by a Buddha—without cause, by sheer coincidence—Buddhahood’s fragrance clings to his garment. He is no longer the same; something is changed.

Sadh-sangat is precious. To connect directly with God today is difficult—because you do not know His whereabouts. The saint is His symbol, His sign. You can find the saint. Where will you look for God? The saint is one in whom God has become dense—where His rays converge. The saint has gathered the Divine into his person as a lens gathers the sun’s rays into a point.

God is in you too, but diffused. It does not ignite fire—just a lukewarmness by which you somehow live. In the saint there is fire. He is fire. Near him you too will feel the heat. Near him something in you will burn and be consumed.

The day His grace begins to fall, you become powerful. But take heed—this power is not yours. If the pride arises that it is yours, even the grace that has come will be lost.

Till the end there is danger—because till the end a subtle ego follows. It is the last thing from which man is freed. It follows like a shadow—not a footfall, not a sound; it walks behind, so you cannot see it. Like the body’s shadow, the ego is the shadow of consciousness. That is why it is said that one who attains God casts no shadow. Do not take this to mean that his body casts no shadow in sunlight. That shadow still appears. But the inner shadow disappears. He walks, sits, speaks—life goes on—but no shadow forms. His consciousness has become transparent. He is no more.

Do not imagine that “you” will become powerful. His compassion will fall and pour—and you will not be there. He will be powerful through you. You will be an instrument. This word “instrument” is vital. As a flute gives voice to the player’s song—the flute is only an instrument. The song is not the flute’s. The song is the player’s. And what is the flute’s excellence? Have you noticed? It is hollow. Its hollowness, its emptiness, is its excellence. Because of that, the song flows through. The day compassion pours over you, you become like the flute.

Kabir said, “I am only a bamboo reed. All the songs are His. He sings. I am only the medium, the vehicle. And my only excellence is that I am hollow—a hollow bamboo.”

“In the Realm of Grace, the speech is power.”

There, supreme energy speaks. A dense magnetism envelops one upon whom compassion descends. You are drawn. If you try to resist, you cannot. If you try to escape, you fail. You are pulled. A mysterious attraction binds you to that person. Despite all your efforts you find yourself drawn.

This is what it means that in that realm, power speaks—power is the very language.

“There is nothing else there but that.” Nothing but God’s power abides there.

“In that realm dwell mighty heroes, great warriors—in them Ram is present, overflowing.”

As soon as one attains this, he becomes a mahavir—a great warrior. On our own we were destitute; with God’s support we become great warriors. But all the energy is His. All belongs to Him. We step aside, we give way.

“In them Ram resides, brimming.”

“There, within His glory, Sita alone abides.” “In that glory Sita is present.” “Her form cannot be described.”

This must be understood deeply. One into whom His power descends becomes filled with a double energy—both masculine and feminine. Not only Ram descends; Sita descends too.

Ram and Sita are symbols, but profound ones. If only Ram descends, the person remains incomplete—half. Masculine power will come, but alone it is destructive. Without the descent of the feminine—the grace, the gentleness—the figure is incomplete. Look at a statue of Ram alone—how incomplete he seems. Place Sita at his side—only then is he complete.

Why? Because the feminine is a second dimension of power that brings balance. Masculine energy alone births a Hitler—destruction—because no opposite force balances it. The feminine—Sita—is not present. The feminine is creative; she is mother, giver of life, linked to the source of life, gentle. Her power is compassion, tenderness; her energy is not like the sun, but like the moon—cool. Power, yet cool. Where sun and moon meet, where intensity and gentleness, fierceness and humility meet—there are Ram and Sita.

This is a deep Hindu insight, little understood. Christians, Muslims, Jains, Buddhists have not grasped it. The Jains cannot accept Ram as God because Sita stands beside him. “What God is this who has a woman at his side?” Their logic: God must be unattached, dispassionate. Mahavira is God, because he is dispassionate—no woman anywhere near.

The Jains went so far as to deny that Mahavira ever had a wife, a child. They even changed history. Mahavira had a wife, and a daughter—mentioned in Jain scriptures. She married; Mahavira had a son-in-law. They erased it all—because they could not bear the idea that Mahavira had a wife, had a child, that Mahavira engaged in intercourse. Unthinkable. So they changed the story, left Mahavira utterly alone.

In Mahavira there is intensity, but without gentleness. One pole is missing. Therefore Jain thought could not become far-reaching. No civilization arose from it—only an ideology. If you ask the Jains to build a village of only Jains, they cannot—who will do the cobbler’s work, the sweeper’s work, clean the streets, cut hair? It is not a culture; it is a thought—crippled.

Its deep cause is the rejection of woman. From that, crippling arises. In Jain doctrine, a woman cannot gain liberation; she must first be born a man. There is no equality for woman. Only the man can attain.

You will be surprised at the reason: a man can attain celibacy; a woman’s menstruation cannot be stopped. Even if she becomes celibate, menstruation cannot cease. Until celibacy is total, how can one be free? The Jains never understood. Ram is hard for them to understand; Krishna is impossible. Buddhists did not understand. Islam and Christianity are far away.

But the Hindu insight is profound: power has two faces—one appears as woman, the other as man. Woman and man themselves are not the point—they are two modes of Shakti that balance one another. In man there is intensity without gentleness; hence all gentle qualities are feminine—compassion, tenderness, mercy—feminine words, as they should be.

Hence when someone attains the ultimate, within him the masculine and feminine unite. He is fierce—and gentle. Sun and moon both are there. There is heat—and a deep coolness. When these two are integrated, the Supreme Person is born. That state is beyond male and female, because it is their union. One arises where two have merged in a profound embrace.

Thus Nanak’s sutra says: Ram alone is not enough. Ram is present, overflowing—and within that glory Sita is present too.

“In them Ram abides, overflowing. There, within that glory, Sita is; Her form cannot be described.”

And then, “Her form cannot be described.” You can discuss the form of woman or man; but where Ram and Sita are one, description becomes difficult. Opposites have merged. Whatever you say, the opposite is also present.

In Japan there is a statue—half face of Buddha. In the hand on that side, a lamp—the light falls on Buddha’s half-face, which is soft, feminine. In the other hand a sword—the gleam falls on the same face, making it seem like Arjuna’s, a warrior’s.

The samurai—Japan’s warrior class—worship this image; half Buddha, half Arjuna. Feminine and masculine together.

Nietzsche criticized Buddha as effeminate. There is some truth—Buddha embodies the feminine entirely. The masculine streak is not visible—utterly calm, compassion-full, a moon, cool; the sun is lost.

The Hindu places Ram and Sita together, Krishna and Radha together—not only together, but always taking the woman’s name first: Sita-Ram, Radha-Krishna. Because the woman is the mother, the first. Man is second—intensity is second. Compassion is first. And when ferocity is suffused with compassion, its beauty is infinite. When energy is hidden in tenderness—how to describe it? Like cool fire—how to describe it? Where opposites meet, words fail.

Hence Nanak: “Her form cannot be described.”

“Those in whose hearts Ram abides—neither do they die, nor are they deceived. There dwell the devotees of countless worlds. Carrying the True Name in their hearts, they rejoice.”

Those in whose hearts God abides, who are filled within by Him—such have no death.

Understand this a little. You have death. God has no death. Waves arise and fall; the ocean remains. As long as you identify with the wave, you will die—that is why we are so afraid. Identification with the wave makes death certain. The wave will die; the identity you have taken will die. You have made the wrong connection.

But if you are connected with Ram, with the Divine—what death? The wise man dies before dying. He breaks his false identification himself. He knows: I am not the body, not the mind—both will die. I am not the ego—it will die too. It is a tiny upsurge of waves. No matter how beautiful a wave seems, how high it rises—one moment it boasts of touching the sky; the next its dissolution begins. Ask the old what becomes of those youthful boasts.

I have heard: a fox went out at dawn seeking breakfast. The sun rose behind her; her shadow grew long. Seeing her long shadow she said, “Today I will need at least a camel for breakfast! Such a long shadow—how big I must be!” What else did she have to measure herself? Her shadow was her mirror. “I will need a camel!” She searched and searched. By noon the sun was overhead; the shadow shrank to almost nothing. She could not find a camel—how could a fox find a camel? And if she did, how would she eat it? Hunger increased. Looking down, she saw her tiny shadow and said, “Now even an ant will suffice.”

In youth, the wave stands high—hence youth is foolish. The East has never trusted youth. The West does—and the trouble grows. The East never gave youth a high place—why honor foolishness? It is the wave’s height. In that big shadow, big dreams arise. Everyone wants to be this and that. The East honored old age—when the shadow shrinks to nothing. And if even in old age you do not awaken from ego, when will you awaken? In youth, if you awaken, you are glorious; if not in old age, you are utterly foolish. Youth’s failure may be forgiven; old age’s cannot.

As soon as one begins to look at life awake, he sees he has tied himself to the wrong—body. If you look at the body, it changes completely every seven years, yet you remain. In your mother’s womb you were so small a microscope would be needed to see you—that was your body. When you die, your family will carry a small pot of ash to the Ganga with flowers—that too will be your body. Between, how many ups and downs! If you identify with body, you will tremble before death. Therefore the wise die before dying; by their own hand they die.

It is said that one night Nanak rose from home and went to the cremation ground. His family searched and found him there. “Is this a place?” they said. “If you wanted to meditate, meditate at home or in a temple. Why at the burning ground?” Nanak said, “I thought: where I must go in the end, why go on someone’s shoulders? I came on my own. And where I will reach at last, I should first see well. Here I will meditate—because meditation is dying. What else is meditation?”

If you meditate on death, slowly death recedes. As your meditation deepens, the outer husk of death peels away. Within, you find the immortal. The wave dissolves; the ocean is found.

Buddha would send his monks to cremation grounds: “If you want Buddhahood, go there. Watch bodies burn; watch bones turn to ash; watch skin smoke and flame. Watch your kinsmen beat their heads in grief. Those whom you trusted, as soon as you die won’t keep you a moment—how quickly they lift the bier and rush. Those who swore to be with you forever tire of crying in four days and return to their business. When all leave the corpse, sit quietly watching it burn. Such will be your condition—today or tomorrow; it is only a matter of time.” Buddha would first send them to pass through death; then the work became easy.

For three months, a monk would watch death, day and night—death dense on all sides; everything seems to burn. Yet he finds a certain awareness within which cannot be burned. Fire cannot touch consciousness. Awareness and fire never meet. He returns more conscious, and breaks his old identifications. Then Buddha says, “Now it is easy.”

Ibrahim was a Sufi fakir, once an emperor. After becoming a fakir he lived outside his capital. Travelers passing by would ask for the way to town. He would say, “Go to the left; never go right.” Many went right and got lost, then returned angry: “Are you crazy?” When they went right, they found the town. Ibrahim would tell them, “I too lived in that town. But I realized it is a cremation ground. Everyone there is waiting to die. What kind of town is a waiting room for death? And where the cremation ground is—what you call cremation ground—whoever settles there never again gets uprooted. Whoever is settled there is settled. That I call a true town.”

Our towns are cremation grounds; our cremation ground is the final town. The wise die before death. The ignorant, even at the last breath, keep trying: “Let me survive, let me survive.” The wise die once; the ignorant dies a thousand times. The more you cling, the more you must die—again and again—until you learn.

Death is a schooling. Like a child failing the same class and being sent back again and again. Death is a great schooling—until through it you recognize the immortal, you will return again and again.

A singer was performing. The hall cried, “Once more! Once more!” The crowd kept demanding. Eight times already, his throat was hoarse, he was tired. He said, “Friends, thank you for asking so many times. But now I am tired. I will sing one last time, then do not ask—no more ‘once more’.” A man stood up and said, “Who is asking ‘once more’ for your song? Until you sing it right, we’ll keep asking. You are singing all wrong. Until you get it right, we will demand again and again.”

Coming and going is God’s repeated demand that you sing rightly. It is part of training; it must be passed through. Once understood, you break the identification with death.

Nanak says: “Those in whose hearts Ram abides—neither do they die, nor are they deceived.”

They do not die, nor are they deceived. No matter how clever or skillful you are, you will be deceived. Not because another deceives you—but because you deceive yourself. No one else can rob you. Your wrong connection is what allows it. Because your vision is distorted, enemies seem everywhere; everyone seems ready to rob you.

Ramakrishna told of a kite that flew off with a piece of meat. Many kites chased it, pecking and attacking. To protect its meat, it struggled hard; but the flock was large, its wings were bloodied. At last it let go. As soon as it dropped the meat, all the other kites left it alone. It settled on a tree to rest. Ramakrishna said, “The day I saw that, I too dropped the piece of meat. Then I had no enemies. None was ever my enemy. The piece of meat was the mischief.”

As long as you clutch wealth, there will be enemies. As long as you clutch position, there will be enemies. There are no enemies—the error is in your clutching. As long as you clutch something, even friends will look like enemies.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was very angry—ranting senselessly. Mulla stood simple and quiet, hands in his trouser pockets, as husbands often do. After much abuse she cried, “Stop it! Why are you standing there with your fists clenched at me in your pockets?”

Fists clenched in pockets? The poor fellow is standing in self-defense. But when you are angry, all hands seem like fists. Even hands in pockets look like fists. Your vision creates your world. And as long as you clutch the piece of meat—your body—you will be deceived. No skill will save you.

Kabir says, “What is your cleverness worth, when with a lamp in your hand you fall into the well?”

Your cleverness is worth two pennies. You say you have the lamp of consciousness—yet you fall into the well.

You will be deceived because you are preparing to be deceived—you have joined yourself to the false. Whoever joins the false has paved his own way to be cheated. Clutch the meat, and the kites will swoop.

“Those in whose hearts Ram abides neither die nor are deceived. In that realm dwell the devotees of countless worlds. Carrying the True Name in their hearts, they rejoice.”

“Sach Khand abides the Formless One. Creating creation, He gazes upon it and showers grace. There are regions, universes, and galaxies—whoever describes them reaches no end. There are worlds upon worlds of forms—according to His command, so do they act. Gazing and contemplating, He is delighted. Nanak says: to speak of this is to chew iron.”

These are the four realms of the path: dharma—nature; gyan—awareness of that nature; saram—lajja, humility born of understanding one’s state; and karam—grace—allowing His compassion to descend, not erecting obstacles. Four realms of the journey; the fifth is the goal: Truth.

“In the Realm of Truth abides the Formless One.”

This is the destination.

“He creates and, with His glance, blesses.”

Here the need to speak of realms ends. When His compassion fills you completely, when you are wholly washed, nothing of yourself remains—you flow utterly. You seek and cannot find yourself. You do not know where you have gone. There is no sense of “I.” Awareness is complete—but there is no sense of “me.” You search and find only Him; there is no “I.” Where such realization is absolute—there you do not remain even as an instrument. In the realm of grace you remain an instrument—a flute; the song is His. Now even the flute is gone. Now you are not; only He is. Now not even one remains to say “Thou alone art,” because as long as you say “Thou,” some trace of “I” remains—who will say it otherwise?

“This is the Realm of Truth. Here the Formless abides. He creates and blesses. There are regions, universes and galaxies without end. There are worlds upon worlds of forms; as His command, so their doing. Gazing and contemplating, He delights. Nanak says: to describe it is to chew iron.”

One supremely important point—bind it to your heart. Nanak emphasizes it again and again: God did not create the world and then stand apart from it. He did not turn His back, nor retire, nor forget. He is creating at every moment. Creation did not happen once and cease; creation is eternal, ongoing. In truth, creating is God’s way of being. He is making, moment to moment; He goes on making. And He is not far—He delights in what He makes.

This is crucial. We tell the seeker, become detached, and you will find God. But God Himself is not detached. Were He detached, creation would break and stop. Why should life continue? We tell the seeker to be detached—because as long as you are attached, you cannot know God. When you become one with God, a new attachment, a new rasa arises—where dispassion and passion are not two; where detachment and attachment are not two; where all dualities fall.

God creates—fully attached, yet detached. How will you understand? It is difficult. Hence Nanak says: it is like chewing iron. He is creating—so there is love, involvement. But it is not blind attachment like ours—not possessiveness, not ownership. He creates and leaves you free. That is why you can wander, sin, go towards evil. He does not drag you away. He loves you, yet does not hinder your freedom. You are utterly free. And yet He is not indifferent. This is the subtlety.

Understand it. There is one mother attached to her son—she kills his freedom. “Don’t go there, don’t do that, sit like this, stand like that”—out of attachment she will throttle him. In love she destroys him, not allowing him even enough freedom to stand on his own feet, to gather his own experience. She cripples him. With such a mother, the youth will never mature. Even after she dies, he will struggle to become an adult. He will find it difficult to fall in love with another woman—the mother will pull him from behind. He will feel guilty loving anyone other than his mother.

This mother’s attachment was blind. A seeing love protects you but does not terminate your freedom; it protects you so that you can be free. It restrains you so that you may become capable of going. It strengthens you, supports you—but only so that you may stand on your own. The support does not become paralysis.

Then there is another mother. If we explain that her attachment is dangerous, she removes it and gives license, not freedom. Now the boy may go anywhere, do anything—drink, visit prostitutes, gamble, steal, kill—“What can we do? We must give freedom.” This mother has turned her back. First there was blind attachment; now there is blind indifference. Balance is between these two.

That very balance is God’s nature—His way of regarding creation. He protects you so that you can be free. He gives you freedom so that one day you can surrender. Opposites meet here. He gives you the chance to go far—if you do not go far, how will you come near? He gives you the chance to err—if you do not err, how will you mature? He gives you the chance to fall—if you do not fall, how will you learn to stand?

And yet He protects you. He follows you. His eye is everywhere; His shadow is everywhere; He surrounds you from all sides. However far you go, He remains near—so that whenever you need, you can turn and find Him. The moment you bow your head a little… whenever you just remember to bow, you can see Him.

“In the mirror of the heart is the Beloved’s image—when I merely inclined my head a little, I saw.”

However far you go, He walks behind. He does not obstruct you; He does not say, “This is wrong.” He lets you even be wrong. Yet He does not withdraw His energy, and He waits—eagerly—for you to return. When you return, He rejoices.

Nanak says, “Gazing and contemplating, He delights.” It is truly hard to say, because there all opposites come to rest, contradictions unite. We can always choose one extreme. Every extreme is dangerous.

A husband is excessively possessive—haunts his wife like a ghost. Whom does she speak to? Does she laugh with anyone? He frets even at the office, runs home frequently. If she smiles at someone, he suffers. He cannot conceive how she can laugh without him. In Kalidasa’s style—if he is away for fifteen days, then in his imagination his wife should become skin and bone with longing, sending messages via clouds. His encirclement does not fill her with love, but with boredom and subtle disgust. Once full of love, her love dies—because where freedom dies, love dies. The garland of love becomes a noose. Even a diamond necklace can become a rope for hanging. As it tightens, the wife’s love empties; she longs to be free. The more she seeks freedom, the more the husband tightens the circle like a madman.

I explained to him that this is madness. You are killing love. Love too needs breath, needs a little distance, a little aloneness, privacy. Don’t hound. You are committing suicide with your own hands.

After much explaining, he “understood”—and began neglect. Now even if the wife sleeps with another man, he says it doesn’t matter: “I have dropped possessiveness. I have nothing to do with it. Whatever she wants, she can do. I have no relation.” He knows only one bond—the noose.

This is typical of man: either total license, as in the West; or total bondage, as in the East—both extremes deadly.

To speak of God is indeed to chew iron—because He is both. He gives you absolute freedom—and His love is not less by a shred because of that freedom. He frees you. And love, if true, frees. In His love and in His granting of freedom there is no contradiction. He does not restrain—not even when you go towards evil. He waits for your return, and when you return, He rejoices.

“He gazes, and, contemplating, He is delighted.”

He cares about you, thinks of you. When flowers bloom in your life, He rejoices. He is not standing indifferent. His non-attachment is filled with deep rasa of attachment. He is far and yet near. He has “left” you for freedom, yet He has never left. He stands with you always. Your sorrow touches Him; your joy delights Him. You are not a stranger in this world. This is your home. You are not alone. God is with you.

For the devotee, this assurance is profound. Otherwise, nothing matters. If you drop the idea of God, the world becomes indifferent. It does not care what you do, whether you live or die. Storms may come and erase you—no matter. There is no one there. You are a coincidence.

But for the devotee there is assurance: He is no accident. God will rejoice. There is someone at home waiting. The house will not be empty. When you return to your nature, you will find God waiting—not only waiting, but celebrating your return.

Jesus tells a story again and again: A rich father had two sons. One went astray. When he came of age, he demanded his share, left for the city—there were no casinos or brothels in a village. In the city he squandered everything—became a beggar. The father heard, grieved and suffered; but he knew he could not force—only wait. Only understanding can bring him back; insistence is dangerous and will drive him farther.

The elder son stayed, doubled his wealth, labored in fields and vineyards from dawn till dusk.

One day the beggar son thought: “Begging I will die. I can return. My father lives—and I trust his love. He who gave me such freedom, who never even told me ‘this is wrong,’ who let me learn for myself—his compassion will not reject me.” He trusted his father. He sent word: “I am coming home.” The father arranged a celebration, had the finest sheep slaughtered, prepared delicacies. The son is coming! The village was adorned; friends were invited.

The elder son heard in the fields: “This is too much! You have served this old man your whole life, never disobeyed, doubled his wealth—yet never has there been a celebration for you. But now this corrupt fellow comes back—who squandered everything in brothels, taverns and gambling—and there is a feast! Injustice!”

The elder also felt it was unjust. He returned home sad and heavy seeing the lights and flowers. He went to his father and said, “This is unjust. I serve you, and never was there a celebration for me. He returns, and there’s all this?” The father said, “You have always been with me; you never went astray. The question of welcoming you does not arise—you are always welcome. You are close to my heart. But for the one who went astray, for whom I suffered—never for you—there is a need for celebration.”

When the lost returns, there is need for ceremony. Jesus said: the virtuous, the saint, are like the elder son. The sinners are like the younger. Jesus introduced a radical insight—here he clashed with Judaism. The Jews believed: whoever errs, God will punish. Jesus said: God will welcome—because He is love. You cannot destroy His love by your wrong-doing. However far you go, you cannot go far from His heart. You can turn your back—but He will not. He is Father.

We have a deep relationship with existence—and existence rejoices. The Hindus have known this for ages: when one attains Buddhahood, flowers bloom out of season. Where a Buddha walks, out-of-season flowers bloom—because existence rejoices.

Nanak says the same: “He gazes and delights.”

And God is very happy when someone returns. Freedom and love together! Whatever you do, you cannot make Him angry. His love is deeper than all your doings. But His love is not our attachment that seizes your neck and becomes bondage. God is not a prison—God is love. Love plus freedom. Hard to say—because these are opposites. Either you love and you steal freedom, or you grant freedom and dismiss love. Attached and unattached; raga and viraga—where the opposites unite, there is the great confluence.

Therefore Nanak says: “To speak of Him is to chew iron.”

Enough for today.