Ek Omkar Satnam #3

The Master is true; his Name is true; his praise is sung in endless sentiments. People praise him—and then they beg, “More, and more”; and the Giver keeps on giving. Then what can we place before him so that we may behold the court of his presence? And what speech shall we speak that, hearing it, he might love us? In the ambrosial hour, contemplate the glory of the True Name. Through karma the body is obtained; by the glance of grace the gate of liberation opens. Nanak says, know this: Truth, the Divine, is everything.

“Sahib” is Nanak’s word for the Divine. We can connect with the Divine in two ways. One is the philosopher’s discussion of God—but their words are incomplete without love. Their words are dry; they are intellectual, not of the heart.

The second way is the devotee’s path; in his words there is juice. He does not see the Divine as a doctrine but as a relationship. He seeks a bond with That—because until there is a bond, the heart is not touched. We can call the Divine “Truth.” But what lives in the word “Sahib” will not be present in “Truth.” How will we relate to “Truth”? What bridge will form between our heart and “Truth”?

But “Sahib” is a relationship of love. The moment there is “Sahib,” the Divine becomes the Beloved. Now we can connect. Now the way opens. Now we can run. However right “Truth” may be, for the devotee it remains somewhat dry. The devotee wants something he can touch. He wants something he can dance and sing around. He wants something at whose feet he can lay his head. “Sahib” is a sweet name; it means owner, it means master.

Then there can be many kinds of relationships. Sufis have considered the Divine the Beloved; the seeker becomes the lover. Hindus, Jews, and Christians have considered the Divine the Father; the seeker becomes the son. Nanak considered the Divine the Master; the seeker becomes the servant.

This must be understood a little, because each relationship has a different way. Lovers stand on the same plane; neither is higher or lower. Father and son is a bond of conditioning; because we are born into a father’s house, a relationship exists.

We ourselves want to be masters—and if our way had its way, we would make God our servant. To dissolve the ego, no feeling is greater than the feeling of being a servant. In the father–son relationship the ego will not fall, nor in the lover–beloved. The ego can fall only in the servant’s feeling: I am a slave, and you are the Master.

And this is the hardest of all, because it is the very opposite of ego. Ego believes, “I am the master; all existence is my slave.” The devotee says, “All existence is the Master; I am the slave.” This is the real headstand. Standing on your head is not the real headstand—turn the ego upside down! For that is the head. To set that below is the servant’s feeling. Thus only the servant truly does the headstand—he turns upside down. And as long as you have looked at the world from the stance of being the master, you have found the world to be something quite else.

You walk down the road; a beggar asks you. Does his asking ever create any bond between you and him? Any affection? The opposite happens: his request repels you. Even if you give, you give unwillingly. And you remember to avoid that route next time. When someone asks, you contract; you do not want to give. And when no one asks, only then does the heart feel like giving.

If you understand yourself a little, the path toward the Divine will become clear. When someone asks of you, you do not want to give because the asking feels like snatching. It is an attack; all asking is aggression. But when no one asks you, you feel light; you can give spontaneously.

Buddha told his monks: when you go to the village for alms, do not ask. Simply stand at the door. If there is no response, move on—do not ask.

And this is the distinction between a bhikshu and a bhikhari, a mendicant and a beggar. We have given the monk a supreme honor we never gave to emperors, and we keep the beggar at the very last place. Honor is far away; we do not even consider him worthy of blame—we avert our eyes and pass by. Buddha’s monks asked, “Without asking, how will anyone give?” Buddha said, “In this world, things are received without asking. Ask, and you are in trouble. When you do not ask, you inspire the other to give; when you ask, you create hesitation in the other.”

You will find this hidden pattern in all your relationships. If the wife asks for something, it becomes hard to give. You bring it unwillingly, just to avoid a quarrel. Love is no longer the bond; it has become merely a device to avoid disturbance. When the wife never asks, your heart blossoms—you feel like bringing things, you feel like giving. Giving becomes possible only when no one asks.

You are cut off from the Divine because of your asking. And all your prayers are filled with “more, and more.” You want to use God as a servant. You say, “My foot hurts—remove it.” You say, “My finances are bad—fix them.” You say, “My wife is ill—heal her. My job is lost—give me one.” You go to God’s door like a beggar, asking. Your asking itself declares that you imagine yourself the master and God the servant. He is there to fulfill your needs, and your needs are so important that you would set even God to work.

No—if God is the Master and you the slave, what is there to ask? And the irony is, you ask and he keeps giving. It is not that you do not receive because you ask—you do receive. But the more you receive, the more distant you become, because you will ask again. The more you get, the more you will want. The more you ask, the farther you go.

Asking can never become prayer. Desire can never become prayer. Craving can never become worship. The very formula of prayer is that you go there to say thank you, not to ask. He has already given far too much—more than you needed, more than you were worthy of. The cup is already full and overflowing.

The true devotee goes to offer thanks. His prayer is a mood of wonder and gratitude. He says, “You have given me so much—what was my worth!” But you say, “Look at my worth—there is injustice toward me. Give me more.” And this “more” will never end.

Nanak says, “People go on asking and asking ‘give, give’; and the Giver goes on giving, yet there is no end to their asking.”

And he gives—and the askers keep asking. Asking is endless; there is no way to finish it. If you go on asking, when will you pray? When will worship begin? Asking has no end. One desire is fulfilled, and ten stand up. Before one is over, it gives birth to ten more. If you keep asking, when will devotion happen? When will you give thanks? After so many lifetimes of asking, are you still not full?

You will never be full, because fullness is not the nature of mind. The mind is always unsatisfied—that is its nature. Drop the mind, and there is contentment. Keep the mind, and there is discontent. You will not find a person who says, “My mind is content.” And if you ever find someone who says his mind is content, look closely—he will have no mind at all.

What is mind? The sum total of all your demands. “Give, give—more, and more”—the aggregate of all wants is the mind. There is no bigger beggar in this world than the mind. No matter how much it gets, it makes no difference. Alexander is asking; the roadside beggar is also asking.

Understanding the nature of the mind is essential. And with the mind, how will there be prayer? Prayer means a state beyond mind. Prayer means you went not to ask, but to give thanks. Your whole vision changes. The moment you put the mind aside, you discover how much has already been given—what more is needed? Bring the mind in, and it seems nothing has been received—everything is needed. Mind sees absence; when the mind drops, presence is revealed.

Understand it this way: you take a man to a rose bush; he sees only thorns, counts only the thorns. He never sees the flower. However much you show him, he says, “What if there is a single flower where there are a thousand thorns? And where there are a thousand thorns, be careful—this flower too will prove a deception.”

His logic is not entirely wrong: “Where there are only thorns, how can there be a flower? If a thousand thorns have pierced the heart, fear arises; he cannot trust the flower—no faith is possible. He says, ‘There is some illusion—a dream—or someone has pasted a flower there. How can there be a flower where there are only thorns?’ If you count the thorns, even the flower loses its sanctity.”

If you count the flowers, if you are absorbed in the flower—its fragrance, its touch thrilling you—then another state arises. You will say, “Where such a lovely flower blossoms, how can there be thorns? And if they are there, it must be to protect the flower. If they are there, they are helpers, companions. If they are there, it must be God’s will—perhaps a flower cannot be without thorns; thus they are guards preserving it.”

And as your relish for the flower deepens and deepens, one day you will find that the same juice that runs in the flower is flowing in the thorns too—how can there be opposition between them?

Mind sees thorns; mind sees what is not; mind sees where there is cause for complaint, where mistakes lie, where something is missing. Mind sees dissatisfaction, discontent—then asking arises. So whoever goes to the temple full of mind goes there to ask; he is a beggar.

If you put the mind aside just a little, you will discover the flowers; you will find the energy of life; you will feel the heart’s wonder at life. Already so much has been given—where is the room for complaint?

And the One who has given so much—if he has kept back something, there must be some secret in that withholding. Perhaps I am not yet ready; perhaps more worthiness is needed; perhaps I am not yet a vessel.

If something comes before its time, it brings sorrow, not joy. Everything has its season and ripeness. When I am ripe, he will give, for his ways of giving are inexhaustible. His hands are spread a thousandfold.

Hindus imagine the Divine with a thousand hands, an image full of love. They say he gives with a thousand hands, not just two. You will be unable to take it—you have only two hands. How much can you hold? He gives with a thousand hands. But there must be right timing—patient waiting—an absence of complaint; then the rain begins.

Nanak says, even when people sing his praise, they sing “give, give” as they go on asking. And the Giver keeps on giving—and the blind cannot see it. They keep crying “more, and more.” Rain is falling on every side, and people still shout, “We are thirsty.” As if they have become addicted to complaint, as if they have fallen in love with sorrow.

“Then what shall we place before him, so that the court of his presence is revealed?”

This is most important. Nanak says: he has given so much, he has left nothing to ask for. When complaint falls away and wonder arises, and we go to offer thanks, then what shall we place at his feet? What gift shall we carry to his door?

“What may we lay before him, that we may behold his court?”

What shall we place in his court? What offering shall we take in gratitude? What shall we lay at his feet? How shall we worship, how shall we adore? You take flowers—by plucking them, his own flowers. They were better on the tree—alive. You pluck and kill them, and then offer his own flowers back at his feet—and feel no shame! What will you give him? Everything is his.

You donate money to build a temple, a new gurdwara, a mosque—what are you doing? Returning to him what is his. And still you strut: “I built a temple, I built so many gurdwaras. I distributed so much food, so many clothes.” You swagger. You give a little, and your ego knows no end.

What does this show? That you never understood what life has given you; in returning it, what of yours is there? You go to offer him this “gift” and are not even embarrassed.

What shall we place at his feet? Nanak asks: what shall we place before him so that his court may be seen, that we may draw near, that our offering be accepted? What shall we bring—saffron-dyed rice? Purchased flowers? Plucked leaves? Wealth? What?

No, nothing will do. If you understand that all is his—finished! The offering is accepted. So long as you imagine that something is “mine,” you are still thinking of placing something there. So long as you think you yourself are the master, and can choose to make an offering, you remain in error. Give everything—your entire kingdom—and still you have given nothing, for all of it was his. You belong to him. Whatever you have earned and gathered is his play too.

So Nanak says: what shall we place so that we may behold your court—so that we may gain your realization, encounter you face to face? What shall we bring to offer?

If you see that all is his, there is nothing left to carry. The flowers are already offered to him on the trees. Everything has been offered—sun, moon, and stars are his offerings. What will your ghee-lamps do now? The sun and moon are already lit for him. If you light a few lamps of clarified butter, what is achieved? If a person opens his eyes rightly, the whole existence is in worship of him. That is the meaning of “Sahib”—he is the owner of all; everything is dedicated to him.

Therefore Nanak asks: what shall we bring? What shall we offer?

“And what speech shall we utter that, hearing it, he will love us?”

What shall we say? What words shall we use? How shall we charm him, win him? What can we do so that his love showers?

Nanak seems not to give an answer—he leaves the question hanging. That itself is the art, because he is saying: whatever we speak, it is he speaking through us. In offering his words back to him, where is the skill? To borrow from him and return it to him—is this not ignorance? The knower finds that nothing is left to offer, for he himself is already offered. He finds that no words can become prayer, for all words are his. He is speaking; he is the heartbeat; he is the breath within the breath. Then what shall the wise do?

Nanak says: “In the ambrosial hour, contemplate the glory of the True Name.”

There is nothing else to do. What should the understanding one do?

“In the ambrosial hour, contemplate the glory of the True Name.”

This must be understood a little. What Hindus call sandhya—twilight, the juncture—Nanak calls the ambrosial hour. It is an even richer word. For thousands of years Hindus labored after the truth of life and consciousness, exploring every possible path. Little by little they discovered—and the Upanishads speak of it—that in the twenty-four hours there are two junctures.

When you go to sleep at night, there is a moment between waking and sleeping when you are neither awake nor asleep. Your consciousness changes gear. If you drive, you know that when shifting from one gear to another, for an instant the car passes through neutral. Sleep and waking are two entirely different states: in waking you are one way; in sleep, another. Awake you were sorrowful, poor; in sleep you become an emperor—without any doubt you dream of it. If doubt entered—“How can a beggar dream of being an emperor?”—the dream would break. In dream there is absolute trust. Your day life is one compartment; your night life another. By day you were a saint; by night you may be a sinner—or the reverse. Has doubt ever arisen in a dream? If doubt arises, the dream breaks at once, because doubt belongs to waking consciousness. In dream even doubt does not arise—not even the thought “I am dreaming.” If that thought arises, the dream is finished.

There are disciplines that give the seeker this key: as you go to sleep, keep remembering—“This is a dream... this is a dream...” It can take three years before the memory becomes strong. The day a seeker comes to know, “This is a dream,” the dream breaks—and not only that one; after that, dreams stop, because his gears are no longer separate; his compartments have merged. He is awake even while asleep. Krishna says: the yogi is awake even when you sleep. He has removed the wall between the two rooms; they have become one.

The moments when you fall into sleep, and when you wake again in the morning—these are the two times when consciousness shifts. There is a middle instant. Hindus call it sandhya; Nanak calls it the ambrosial hour, because in that instant you are nearest to the deathless. “Sandhya” is a scientific term—neither here nor there, neither this nor that. In that juncture, for a split second, you are closest to God. Hence Hindus fashioned their prayer to use the sandhya. Nanak calls it the ambrosial hour—sweeter yet, because in that instant you are near the nectar of immortality.

The body is mortal. One mechanism of the body is used for waking; another for sleeping. All dreams are of the body; waking and sleeping belong to the body. Behind this body you are hidden—the deathless—which never sleeps, never wakes. How could it wake, when it never sleeps? It never dreams, because dreaming requires sleep. Behind these bodily states is the immortal, which is never born and never dies.

If you learn to catch the juncture, you will come upon the bodiless hidden in the body; the Master hidden in the slave. You are both. If you see the body, you are the slave; if you see the owner hidden within, you are the Master.

So Nanak says: only one thing is worth doing. Nothing will come of begging in temples; nothing of offerings and rituals; nothing of placing flowers and leaves—what skill is there in offering his own things back to him? There is only one real prayer, one worship: in the ambrosial hour, contemplate the glory of the True Name.

“In the ambrosial hour, the True Name; contemplate its greatness.”

That sandhya is only a moment—and your mind is never in the present, so you miss it. It comes every day, every twelve hours—the moment when you are nearest to the Divine—but you miss it because your vision is not yet sharp enough to catch such a subtle instant. You are never in the present.

You sit here listening to me—or have you already gone to the office, begun your work? Or reached your shop and started business? Are you hearing what I say, or thinking about it? If you are thinking about it, you are not here; you will miss the present.

To catch the ambrosial hour, live each moment with alertness. When you eat, only eat—no thoughts wandering. When you bathe, only bathe—no thoughts. At the shop, only the shop—forget home. At home, forget the shop. Be entirely where you are, not here and there. Slowly your vision becomes subtle, and you become capable of seeing the present moment.

Only then can you meditate in the ambrosial hour, because it is very fine—gone in a flash. You are thinking something else, and it has passed.

Lie in bed before sleep. Silence the mind in every way; let no thoughts take you here and there. Otherwise, when the instant comes, you will not be present; you will be lost in worries. Make yourself utterly quiet. Let the mind become empty; no thought moves—no cloud passes. Let the mind become like a blue, empty sky. And keep watching, because with emptiness there is the risk of falling asleep. Watch what is happening within. You will hear, as it were, a click—the gear changing. It is very subtle; if thoughts are running, you will not hear it. You will see night turning into day and day into night; waking becoming sleep and sleep becoming waking—and you are the one apart who sees both. That seer is the immortal. You will see within: waking went out through one door, sleep came in; in the morning, sleep goes and waking comes. When you can see both, you are separate from both—you have become the witness. This is the ambrosial instant. Nanak says: in the ambrosial hour, let there be only the feeling of his glory.

By “glory” I mean: True Master, True Name. Let there be only this feeling—no words. If you repeat the Japji then, you will miss. Remember, “glory” here is not words. It is a state of feeling. If you say, “You are infinite, you are great, you are this, you are that,” you will miss in this babble. The moment is delicate; this is hard to understand.

Have you ever known a pure feeling? Have you ever been in love? Is it necessary to say, “I love you”? When you are with your beloved, must you repeat, “I love you, you are so beautiful, none is more beautiful than you”? Words make things shallow and cheap. The truth is, the moment you say it, the majesty of love is lost. Words cannot bring that majesty.

When the lovers are together, they sit silently. In the heart, a feeling resounds—the glory of the beloved. It is a feeling, not words. Words vibrate in the brain; feeling vibrates in the heart. You are thrilled; you are delighted; you are happy without cause. There is no reason—and yet you feel full, not a void anywhere. You are overflowing. And this overflowing, this flood-like current of love, the beloved experiences.

You will always find lovers silent. Husbands and wives you will always find talking—because they are afraid of silence. If they become silent, the relationship falls apart; their bond is only of conversation. If the husband is silent, the wife asks, “Why are you quiet? What is the matter?” If the wife is silent, the husband thinks something is wrong. They are silent only when they are fighting; otherwise they go on talking.

Think about it: you are silent when there is a quarrel; conversation stops. When things are fine, you talk incessantly. You use silence for conflict, but silence is to be used for the highest love.

When two lovers are truly in love, they are so overwhelmed that nothing remains to be said. Tears may flow; hands may meet; they may embrace—but speech is lost. Lovers become dumb. Words feel vulgar; words feel like an intrusion. If they speak, the profound silence that has descended will break; the taut string of the heart will snap; the sea’s surface will tremble and waves will rise. So lovers fall silent.

In that instant, in the ambrosial hour, you do not “think” about glory, you do not weave words—you abide in the feeling of glory. Aho-bhava, a mute gratitude: the Divine has given all, and you are brimming. Nothing is needed, and thanks are overflowing from you.

“What speech shall we utter that, hearing it, he will love us?”

There is nothing to say. What shall we tell him? All telling is in vain.

“Contemplate the glory of the True Name.”

Be filled with the True Name. And you will find a harmony happens in that middle instant, as day goes and night comes, waking goes and sleep arrives—you become alert, and you are startled. You find you have become a flame of light, without beginning or end—ever-true, eternal. In that flame the doors of life open; in that light the hidden truth is unveiled.

“Through karma the body is obtained.”

In that moment you will know: through karma the body is obtained.

“And by the glance of grace, the gate of liberation opens.”

This body is the fruit of your doing; you have earned it through actions. Here a few things must be understood. Some things can be attained by doing; some can never be attained by doing. The small can be achieved by action; the vast cannot. Kabir says, “By non-doing all is attained.” To attain the vast, you must be in a state of non-doing. Everything petty can be gotten through action. The vast is available only in non-action. Their directions are opposite—this is natural and logical.

Whatever I do cannot be bigger than me. Has an act ever been greater than the doer? Has a sculpture ever been greater than the sculptor? A poem greater than the poet? Impossible. What comes out of you may be smaller, at most equal—but never greater. How will you attain the Divine? Nothing will come of your doing. The more you try to attain, the more you will wander.

To hide this wandering, we have fashioned idols in temples. We can make idols; we cannot make God. God fashions us; we fashion idols. God makes us; we build temples. The temple is petty; it is the work of your hands. How will the vast be found in your handiwork? Your work cannot outgrow you; your imprint will be on it—God’s signature cannot be there.

Yes, sometimes even in your handiwork God’s signature can appear—when you surrender into his hands, when he acts and you become only an instrument.

You will not find him in Birla’s temple—that temple belongs to Birla; what has it to do with God? If it were God’s temple, how could it belong to Birla? You will not find him in a Hindu temple; it is a Hindu temple. If it were God’s, why call it Hindu? You will not find him in a Sikh gurdwara; it is a Sikh gurdwara.

God’s temple can have no name. The Nameless—his temple too will be nameless. Whatever you build—however beautiful, even a Golden Temple—will bear man’s imprint. Your temple may be greater than other temples, but not greater than you. In your temple, he can appear only when you are utterly absent, when no trace of you remains.

To this day we have not been able to build on earth a temple without the mark of human hands. Every temple belongs to someone; the builder is deeply present there. None is his. In truth, he needs no temples, because this whole existence is his temple. He gurgles in the birds, blooms in the trees, flows in the winds, roars in the rivers, expands as the sky. You are waves risen in him. His temple is vast—how will you fit him into a small shrine?

Man can do much by action; the West is its symbol. They have done great things—good roads, good houses, science, the hydrogen bomb, a great organization of death—everything. But they have been deprived of God.

And the more they did, the more they lost all that arises from non-doing. First God disappeared—so Nietzsche declared a hundred years ago, “God is dead.” For the West, indeed he died. When you are so full of doing, the connection is broken—dead, for all practical purposes. When God goes, prayer becomes hollow, meditation becomes trivial—what content? Meditation is a state of non-doing, when you do nothing.

So Westerners think Eastern people are lazy. Nanak’s father thought Nanak lazy: “Sitting idle—doing nothing!” His father had a businessman’s mind, so the boy was a nuisance: neither working nor earning—his father worried about his future. He tried many jobs; Nanak returned jobless from everywhere. He wasn’t educated either—he had argued with the pundit; the pundit himself brought the boy back home: “He is beyond my scope.” The boy says, “If the final word has been reached, what remains to be studied?” The pundit too felt he was right: “Beyond this, what indeed is there?” Nanak asked, “What will happen by more study? Can the Divine be attained by study? Have you attained?” The pundit said, “Not by study; I have not attained.” Nanak said, “Then we shall seek the path by which it can be attained.”

Kabir says:
“The world died reading scriptures—no one became a pundit.
Two and a half letters of love—who reads them becomes truly learned.”

Nanak said, “We too will read those two and a half letters by which people come to knowing. Why read so much else!”

Formal learning has other purposes.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin rode his donkey daily to the school to teach children. For years the donkey had gone to school with him; the school’s atmosphere rubbed off on the donkey. One day on the road the donkey asked, “Mulla! Why do you go to school every day?”

Mulla was startled. Then he thought, “I have seen talking donkeys—let this too be a talking donkey; no need to panic. Looks like the school air has done it; the donkey has begun to speak.”

Mulla asked, “What will you do, knowing?”

The donkey said, “I want to know—curiosity has arisen.”

Mulla said, “I go to teach.”

The donkey asked, “What does study bring?”

Mulla said, “It brings intelligence.”

The donkey asked, “What does intelligence bring?”

Mulla said, “With intelligence—I ride on you!”

The donkey said, “Then Mulla, teach me too and give me intelligence.”

Mulla said, “No, brother—then you will ride on me! Never!”

What we study here are ways to ride on one another. Our education organizes the struggle; with degrees you can fight better, climb on others’ shoulders, exploit with skill, harass through systems, commit crimes by law and rule—everything that should not be done. All this education is training in deceit. No one became wise through it; people have become more ignorant. Our schools are un-schools; there knowledge never flowers.

So Nanak’s teacher dropped him back home: “He is beyond me.”

When Nanak’s sacred-thread ceremony came, all was arranged; the crowd gathered; the band played; the pundit chanted the mantras. As he moved to place the thread around Nanak’s neck, Nanak said, “Wait. What will happen by this thread?” The pundit said, “You will become twice-born.” Nanak asked, “What does twice-born mean? Will a second birth happen by putting on a cotton string? Will I become new—will the old die and the new be born? If that happens, I am ready.”

The pundit was frightened. What will a thread accomplish? Then Nanak asked, “What if the thread breaks?” Pundit: “Buy another in the market. Throw this away; take a new one.” Nanak said, “Then leave it altogether. What breaks of itself, what is sold in the marketplace for a few coins—how will it help me find God? What man makes—how will it find the Divine? Man’s act is small.”

Nanak’s father, Kalu Mehta, concluded the boy was spoiled. He tried everything. At last, the village’s final remedy: send him to graze the cattle. Nanak went happily—sat under a tree, lost in meditation. The cows wandered into neighbors’ fields—next day that too had to be stopped. The father became certain nothing would come of him.

It is a strange fact: those who can achieve in this world are deprived of the other. And those worthy of the other world are usually unable to do much in this one. Not that nothing happens through them—but their way is different. They become instruments—and through them much happens.

What would have happened if Nanak had returned after properly grazing cattle? Many do. What if Nanak had run a shop well? Many shops run well. But he stepped out of the world of doing and drowned in the world of glory.

“Glory” means: You are the doer. “Glory” means: What can I do? The day it becomes clear, “What can I do?” your ego starts to melt, drop by drop. The moment it is realized in fullness, “I am helpless; nothing of mine will work; I am powerless,” in that very moment the gate of liberation opens.

Nanak says: through karma the body and world are obtained; through grace the gate of moksha opens. Know thus: Truth, the Divine, is all.

“The Divine cannot be established”—so how will you build temples? “He cannot be manufactured”—so how will you sculpt idols? “He, the stainless, is all by himself everything.” He needs no making. He was before you, he will be after you. Adi sach, jugadi sach. Give up the worry of making him. Through worship, temple, image—nothing will happen. Then through what?

“Those who served and adored him attained glory.”

If he is all, service is prayer. If he is all, service is worship. If he is all, his expansion is all—then the more you are absorbed in service, the nearer you come to him. A tree is thirsty—pour water. A cow is hungry—give grass. You are placing grass before him; you are pouring water at his roots.

Great sensitivity is needed for prayer. Little temples will not do; they are tricks to avoid prayer. The temple is vast; the mood of service must be immense—because he alone is.

Jesus said, when it was time for the cross and his companions asked, “What shall we do now?” Jesus said, “Do not worry. If you give water to someone thirsty, it will reach my throat. If you serve the poor, you will find me hidden there.” He said, “If you are angry and have spoken harshly to anyone, there is no point going to the temple yet. Even if you have come and knelt, and remember that you are angry at someone, rise and seek forgiveness first. Until he forgives you, how will prayer happen?”

He is spread on all sides. Hence Nanak says: those who served and adored him attained glory.

What kind of adoration? Service. The word “service” is crucial—let it sink deep. But note one difference: your inner attitude must be that the one you serve is God.

You can serve as a social duty: “He is poor, he is miserable—serve him.” Then you are up and he is down; you are doing him a favor, not serving. This is ordinary social service, not adoration. You are a social worker, a Lion or Rotarian—“We serve” is the motto—but you stand in pride. You build a small hospital and create a great publicity. Social service is not worship. In social service you throw scraps to the hungry—you confer a kindness; the other should feel obliged. Then it is not adoration.

Service becomes adoration when the one you serve is the Divine—he is the Master, you the servant; and the obliged one is not he but you, for he gave you the chance. You gave bread to a poor man—also give thanks.

In the old Hindu rule, when you give alms to a brahmin, then give dakshina too. What is dakshina? Gratitude that he accepted your alms. Had he not accepted, what would you have done? First give alms, then dakshina. It means: “Your kindness in accepting my service.” The day you feel grateful to the one you served, then service has become worship. Then service is no longer a social matter; it has become a religious act.

Understand this distinction. If service makes you proud and you become the “server,” this is not Nanak’s adoration. Service must make you humble. Service must deify the poor and make you the servant. The last shall be first, and you will stand behind. Service means: whoever gives you a chance to serve—be thankful.

“He, the stainless, is himself everything.”

“He cannot be installed; he cannot be made. He himself, the stainless, is that One.
Those who served him attained honor.”

This “honor” is not your ego’s honor—for it comes only when the ego has died.

“Then they became luminous.”

Then Buddhahood manifested; the darkness of the house vanished, a lamp was lit.

“Those who served him attained honor.”

Nanak says: sing the treasure-house of virtues—sing him alone; listen to him alone; hold only his feeling in the heart. Thus, freed from sorrow, carry home joy.

Sing the Treasure of Virtues; listen; keep only his love in the heart. Whatever you do, dedicate it to the Divine—only then is this possible. Sit in your shop—a customer comes; do not see a customer, see him. Treat the customer as you would treat the Divine if he had come, because if you are to be immersed twenty-four hours in his feeling, there is no other way. When you eat, it is he entering you as food; thus Hindus said, “Food is Brahman.” Do not eat like that; he has fed you; he has become the grain—receive it with gratitude. When you drink water, he has come in water to quench your thirst. Only then will there be twenty-four-hour devotion. Otherwise how?

You go to the temple or gurdwara and sing for an hour—but even then your mind runs away. You check the clock: too much time has passed; time to open the shop. How will you sing his praise? Devotion cannot be done in fragments—morning and evening—and the rest of twenty-four hours ordinary.

To be religious is a twenty-four-hour act, a mood. You cannot do it occasionally. There is no religious day or hour; the whole of life is his, all moments are his. Live in such a way—religion is a way of living—that whatever you do is in some manner joined to the Divine.

Nanak says: sing the Treasure of Virtues; sing him alone; listen to him alone; keep only his feeling in the heart.

You are hearing me here. You can hear as if some speaker is speaking—or you can hear as if the voice of the Divine is coming. Immediately your life will begin to change. Keep only his feeling in the mind.

“In this way, free of sorrow, you will carry home joy.”

Then after twenty-four hours, after your day’s labor, when you return home you will take home joy instead of sorrow. Now you carry sorrow: the customer swindled you; someone picked your pocket; whatever you ate was not right—complaint. Whatever you wore was not beautiful—compulsion. Now you collect sorrow. If the Divine begins to appear everywhere and whatever you do bears his glimmer, then, says Nanak, you will take joy home.

And not only to this ordinary home; at death, when you go to the real Home, you will take joy upon joy. You will be fulfilled; you will be full to the brim. You will not go weeping—you will go dancing.

If death does not become a dance, know that life has been wasted. If death does not become a joy, a festival, know that life has been in vain. For you are going home—and if even then your heart is not full of bliss, you have gathered only sorrow.

“Nanak: sing the Treasure of Virtues.
Sing, listen, and keep love in the heart; sorrow departs, and joy you carry home.”

“If you are sorrowful, it is only because you are running life without the Divine. You have put him aside. You consider yourself too clever, you rely too much upon yourself—therefore you are unhappy. There is no other cause of sorrow.

And there is no other cause of joy either. The day you drop your cleverness and begin to see him; live more in him, less in yourself; slowly live entirely in him, and barely in yourself...”

Why see “wife” as wife—why not see the Divine? Why see “my son” as “my” son—why not see the Divine’s child? The moment vision shifts, joy begins. If tomorrow your son dies, you will grieve—not because the son died, but because your vision was false: “my son.” If you had known beforehand, “God’s child,” you would say, “When it was his will, he sent; when it is his will, he has taken. His command.” You would remain content in every case. For it was his child; he sent; as long as he sent—grace. Whom to complain to? When he took him back—his will. Nothing is ours; all is his. Then how will you weep? How worry? How suffer? If he gives, you remain content; if he takes, you remain content—his ways are wondrous. Sometimes he gives, and through giving he shapes you; sometimes he takes, and through taking he grows you. Sometimes sorrow is needed—because sorrow awakens you; in happiness you fall asleep, you get lost. Sorrow wakes you.

There was a Sufi named Hasan. A disciple once asked, “I understand happiness—because God is, the Father, he gives happiness—but why sorrow? Sorrow doesn’t make sense.” Hasan was in a boat crossing the river; he seated the disciple and said nothing. He began rowing with one oar; the boat circled in place. The youth said, “Are you out of your mind? With one oar we’ll keep circling this bank. Is the other oar broken? Is your hand hurt? Let me row!” Hasan said, “You are the wise one. I thought you were foolish. If there is only happiness, the boat will go in circles; you will never reach. It takes a contrary oar to be steered. Two oars make the boat move; two legs walk; two hands work; night and day are needed; happiness and sorrow are needed; birth and death are needed. Otherwise the boat becomes a whirlpool—you never get anywhere.”

When one truly begins to see him in all, then you accept his sorrow with gratitude, as you accept his joy. When you embrace both equally, neither remains as you knew them; the line of division dissolves. Seeing both with equal eye, your attachment to happiness and your resistance to sorrow drop. Instantly you become separate—you become the third, the witness. Freed of sorrow, you carry joy home.

“The Guru’s word is the sound-current; the Guru’s word is the Veda. The Divine is contained in the Guru’s word. The Guru is Shiva, the Guru is Vishnu, the Guru is Brahma. Even if I knew him completely, I could not speak him—for he cannot be said by saying. But by one ‘gur’ the whole puzzle is solved. And that ‘gur’ is: there is one Giver of all beings—may I not forget him.”

Let us try to understand. Nanak gives immense glory to the Guru. All the saints have—placing the Guru above the scriptures. If the Guru says something and it is not in the Vedas, drop the Vedas—because the Guru’s word is the Veda. If the Guru says something not in accord with scripture, which will you drop? Drop scripture—because the living Guru is the living scripture. Why have the saints given such value?

First, the Vedas too were the utterances of Gurus—but those Gurus are no more. And the utterance is no longer pure—and cannot remain pure, because the collectors inevitably mix in their own minds. Not that they knowingly mix; they must. If I tell you something and send you to tell the neighbor, in transit something will drop, something will be added. Even if you use my exact words, the tone, the emphasis will change. When you speak, your experience, knowledge, and understanding will fill those words.

If I place a flower in your hand and you carry it to someone else, the flower also absorbs your body’s scent—just as your hand takes the flower’s fragrance, the flower takes your odor. It is no longer the same flower I gave. If it passes through a thousand hands, it gathers a thousand odors; if it comes back to me, I may not recognize it. The scent I gave is gone, and it carries the stench of many hands. Its shape is not the same—it has broken; petals have fallen. To avoid bringing me an incomplete flower, people add other petals, to make it look whole.

The Vedas were Guru-utterances—those who knew, spoke. But thousands of years have passed; much has been added and removed. Therefore to find a living Guru is supreme good fortune. Books will necessarily become stale.

Another point: when you read the book, you will interpret it—who else? The meaning will not go beyond you; it cannot transcend your understanding. You impose your own meaning on the book.

So the book is not your Guru—you are the Guru of the book. You have not read the scripture; you have made the scripture read what you already are. Hence so many commentaries. The Gita has thousands of commentaries—each reader imposing his own meaning. Krishna is not standing there to say, “Stop—that is not my meaning.” Krishna had one meaning; he could not have had a thousand. If Krishna had had a thousand meanings, Arjuna must have gone mad. But who can say what that meaning was? Not even Arjuna—he too would change it in telling. And the Gita was written by Sanjaya—the PTI, Reuters reporter. He reported from far away, via a kind of television. He told it to blind Dhritarashtra—the distance grows. If Krishna speaks to Arjuna, Arjuna cannot report exactly; he will speak according to his understanding—what he got, not what was said. And Sanjaya gathers the report; he tells it to Dhritarashtra. The deaf listen to the blind; the blind are being told by the deaf. Then thousands of years pass; commentators comment; one word gets many meanings—till no meaning remains; whatever you put in, that is the Gita. You project yourself upon it.

Therefore Nanak, Kabir, Dadu—all insisted, because by their time the ancient scriptures had become stale and secondhand—“Find a living Guru. His word is the Veda.” Even face to face there will be some change—but at least it is minimal.

“The Guru’s word is the sound-current; the Guru’s word is the Veda; the Divine is contained in the Guru’s word. The Guru is Shiva, the Guru is Vishnu, the Guru is Brahma; the Guru is Parvati, the Mother.”

Even those who have seen with their own eyes cannot say him fully. And you seek God through a book—Gita, Bible, Guru Granth! The living Guru too cannot say him fully. Nanak says of himself: even if I knew completely, I still could not describe him—for he cannot be said by saying.

What cannot be said by saying—you hope to grasp through stories! What cannot be spoken—you hope to understand through printed words!

No—the news of him is found by a living Guru. And not even by what the Guru says, but by what the Guru is. The Guru’s presence explains; his being explains. Being with him—his air, his climate. To be near a Guru is to be in a different atmosphere. For that time, the world is lost; you are in another realm; your consciousness is cast in a new mold. If you agree to peer through his window even for a little while, there is no other way.

“Even if I knew, I could not say, for he cannot be said by saying.”

“But with one gur the whole thing is solved.”

“Gur” means a technique, a method. What the Guru gives—this is “gur.” Whoever gives this, he is the Guru. With one gur, all is solved, all tangles undone. And that gur, Nanak says, is this:

“The Guru has given me this understanding—
There is one Giver of all beings—may I not forget him.”

There is one Master of all; one maker; one source. May I not forget him. May I remember this truth: that he is hidden in all; the hand in all hands, the eye in all eyes; the one who throbs, the life in all life. May I not forget this—may it remain remembered, moment to moment.

Catch this gur, this secret, and slowly you will move away from counting the beads and catch the thread running through them. That thread is the Divine. You are the beads; the current of life within you, the thread of life, is the Divine. The thread is the same in me, in you, in tree, bird, animal, stone, mountain. The same One lives in myriad forms, waves in myriad waves. Do not forget the thread—the gur is in your hands; all puzzles dissolve.

What will you do to hold this gur? You must hold it for twenty-four hours. It takes courage—and obstacles will arise. If there were none, the world would long ago have become religious. There must be obstacles—without them, what is attained is worthless. If you reached the goal without a journey, you would wander again. You will guard only what you have gained with difficulty. What is free you cannot safeguard. And for such a vast truth, you must stake something.

Religion is losing on one side and gaining on the other. Hence the obstacle. If you see God in your customer, how will you cheat him? Your hand will hesitate to pick a pocket if you see God there. How will you do harm? How will you curse or insult if he is seen? How will you get angry? How will you keep enmity—and with whom?

If he alone is, life becomes difficult; your structure starts collapsing. The house you built is contrary to him; you built it having forgotten him. Remember him—and it cannot stand.

Yes, one thing is certain: you will receive a far greater house—but you cannot yet see it. Hence gamblers are needed—people of courage—to drop what is in hand for what is not yet certain. That is why I say, religion is not for businessmen, it is for gamblers. The gambler stakes what he has in the hope it will return doubled. Will it? Nothing is certain; who knows how the dice will fall? To walk with Nanak requires the gambler’s courage.

So all religions become distorted—because we lack the gambler’s courage, we have the businessman’s arithmetic. Then this formula becomes hard to remember, because it will transform your life from the roots. You will not remain the same. One small secret—and your whole life catches fire; it will not remain as it is.

Kabir says: “Whoever will burn his own house, let him come with me.”
Whoever is ready to set fire to his house may come along.

Which house? The one you have built around you—of lies, dishonesty, anger, enmity, hatred—that whole house is yours.

If you grasp this one secret, Nanak says:

“The Guru gave me this one understanding—
There is one Giver of all beings—may I not forget him.”

Let there be no forgetfulness of that One: one within all, one Master of all, one Sahib of all. Your life is transformed. Nothing else is needed. You need not bother with Patanjali’s postures; you need not worry about the Jews’ Ten Commandments. Do not fret about the Gita or the Quran. One small gur—and your whole life changes. With this small gur Nanak attained; you can too.

But remember: “Whoever will burn his house may come with me.”

Enough for today.