Ek Omkar Satnam #2

There are two ways to live life. One is the way of struggle, the other is the way of surrender. Struggle means: my will is separate from the will of the Whole. Surrender means: I am a limb of the Whole. The question of my will being separate does not arise. If I am separate, struggle is natural. If I am one with this Vastness, surrender is natural. Struggle brings tension, restlessness, anxiety. Surrender brings emptiness, peace, bliss—and ultimately supreme knowing. Struggle feeds the ego; surrender dissolves it. The worldly person is the one struggling. The religious is the one who has dropped struggle and surrendered. Going to temples, gurdwaras, mosques has nothing to do with religion. If your tendency is to struggle, if you are fighting with the Divine, if you want your will to prevail—even through prayer, even through worship—if you still have a will of your own, you are irreligious.

When you have no personal desire, when His desire is your desire; wherever He leads, that is your destination, you have none apart. However He moves you, that is your motion—you have no ambition of your own. You do not decide. You don’t even swim, you float...

Look into the sky sometime! A kite rises very high. Then it stops even flapping its wings. It spreads its wings and simply floats on the wind. When such a state of floating arises in your consciousness, that is surrender. Then you don’t flap your wings. You float on His winds. You become weightless. For weight is born of struggle. Weight is born of resistance. The more you fight, the heavier you become; the heavier you are, the lower you sink. The less you fight, the lighter you become; the lighter you are, the higher you rise.

And if you drop struggle totally, your height is the very height of the Divine. Height has only one meaning—becoming weightless. And ego hangs around your neck like a stone. The more you fight, the more the ego grows.

It happened that Nanak halted outside a village. It was a village of Sufis, their great center. The Sufi master there was renowned. The whole settlement belonged to Sufis. The master got the news, so early in the morning he sent a cup brimming with milk to Nanak. It was filled to the brim—there was no room for even a drop more. Nanak was resting near a well. He plucked a flower from a nearby bush and placed it in the cup. The flower floated. What is the weight of a flower! It asked for no space. It floated on the surface. And he sent the cup back. Nanak’s disciple Mardana was puzzled: What is this about? What’s the mystery? What just happened?

Nanak said, the Sufi master had sent word: “Our village is full of the wise; there is no space left.” I have sent word back: “I carry no weight. I will not occupy any space; I will float like a flower.”

Only the weightless are wise. Where there is weight, there is still ignorance. And when there is weight in you, you wound others. When you become weightless, your way of living becomes such that causing hurt is impossible. Nonviolence flowers on its own. Love begins to bloom on its own. No one can “do” love. Nor can anyone paste on compassion. If you become weightless, all these happenings occur by themselves. As a shadow follows a man, so hatred, violence, enmity, anger, killing trail the heavy man. Behind the light one, love, compassion, kindness, prayer trail on their own. Hence the fundamental question is to topple the ego from within.

How will you drop the ego? There is only one method. The Vedas called it rita. Lao Tzu called it tao. Buddha called it dhamma, Mahavira called it dharma. Nanak’s word is hukm—His Command. The one who starts moving by His Command, who does not stir from his own side, who has no private feeling, no personal desire, who does not want to impose himself—such a one has come under His hukm. This is the religious person.

And the one who has come under His hukm has attained all; nothing remains to be attained. For to obey His hukm is the doorway to reach His heart. To obey yourself is to drift away from Him. To obey yourself means you have turned your back on God. To obey His Command means your face is now toward God. You may run all your life with your back to the sun—you will remain in darkness. Turn your face to the sun this very moment, and the darkness of lifetimes will be cut through.

There is only one way to come face-to-face with the Divine: drop your will. Don’t swim, drift. Float; that is enough. You are carrying a burden without cause.

Your successes and failures are illnesses of the ego. Your situation is like what I have heard: a chariot was passing by, a fly was perched on the pin of its wheel. A great cloud of dust arose. The chariot was large, twelve horses yoked. Thunderous noise, much dust. The fly looked around and said, “Today I am raising so much dust.” The dust rose from the chariot, but the fly sitting on the pin thought, “Today I am raising so much dust. And since I raise so much dust, I must be great.”

Even your successes come only because of Him. Whatever you receive is because of Him. You are no more than a fly sitting on the chariot. Do not mistakenly think, “I am raising all this dust.” If there is dust, it is His chariot’s dust. If there is a journey, it is His chariot’s journey. Do not insert yourself in the middle.

You must have heard about the lizard whose friends invited her: “Come, let’s stroll in the forest today.” The lizard said, “Hard to go. Who will hold up this thatch? If the roof falls, I will be responsible.” The lizard imagines she is holding up the palace roof. And it likely seems so to her.

You must have heard the story of the old woman who had a rooster. It crowed at dawn and then the sun rose. The old woman became arrogant and announced to the village, “Deal with me carefully, with proper respect. If I go away to another village with my rooster, remember, the sun will never rise in this village. The sun rises only when my rooster crows.”

On the surface she seemed right: every day the rooster crowed and then the sun rose. The villagers laughed, made fun of her: “You’ve gone mad.” In anger she went to another village. The rooster crowed and the sun rose there. The old woman said, “Now they will weep. Now they must be pounding their chests: the rooster is gone, so the sun won’t rise.”

Your logic too... the old woman’s logic is very neat. For never had the sun risen without the rooster crowing. But the matter is exactly opposite: the sun rises, therefore the rooster crows. It is not that the sun rises because the rooster crows. But who will explain to the old woman? Who will explain to you? The old woman went to another village and saw the sun rising there now. And if it rises here, how will it not rise in every village?

You think within a tiny circle with a tiny mind. God is not because of you; you are because of God. This breath is not moving because of you; it moves because of Him. Even prayer is not done by you; He becomes prayer within you.

Hold this feeling in your heart, and Nanak’s invaluable words will open. Each word is precious.

Hukmi hovan aakar, hukmi na kahia jae.
“By hukm forms come into being; hukm cannot be spoken.”

Understand hukm rightly—the Cosmic Law. That great law which moves all life—that is the meaning of hukm.

“Hukm alone gives rise to beings. Hukm bestows greatness.”

Hukmi hovan aakar, hukmi na kahia jae.
Hukmi hovan jia, hukmi milai badi-ai.

When you win, do not think, “I am winning.” And if in victory you do not think “I am winning,” then in defeat you will see, “I am not losing.” He wins, He loses. It is His play. That is why the Hindus call this whole world a leela—a divine play. In play, He wins with one hand, loses with the other. But the ones who win and lose think in between: the instruments, the means, the tools imagine, “We are the doers.”

Krishna tells Arjuna in the Gita: “Do not unnecessarily insert yourself. He is doing, He is making it done. The war is His arrangement. Those to be slain, He will slay. Those to be saved, He will save. Do not think you are the slayer or the savior.” What Krishna says in the whole Gita, Nanak is saying in these words:

Hukmi hovan jia, hukmi milai badi-ai.
Hukmi uttam nich...

“He alone creates the high and the low.”

This warrants contemplation. If He creates both the small and the great, then truly there is no small and no great—for the maker of both is the same. You carve a small statue, you carve a big statue; the maker is you. When the doer is one, who is small, who is big? When His hand works in both, yet we think, “I am small, I am big,” and we suffer our whole life. And you will never become so big that you are satisfied. If you look at your form, your size, you will never become so big as to be fulfilled. Form is always limited, however large.

But if you see the formless hand at work within your form, you instantly become vast. The maker is He. He makes the little blade of grass, and He makes the deodar touching the sky. If His hand is behind both, who is big, who small? His is the loss, His is the gain. Then we are chess pieces. If we win, He wins; if we lose, He loses. If credit comes, it is His; if blame comes, it is His.

Remember, you have often heard devotees say, and read it too. Many devotees you have met say, “All praise is Yours, all blame is mine.” On the surface it sounds very nice. They say, “Whatever is good is Yours; whatever is bad is mine.” It looks very humble. But if the bad is yours, how can the good be His? This humility is false. This humility is not real. For true humility gives everything; it keeps nothing. You have kept a little prop for your ego. And however much you say outwardly, “Praise be to You, blame be to me,” but if the blame is mine, how will the praise be Yours? Failure mine and success Yours? This is hollow. Either both are mine, or both are Yours.

Hence the great difference between false humility and true humility. False humility says, “I am the dust of your feet—but I am.” And when someone says, “I am the dust of your feet,” look into his eyes: he expects you to say, “No, no, how can that be? I am the dust of your feet.” There is a longing in his eyes. And if you accept it and say, “Quite right, that is exactly my view,” he will become your lifelong enemy and never forgive you.

Praise is His, blame is His. We never come in between. We are like a hollow flute; let Him sing whatever song He wills. Why keep even this stiffness: “If there is a mistake, it will be mine—then at least I am safe.” You have saved a little corner for yourself. And the “I” is such a disease that if you save a little, it saves itself entirely. Either drop it wholly, or it remains wholly. If you save even a grain of it, the whole remains. It has gone nowhere—you have only hidden it.

Nanak says, “By hukm forms arise; hukm cannot be put into words.”

Whatever is truly significant in life cannot be said in words. And hukm is the most significant. Beyond it there is nothing. Words are makeshift; they suffice for ordinary living. But there is no way to express the extraordinary in words. There are many reasons; understand them.

First—the realization of the transcendental happens in silence. What we know in silence—how to say it in words? Word and silence are opposites. When He is experienced, there are no words within. There is a supreme stillness. In that stillness He is known. How to bind the formless in form, the void in words? Words give shape; the formless cannot be shaped.

So those who have known face a great difficulty: how to say it? Imagine you have heard exquisite music, and you wish to explain it to a deaf person...

There is an old Sufi story. A shepherd was grazing his flock on a mountainside. It was noon. He tired of waiting—his wife had not brought his meal. This had never happened. He was very hungry. Then worry seized him: perhaps she is ill; perhaps an accident. He looked around for someone. He saw a woodcutter up a tree cutting wood. He went beneath and said, “Brother! Please keep an eye on my sheep. I’ll run home. My wife hasn’t come with food. I’ll fetch it and be right back.”

The woodcutter too was deaf. He said, “Go, go! I have no time for chatter. I’m busy with my work and you want to talk!”

Hearing “Go, go!” the shepherd thought he had agreed: “Go get your bread; I’ll watch your flock.”

He ran home, took the food, returned, counted his sheep—they were all there. He went to thank the man: “How sweet, how honest! Not a single sheep strayed.” Then he thought, “Why give only thanks? I have a lame sheep I was going to slaughter today or tomorrow. Let me gift it to him.”

He brought the lame sheep. “Brother, many, many thanks. Please accept this sheep. I had to slaughter it anyway.”

The other deaf man said, “What do you mean? Did I make your sheep lame?”

The quarrel grew. One was shouting, “I didn’t even touch your sheep! Why involve me?” The other was saying, “Brother, please accept it.” Both were deaf—what difficulty!

A passerby on a horse—a thief who had stolen the horse—had lost his way and came to ask directions. They seized him. He too was deaf. He thought, “I’m caught! These are the horse’s owners.” They told him, “Brother, explain to him: I’m giving him a sheep and he is getting angry for no reason.” The other said, “I never touched his flock; how could any be lame?” The third said, “Brother, whoever owns the horse—take it. Forgive me for whatever mistake I made.”

The dispute went on with no way out, for no one heard the other. Then a Sufi fakir came by; all three caught him and said, “Resolve our matter.” He had taken a lifelong vow of silence. He understood their situation—but what to do? He looked steadily into the eyes of the horse-thief first. So intently that soon the thief felt unsettled—“This man is hypnotizing me, what are his intentions?” He got so frightened he leapt onto the horse and fled.

Then the fakir looked into the eyes of the shepherd. He too felt, “This man will make me faint; he stares unblinking.” He quickly lowered his head, gathered his flock and headed home.

Then the fakir looked at the woodcutter. He too got scared, tied up his bundle of wood and ran. The Sufi laughed and went his way. He solved the quarrel of three deaf men without speaking.

This is the saints’ difficulty with us. Not just three deaf—three billion deaf. Whatever we say becomes mixed, mismatched. No one understands anyone. There is no dialogue in life; only disputes. What can the saints do? Those who have learned silence—what can they do? However much they speak, the three deaf will not understand. Instead of three, there would be four troubles. He only looked into their eyes.

Saints have only looked intently at you and tried to resolve things. What is within them, they have tried to pour into your eyes. That is why Nanak speaks of sadh-sangat—being with the sages. Be with the wise, if you wish to understand what they have known. Keep company, sit in satsang. Mere hearing and telling will not do. Something will be said, something you will understand—but people are deaf. Something will be shown, something you will see—but people are blind. You will interpret; you will give words your own meanings.

Nanak says, hukmi na kahia jae.
It cannot be said. Still, gestures can be made. These are hints. This is not saying—it is pointing. In these words the hukm is not contained. These words are like milestones by the road. They indicate, “Go on—the destination lies ahead.” But many people cling to the milestone and sit there.

You can do that too. Recite the Japji every morning and repeat it. Memorize it. You have seized the milestone. It is only a pointer. Memorizing it will do nothing. You must move in the direction indicated. You must journey. Religion is a journey. Whether you clutch Japji, or Gita, or Quran—if you clutch and sit, you have pressed the milestone to your chest. Understand—and move on. As you go, the secret will be revealed.

“Hukm cannot be put into words. By hukm beings come to be. By hukm greatness is received. By hukm someone is high, someone low. By hukm happiness and sorrow are obtained.”

Reflect a little: when you are unhappy you hold someone responsible. If you must hold someone responsible, hold the hukm responsible. The husband is miserable; he thinks the wife is the cause. The wife is miserable; she thinks the husband is the cause. The father is miserable; he thinks the son is the cause. If you must assign responsibility—assign it to God. Less will not do.

But here is the trick: whenever you are unhappy, you hang the responsibility on someone nearby. And when you are happy, you claim the credit yourself.

What kind of logic is this? Happy—because of you; unhappy—because of others! Therefore you neither resolve your sorrow nor discover the secret of happiness. In both conditions you are wrong. Neither is the other responsible for your sorrow, nor are you responsible for your happiness. Behind both, God is responsible. If happiness and sorrow come from the same hand, why differentiate? Why discriminate?

There was a Muslim emperor. He had a slave he dearly loved. The slave was utterly devoted. One day they were passing through a forest. On a tree there was a single fruit. The emperor plucked it. As was his habit, he cut off a slice and gave it to the slave. The slave tasted it and said, “Master, one more slice.”

He kept asking for more, and more. Only one slice remained. The emperor said, “Is it so delicious?” The slave even tried to snatch away the last slice.

The emperor said, “This is too much! I gave you the whole fruit, and there is no other. If it is so delicious, let me taste at least a little.”

The slave said, “No, it is very delicious; please don’t deprive me of my joy—give it to me.” But the emperor tasted it. The fruit was pure poison. Far from sweet, it was hard to swallow even a bite. The emperor said, “Madman! You are smiling, and you ate this poison? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The slave replied, “From the same hands, I have received so many delights, so many delicious fruits. For one bitter fruit, shall I complain?
I keep account not of the fruits, but of the hand.”

The day you see that sorrow too comes from the hand of God, how will you call it sorrow? You call it sorrow now because you do not see the hand. The day you see: His is the happiness, His is the sorrow—the forms of both are lost. Happiness will no longer appear happiness, sorrow will no longer appear sorrow. And when happiness and sorrow become one, that very day anand—bliss—descends. When the duality of joy and grief ends, non-duality descends; bliss descends; you are delighted.

Do not blame anyone—neighbor, husband, wife, friend, brother, foe. All faults belong to Him. And when joy comes, success arrives—do not stuff your ego. All successes, all sweet fruits belong to Him. If you leave everything to Him, everything dissolves—only bliss remains.

“By hukm someone is high, someone low; by hukm happiness and sorrow are received; by hukm one attains grace; by hukm one wanders in transmigration. All are within hukm; none is outside. Nanak says, the one who understands this hukm becomes free of ego.”

Nanak: hukmi je bujhai ta haumai kahe na koi.
“He who understands that all is His—who remains there to say ‘I’?”

Understand this a little. You want many times to drop the ego, because it brings pain; yet you cannot. Why? Because from it you also get pleasure; hence the obstacle. Ego brings suffering—that’s obvious. Someone insults you—you feel hurt. The hurt is to the ego. You want to drop it.

People come to me and ask, “How to drop suffering?” They say, “It is clear that ego is suffering. How to drop it?” I say, “There is no ‘how’. If you truly see that ego is suffering, you would drop it. What is there to ask?”

But the matter is entangled. Someone hurls abuse—the ego is hurt, you want to drop it. But when someone garlands you, the ego is pleased. You want to drop half the ego and keep the other half. The same ego that is pained by blame is pleased by praise. When there is mistake—hurt; when things go right—pleasant. People slander, insult—you are stung. People praise you, sing your glories—you feel so good. Both phenomena happen to the ego.

Your trouble is: if you drop the ego, sorrow will end, but happiness will end too. You want to keep the happiness and remove the sorrow. That has never happened, nor will it ever. They go together—two sides of one coin. You want to keep one side and throw away the other. How will that happen? If you throw it, you pick it up—because the other side goes too. If you keep it, you want to throw—because the sorrow side remains.

Understand the ego: it gives both happiness and sorrow. And if you leave both to God—the true source of life—if you leave all to Him, what place remains for your “I” to stand? How will you say “I am”?

The “I” is the aggregate of acts. Whatever you have done, the sum total is the “I”. The “I” is not a thing, it is only a bundle of deeds and memories. Your past—what you did—the sum of it is the ego. If you drop all doership and say, “Thou art the Doer—Karta Purukh. I am only an instrument,” then where is the ego? What He makes happen, I do. What He does not make happen, I do not. If He makes me a sinner—then a sinner.

Understand this, for Nanak is saying something unique: “By hukm one attains grace, and by hukm one wanders in transmigration.” Nanak is saying that even if you are a sinner, do not think “I am a sinner”—for it is His will. Dangerous, you will say, for then people will sin and say, “It is His will.”

But here is the wonder: the one who has truly known His will—whatever happens through him is virtue. Until you know His will, a quarrel continues between you and Him; sin is born of that quarrel. From that quarrel arises the tendency to hurt yourself and others. The day you leave all to Him, sin evaporates. Sin is the fruit of your struggle with the Divine. But you must drop it.

Nanak says, “Even that happens by Him. If you are a sinner, that too is He; if you are virtuous, that too is He. Do not think, ‘I have done virtue’ or ‘I have done sin.’ ‘I have done’—this is the illusion. There is only one ignorance: ‘I have done.’ There is only one knowing: Karta Purukh—the Divine is the Doer; I am only a medium.”

“All are within hukm; none is outside.”

Hukmi andar sabh ko, bahar hukm na koi.

And Nanak says, “Those who understand this hukm become free of ego. Some sing of His strength—those who have the strength to sing. Some sing of His generosity and take giving as His symbol. Some sing of His qualities and great beauties. Some sing of that wisdom whose contemplation is difficult. Some sing that He fashions the body and then reduces it to dust. Some sing that the soul again takes body from Him. Some sing that He appears very far. And some sing that He sees us and is all-pervading. The end of praising Him does not come, though millions speak in millions of ways. The Giver keeps on giving; the takers grow weary. Through ages beings partake of Him, yet there is no end. As Hukmi, by hukm He shows the path. Nanak says, He is carefree and rejoices.”

There are thousands of descriptions of Him, and all are incomplete. How can an incomplete man describe the Complete? Whatever the fragment says will be partial. How will a particle know the Supreme? Even if it knows, it will be the particle’s own understanding.

So those who can sing, sing of His qualities; yet the Unknown remains unknown. The Upanishads grew tired, the Gita tired, the Quran tired, the Bible tired. He is inexpressible—He remains so. Until now we have not been able to sing Him completely. All scriptures are incomplete—and must be. For all scriptures are human efforts to express the Infinite.

The sun rises; a painter paints it. However accurate, the painting will not give light. Sit with it in the dark; don’t expect the house to fill with brightness. A poet sings the sweetest song of the morning sun—his song may be deep and touching. Sing it in the dark—no light will come.

Songs and pictures about the Divine are like that. All images are incomplete. No song can tell Him fully. In any song we cannot bring His aliveness. Words are hollow; they will remain hollow. If you are thirsty, the word “water” will not quench you. If you are hungry, words will not bake bread on the fire. And if the longing for God has arisen, words about God are not enough; they suffice only for those who have no longing yet.

Understand this well. If you are not thirsty, “water,” H2O—are enough. When thirst arises, the obstruction begins. Then neither H2O, nor water, nor jal, nor any of the three thousand words in three thousand languages will do. Collect them all and bind them at your throat—even then not a single drop will quench your thirst. If there is no thirst, you can play with words.

Philosophy is the game of those who are not thirsty. Religion is the pilgrimage of those who are. Hence philosophy plays with words; religion does not. Religion goes toward what words point to. It seeks the lake; what will it do with the word “lake”? It seeks life; what will the word “life” do?

No one has sung Him completely. No one has described Him completely. All His images are incomplete. How could one make Him complete?

Consider this. Philosophers have pondered a deep question: a traveler comes to India; we hand him a map. He can put the map in his pocket. India cannot be kept in a pocket; the map can. What relation does the map bear to India? Is the map like India? If it is like India, it would be as vast. If it is not like India, why call it a map of India? What is its use? If it is exactly like India, it is useless—you cannot pocket it or use it in your car. It becomes another India. And if it is unlike India, how does it serve?

The map is a symbol. It is not exactly like India, yet through lines it indicates something about India. You can roam all over India and never find the map anywhere. Wherever you go, you will find India—not the map. But if you have a map, the journey becomes easier. Provided you follow it. Clutching the map to your chest and sitting will not help.

Religious people the world over have clutched their maps to their chests as if the map is everything. Scriptures are maps. Idols are maps. Temples are maps. There are hints hidden in them. If you miss the hints, the maps are burdens. The Hindu carries his map, the Muslim his. Neither the Hindu travels nor the Muslim travels. There are so many maps now that the journey cannot even begin. Either you carry maps—or you walk. Maps must be concise and small. And there is no point worshipping maps. Use them.

Nanak squeezed the essence out of both Hindu and Muslim maps. You cannot call Nanak Hindu; you cannot call him Muslim. He is both—or neither. People found it hard to understand Nanak. An old saying goes:

Baba Nanak Shah Fakir—Hindu’s guru, Muslim’s pir.

He is both. His two close disciples are Mardana and Bala—one Muslim, one Hindu. Neither in the Hindu temple nor the Muslim mosque is there place for him. Both are suspicious: “Where does this man belong? In which category shall we place him? Where seat him?”

Whatever was essential in Hinduism and in Islam—those two rivers meet in Nanak. Whatever was essence—therefore the Sikh is neither Hindu nor Muslim. Or he is both, or he is neither. He is a confluence.

This confluence is harder to grasp. One river has a clean map. Now two maps have merged. Hence some sayings seem to echo Islam, some echo Hinduism—and mixing both, things grow blurrier. That blur will clear only when one enters into experiment. Then slowly clarity arises. If you press scriptures to your chest—as has happened—the Sikh ends up worshipping scripture; the Granth becomes the guru. And how merrily we repeat our old mistakes!

Nanak went to Mecca. The chief priest said, “Turn your feet the other way. Your feet are toward the sacred stone, the Kaaba.” The story says Nanak replied, “Turn my feet where God is not.” The story adds that wherever they turned his feet, the Kaaba moved there. It’s a symbol: wherever you turn your feet, there God is. Where then will you place your feet?

At the Golden Temple in Amritsar I was invited. I went. I do not wear a cap. At the gate they said, “This is difficult. You must cover your head. This is God’s temple. A head-cover is required.” I said, “Have you forgotten what happened with Nanak at the Kaaba? So where I am standing now bare-headed—God is not there? Is there no temple there?” But we repeat the same old mistakes. I asked them, “Show me the place where I may remain without a cap. You too must bathe; you remove your turban then—is God insulted at that time? You sleep at night; you take off your turban—does that insult God?”

Human foolishness remains the same. Buddha says something; Buddha’s followers plaster it over. Nanak says something; his followers plaster it over. The same net starts again. Man’s foolishness has not changed; his deafness has not changed. He hears, he twists to his convenience. He walks by his convenience—not by the experience of what he heard.

These words—Nanak says—however many songs are sung, no one has completed Him. Different people sing different songs because they reach Him from different directions. Their songs are not in contradiction. However much contradiction appears—the Vedas say what the Quran says. But Muhammad’s way of arriving is one; Yajnavalkya’s another. Buddha says what Nanak says, but the way of arriving is different.

There are infinite doors to Him. Wherever you go from, that is His door. Then you will describe your door. You will describe the path by which you came. Another will describe his path. Then the path itself makes no difference. Your understanding, your vision, your way of feeling...

In a garden a poet comes and sings. A painter comes and paints. A flower-seller comes and thinks of prices and trade. A scientist comes and analyzes the chemical elements of the flowers. A drunkard passes by and sees no flowers at all—he won’t even know he passed through a garden. Whatever you see is seen through your window. The shape of your window overlays it.

Nanak says: some sing His power—He is omnipotent. Some sing His giving—He is the great Giver. Some praise His qualities and beauty—He is the supreme Beauty. Some call Him Truth, some call Him Good (Shiv), some call Him Beautiful (Sundar).

Rabindranath wrote, “I found Him in beauty.” This tells nothing about God; it tells about Rabindranath. Gandhi says, “For me, Truth is God.” This tells nothing about God; it tells about Gandhi. Rabindranath is a poet—so for the poet, God is Beauty—supreme Beauty. Gandhi is not a poet—hard to find a man less poetic than Gandhi. He is bookkeeper-like: not poetry, but arithmetic. From the angle of math, God is Truth. From the angle of love, He is the Beloved.

From which angle we look—only our angle is revealed. He is all at once—and none in particular. Hence Mahavira has a wondrous approach in thinking: until your angle is dropped, you cannot know Him. Whatever you know will be your angle. Mahavira called it nay—partial viewpoint. Darshan—vision—will be when all viewpoints fall.

But then you will fall silent. Without a viewpoint, how will you speak? When there is no angle left, you become like Him. How will you talk? You will be as vast. You will merge with the sky. How will you speak? You will not remain separate. All viewpoints belong to the separate one.

So Nanak lists all the viewpoints. He says: all are right—and yet none wholly right. And when an incomplete claims to be complete—that is where delusion begins.

“Sect” means you have declared a partial viewpoint to be complete. Calling a sect “religion” means you have proclaimed a partial view as the whole: “This alone is complete.” Hence one sect stands against another. All sects are viewpoints of religion; no sect is religion. If we gather all possible sects together, religion would be born. Those that have been, that are, and those to come—if we collect all viewpoints, religion appears. No sect is religion.

“Sampradaya” is a beautiful word—it means “path.” It means the road taken. “Dharma” means the destination. The destination is one; the paths are many.

Nanak says: one sings of His power; one sings of His generosity; one of His beauty; one describes that knowledge which is hard to conceive; one sings that He creates the body and then destroys it; one sings that the soul again receives the body from Him; one sings He seems far; one sings He is nearest; one sings He sees us and is all-pervading. The end of His praise never comes.

Kathna kathi na aavai tot.
“In saying and saying, there is no end.”

Kathi kathi kathi koti koti koti.
“Even told a million, million, million times, the Untold remains behind.” The Giver keeps on giving; the takers grow tired.

This is an important saying. Life—He gives. Breath—He moves. In the heartbeat—He beats. He keeps on giving, without limit. In return He asks nothing.

Therefore life seems cheap to you; things seem expensive. You are ready to lose life, not money—because money seems hard to get, life seems free. Whatever He has given is for free. You have given nothing back.

The day you begin to feel: “Whatever I have received—what merit of mine is there in it? If I were not, what loss would there be?” The possibility of life that has arisen in you, the flower of consciousness that has bloomed—if it had not, whom would you complain to? What qualification do you have that life should be granted? How did you earn it?

For every small position, qualifications are needed. You are a clerk—qualifications required. A schoolteacher—qualifications required. You earn it. What did you earn for life? How did you earn it?

It is a gift. It is given just so—not because of your worthiness. The day this dawns, prayer is born. Then you ask, “What can I do? How can I express my blessedness? How can I repay Your debt?” Prayer is not asking. Prayer is thankfulness for what already is. There are two kinds of so-called prayer.

When you go to temples, you go to ask for more. Your prayer is false. Nanak too goes. He goes to give thanks. He goes to say, “What You have given is beyond all reckoning. There is no cause in me to deserve it. If I had not received it, there would be no ground for complaint. And You keep giving.”

God is a reckless giver; existence keeps on giving. And we? Hard to find anyone more ungrateful than us. We cannot even say “Thank You.” His giving has no end, and our ungratefulness has no end. We cannot express gratitude. We cannot even say “Thanks! We are grateful! Shukriya!” Even that we are unable to do; even that feels difficult. Our throat chokes.

You give thanks for trivialities. Your handkerchief falls and someone picks it up—you say “thank you.” And to the One who gave you life, you never once went to say thanks. Whenever you went, you went with a complaint. Whenever you went, you went to tell Him what He is doing wrong: “My son is ill; my wife misbehaves; business isn’t going well.”

And when your complaints become too many, their final sum is: “You do not exist.” Because if You exist—fulfill these things.

Atheism means your complaints have become so great that you can no longer accept God. Because of your complaints you assassinate God. What is theism? Theism means your sense of wonder has grown so much, your gratitude has swelled so much, you are so full of thankfulness that He begins to be visible everywhere. His hand everywhere, His presence everywhere—you begin to feel Him at every turn. Theism is the supreme state of thankfulness. Atheism is the last form of complaint.

When Nanak says, “The Giver keeps on giving; the takers grow tired. Through ages beings partake of Him; there is no end...”

However much you enjoy Him, you cannot exhaust Him. Your enjoyment would be like someone with a spoon sitting at the seashore, emptying the ocean with a spoon. It could even happen—because the spoon has limits and the ocean has limits—that someday he empties it. But you cannot empty God—He has no limit.

From eternity you have been partaking—in many forms—and not even a voice of thanks has risen from your heart! You haven’t lifted your eyes once to the sky and said, “I am blessed; what You have given is immeasurable.” Whenever you went to Him, you went with a complaint. Whenever you spoke, you expressed displeasure. Whenever you went, you indicated that your worth is greater and what you received is less.

Some days ago, a high official from Delhi came to see me. Very high rank. But the higher the rank, the bigger the complaint—because they think they should now be ministers, prime ministers. He said to me, “Everything else is fine—show me a way by which I can bear the injustice life has done to me.” What injustice? “That what I should have received, I did not. The post for which I am qualified—I am below it.”

Everyone feels like that. Hence everyone lives in this pain: what I should have received, I did not. “I am qualified to be a vice-chancellor and I’m stuck as a schoolteacher; I should have been an owner, and I am a peon.” This state remains always. It makes no difference. Even the prime minister thinks, “My worth is greater than this—but how to expand and become ruler of the whole world?”

You cannot satisfy the Alexanders—and all are Alexanders, small or big, but Alexanders. Everyone has great ambition. Ambition always runs ahead; you lag behind. Your worth always seems more to you. This is the mark of the irreligious man.

The mark of the religious man is: whatever comes is more than my worth. Look and see: what you have received—is it more or less than your worth? It is always more. Always more. Because we have earned nothing. This vast life has been given in charity. We did not even ask for it; it was given unasked. Still gratitude does not arise.

Nanak says: even after enjoying Him for ages we cannot exhaust Him. “As Hukmi, by hukm He shows the path.” This is a deep key. A very important element in Nanak’s vision lies within it:

Hukmi hukm chalaye rah.
“He, the Hukmi, moves the world by hukm.”

And He always gives you hukm. If you have even a little understanding of listening, you can understand His hukm and move accordingly. You do not listen.

You go to steal; from within, He tells you: don’t. Once He says it, twice, a thousand times. You keep going, you keep doing. Slowly that voice grows faint. You grow deaf. Then you cannot hear it. Yet the voice keeps sounding. You will not find such a sinner in whom that voice has vanished, in whom hukm is lost. You will not find such an evil man to whom He is not still speaking. He never tires and never despairs. However evil you do, the Divine is not disappointed in you. He never concludes, “Nothing can be done now.” You are never incurable to Him. However much your disease grows, its remedy is possible. God’s hope is infinite, His possibility infinite. He never despairs of you.

It happened—a Sufi fakir, Bayazid, had a neighbor, a very wicked man—robber, thief, dishonest, treacherous, murderer—he had done every sin. The whole village suffered. One day Bayazid prayed: “God, I have never asked You for anything. But this man is creating too much trouble. Please remove him.” Bayazid heard a voice within: “I have not tired of him; why have you tired? And if I still have hope in him, you too keep hope.”

However many sins you have done, however many lifetimes—you cannot tire God. You cannot exhaust Him by enjoyment, you cannot tire Him by sin. He still goes on speaking. He never despairs. If you become a little quiet and listen, you will hear His soft voice. And whenever you do anything, that voice guides you.

Nanak says, “He, the Hukmi, shows the path by hukm.”

That is why he calls Him Hukmi—because His hukm comes. In your deep consciousness lies the inner conscience—your heart—which is the instrument for His voice. From there He speaks. Before you do anything, close your eyes and listen to His voice. If you move according to it, there will be an immeasurable rain of joy in your life. If you move against it, you will fabricate hell with your own hands. If you don’t listen, you turn your back. You take a very dangerous step. Before doing anything, before any decision—close your eyes and ask Him. This is the whole formula of meditation: first we will ask, first we will seek the hukm, then we will move. Not a single step without hukm. Eyes closed—we will first hear His voice. We will not move by our voice, but by His.

Once you have this key, it opens infinite doors. And this key is within you. Every child brings it. But we develop intellect; we do not develop the conscience. That conscience remains incomplete, undeveloped. And we pile so many thoughts of intellect upon it, such thick layers, that even if the voice echoes, we don’t catch it.

The art of hearing this inner voice is meditation. To find His hukm is essential. What does He want? What is His will?

“He, the Hukmi, shows the path by hukm.”

And Nanak says—

Hukmi hukm chalaye rah. Nanak vigasai beparvah.
Nanak says, “He is carefree and rejoices.”

One meaning of “care” is anxiety. He keeps giving to you, but in giving He expects nothing. He wants no answer. He keeps speaking—whether you listen or not, He keeps speaking. He does not “care” in the sense of becoming disturbed that you are not listening: “Stop, enough, remove this man.”

You cannot make God anxious. Therefore the person who begins to realize God—you cannot make him anxious either. He will be both simultaneously concerned and unconcerned. He will care for you, and yet be carefree. You cannot make him worried.

As for me—I care for uncountable people, yet remain carefree. You come with your sorrow—I care completely, but you do not make me anxious. I do not become miserable because of your misery. Because if I become miserable, I cannot support you. It is necessary that I understand your sorrow with sympathy, seek remedies, think of ways—but that anxiety does not arise in me. And it is necessary that if yesterday I told you something and you do not do it, no anger arises: “I cared so much, and you did not do it!” When you come tomorrow without having done it—and you will come without having done it—then again I shall care for you, but I shall remain carefree.

God cares for the whole world—and is carefree. He is always ready to lift you, but He is not in a hurry. If you think you want to wander a little longer and enjoy, He is carefree. His care is without attachment. And that is why He is blissful—otherwise what would His state be by now? He would be mad. Think: people like you—how many! How many kinds of mischief! And God one, you many! You would have driven Him insane long ago. Only being carefree saves existence from madness.

But “carefree” does not mean indifferent or neglectful. It is subtle. There is total endeavor for you—to transform you, lift you—but non-aggressive. He will not attack. He will wait. Like the sun knocking at your door—sun rays knocking—and you sit inside with the door closed. The sun will not force its way in; it will wait. Nor will it be offended and depart: “His door is closed—let’s never return.” It will wait; whenever you open, it enters.

God “cares” for you; existence “cares” for you—of course. Existence births you. Existence grows you. Existence has great aspirations for you, great longing. Existence is trying to become conscious through you. Existence is trying to attain Buddhahood through you. God is striving to bring certain flowers to bloom within you.

But if you are delaying, He will not be worried, not upset. He remains untouched. If you do not listen, do not listen, do not listen—if you wander and do everything except listen—He still is not pained or perturbed.

Understand both together, and only then can you understand that existence is filled with bliss. God is bliss.

Nanak says: Hukmi hukm chalaye rah—He gives hukm, shows the path. Yet—Nanak vigasai beparvah—He is carefree and blossoms in joy. His flower keeps blooming.

Hard for us—because we see two easy alternatives: if we care, anxiety comes; if we drop care, anxiety leaves. That is why we have separated world and renunciation. If we live in the house and care, how to be carefree while caring? The wife is ill—you worry, you cannot sleep. The child is sick—you worry, you must treat him; if he does not heal, you suffer. So we escape. Out of sight, out of mind. We run to the mountains. We turn our backs. Slowly we forget.

Two options appear. If we live in the world, we will care; if we care, we will worry; in worry, no way to bliss. So let’s be carefree—run away. There will be no worry; perhaps bliss will come.

But this is not God’s way. Nanak remained a householder and yet renounced. He cared and was carefree. This is the art, the sadhana: you take full care and remain unworried. Outwardly, you do everything; inwardly, nothing touches. You care for the son, you educate him; if he goes astray, if he cannot study, if he fails—let it not create anxiety.

Until you join both—live in the world and be renounced—you will not reach God. For God too is hidden in the world and yet renounced. The way He is, in a small measure your way should be. Only then will you reach Him.

The child is sick—give medicine, take full care; but why be anxious? Care completely, but why let the inner carefree state vanish? Outwardly in the world; inwardly in God. The circumference touches the world; the center remains untouched. This is the essence.

That is why people were troubled with Nanak—he was a householder, yet dressed like a renunciate. People could not understand: “What is this?” Hindus asked, “Are you a householder or a sannyasi? Your talk is of renunciation, your bearing of a renunciate—then wife and children? You return home; you have a child; you go back to the village and farm. What kind of sannyasi are you?”

Remember—Muslims asked the same: “Your garb is that of a fakir; then why not leave the household entirely?” Many places, many masters asked him to leave everything and become a disciple. But Nanak never changed on this point. He kept learning the art of being outside while being among all. This is God’s way—and this should be the seeker’s way.

People come to me and say, “What are you doing—giving sannyasi robes to householders?”

This is God’s way. He is in the world and not. This should also be your formula.

Hukmi hukm chalaye rah. Nanak vigasai beparvah.
He blossoms, rejoices, blooms like a flower—and still has no worry. He cares for you—yet is not anxious.

You will understand only by experimenting. Try it a little in life. Go to your shop, do your work—yet stay distant. Keep a gap between your work and your being. Let work become acting, a play, a leela. Do not be the doer. That’s the key. Become an actor. Let the art of acting become the formula of your whole life. For that is God’s way of being. That will be your path of sadhana.

Enough for today.