Ek Omkar Satnam #4

One night Nanak suddenly left home. No one knew where he had gone. People searched for him among sadhus, in temples—wherever it seemed likely—but he was nowhere to be found. Then someone said, I saw him walking toward the cremation ground. No one could believe it. Who goes to the cremation ground of his own accord? Four men are needed to take you there. Barely anyone goes even then. The dead man doesn’t want to go; how would a living one choose to? But when Nanak couldn’t be found anywhere else, people reached the cremation ground.

There he had kindled a sacred fire. He sat absorbed in meditation. His family said, Have you gone mad? Leaving home and hearth, wife and children—what are you doing here? Do you even know this is a cremation ground?

Nanak said, Whoever truly arrives here never dies again. And the place you call home—everything there, today or tomorrow, will die. So what exactly is a cremation ground? Is it where people die—or where death never occurs? And if one day I must come here anyway, why be carried on four shoulders? That’s not dignified. I’ve come on my own.

This incident is of great significance. There is no struggle in Nanak with what must be. What must be—he accepts. Death must be—he accepts that too. And why trouble others to carry you there? Better to get up and walk yourself.

We usually remain in opposition to what will be. We have our own desire: may it not happen. Nanak has no personal desire. Whatever is His desire—if death too is His desire—Nanak accepts that.

That night, people persuaded Nanak to return home. But he was never the same man again. Something within him died. And something utterly new was born. Only when someone dies within, totally, does the new arrive. That is the process of birth. You must pass through the cremation ground. And the one who passes knowingly, consciously, receives a new birth—not of a new body, but the advent of a new consciousness.

You are afraid. And where there is fear, no relationship with God can happen. All your worship and rituals are out of fear, not out of love for God. You go on pilgrimages, take holy dips, light incense and lamps—these are all born of fear, not love. Your religion is a medicine for your fear, not a celebration of your joy. You do everything for security; you make arrangements as you gather money, build houses, create bank balances, buy insurance. God too has become your insurance policy. Your pilgrimages, your sacred baths, your rituals—they are all protections born of fear.

And has anyone ever reached Him through fear? Can fear be a path of arrival? Fear is the way of breaking; love is the way of joining. Fear creates distance; love brings nearness. And love and fear never meet. When fear drops completely, love dawns. As long as fear remains, you can hate, you can polish up your hatred, but you cannot love.

How will you love what you fear? What you fear you will fight—how can you surrender? And if you do surrender, it will be one more trick in the struggle: maybe this way I’ll get rid of fear.

People go on pilgrimages, take ritual baths—there is no celebration in these baths. Only a longing to be rid of sin. What evil you have done, you think will wash away in the Ganges. But you did the wrong—how will it be washed off by a dip in the Ganges? What is the Ganges’s fault in your wrongdoing? You do evil, and the Ganges must flow to wash it? And the wrong you have done is not of the body; it is of consciousness. How will the water of the Ganges touch that consciousness? Yes, if you are physically dirty, a bath in the Ganges will make you clean. Dust on the body—the Ganges will wash it off. But the dust that clings to you is not on your body—what will the Ganges do?

For washing the body, the Ganges is fine; for washing the soul, it is not the way. Another Ganges must be found. There is an old story: one Ganges flows upon the earth, and one in heaven. You will have to find the Ganges of heaven. The earthly Ganges can touch the body—it is of the earth, and reaches only so far. The celestial Ganges will touch you—wash you. But how will you find that heavenly Ganges? Where will you search? These sutras are given to help you find the heavenly Ganges.

“If I have become pleasing to Him, I have bathed at all pilgrimages.”

Becoming pleasing to Him is finding the Ganges of heaven. Becoming pleasing to Him is a profound key. Try to understand it a little.

You will please Him only when you are not standing in opposition to Him. You will please Him only when, in every way, you have dissolved yourself into Him. You will please Him only when your doer-hood is erased. God is the Doer; you are but an instrument. That’s all! And you will be pleasing.

But right now a tune is playing in you: I am the doer. Even while you worship, you remain the doer. You bathe at sacred places—still you are the doer. You give charity—still the doer is you. All is in vain then. The bath is in vain, the charity is in vain, the worship is futile—because of the doer’s stance. You still think: it is mine.

There is only one difference between the religious and the irreligious. For the religious, God is the Doer; for the irreligious, he himself is the doer. The feeling that something can happen by my doing—that feeling is irreligion. The feeling that all is happening by His doing—that feeling is religion. Then you become dear to Him.

With your own hands you have turned your back on Him. Your doer-hood is your back turned. The moment you drop the doer, you are face-to-face. Your aversion disappears.

What have you done anyway? Not your birth, not your life, not your death—they are all His doing. But in the little interval in between, you manage to manufacture the sense of being the doer. And once this sense of doership arises, then if it sins, it is sin; if it does merit, it is still sin. Take note of this.

You think committing sin is sin, and doing virtue is virtue. You are mistaken. Being the doer is sin; being non-doer is virtue. Even if you perform virtue and say, I did it—built temples, offered worship, undertook so many fasts, went on pilgrimage so many times, went to Kashi, went on Hajj, became a Haji—the more you say, I did, the more it all turns into sin. Therefore sin is not related to the act, but to the stance. If you act from non-doership, then in this world there is no sin at all. If you act from doership, then in this world everything is sin.

This is exactly what Krishna says to Arjuna in the Gita: Drop the sense of doership and let Him do through you. Let His Will happen. Do not come in between. Do not choose by yourself. Do not decide what is right and what is wrong. How will you even know what is right and what is wrong? What is the limit of your seeing? What is the range of your understanding? What is the depth of your experience? What is the clarity of your awareness? Do not try to see by this little lamp whose light can reach no more than a few feet—while life’s expanse is infinite. Do that which He is making you do. Don’t stand in the middle. Become only a medium. As someone plays a song on a flute and the flute simply allows the passage—so you allow the passage. Become an instrument.

Whoever becomes an instrument becomes His beloved. Whoever remains the doer remains an enemy. His love will still shower, because His love is unconditional. What you are makes no difference to Him. But you will become incapable of receiving it. If the pot is placed upright and it rains, it fills. Rain falls regardless; if the pot is upside down, it remains empty. The rain falls on the upside-down pot too, for the rain is unconditional. His love is not bound by any condition—become like this and I will love you.

Understand this too. Hearing this saying of Nanak, many will think: If I become like that, then He will love me. No—His love is already showering. If love had to meet a condition, then there would remain no difference between human love and God’s love. That is the misery of human love: we say, if you do this, I will love you; if you become like this, I will love you. Fulfill my conditions and I will love you; otherwise I will withdraw my love. Fathers speak this to sons, wives to husbands, friends to friends: be like this. If you are like this, you will please me.

Because of this experience of love, don’t think Nanak is saying God will love you only when you fulfill some conditions. No—His love is raining anyway. If you fulfill the conditions, you become like an upright pot. His rain is falling—you will fill. You will brim over. You will overflow. Not only will His love reach you; through you it will reach others too.

We call one a guru whose pot has filled so utterly with God’s love that it can no longer contain it. It starts overflowing onto the pots of others. Guru simply means: his own need is fulfilled. His craving has been quenched. His thirst pacified. His pot so full that now he is able to give. What else can he do but give? When a cloud fills with water, it must shower to become light. When a flower is full of fragrance, the fragrance must spread.

So when your pot fills with His love, it will begin to be distributed all around you. And His rain is endless. Once you discover that by being upright the filling begins—and the rain is always falling—then no matter how much you ladle out, you cannot ladle it away. Even with a thousand hands you won’t be able to empty it. So remember, when Nanak says this, his purpose is with you.

“If I have become pleasing to Him, I have bathed at all pilgrimages.”

To Him you are already pleasing; otherwise how would you even be? If for a single moment He did not will your being, you would vanish. He breathes in your every breath. He beats in your every heartbeat. Existence has wanted you. Existence has loved you. Existence has made you. No matter what you are, existence is still giving you life. You already please Him. But you stand upside down. You turn your back to Him. You are even afraid of His love. You run from Him. He wants to fill you; you are trying to escape.

So when Nanak says, If I have become pleasing to Him, he means—when I have become upright, face-to-face. When I have dropped fear.

Out of fear you keep your pot upside down—lest something wrong should enter. Out of fear you have shut all doors—lest some thief, some enemy, come inside. Out of fear you have sealed your heart from all sides. But when you close the door to the thief and robber, the lover also cannot enter—because it is the same door. It may be you have arranged for thieves not to come, but remember: you have shut the door to the lover as well. And what use is a life in which the lover never comes? Even if the thief does not come, what is the use?

You are so frightened that you keep yourself inverted, lest anything penetrate. Then you remain empty. Then you weep: I am empty, no guest comes to my door, no one knocks at my gate. Your fear has turned you away from God.

And the irony is that your whole religion is an expansion of your fear. All your so-called gods are mere projections of fear. You have accepted them out of fear. You are afraid—even to doubt you are afraid, so you don’t doubt. Trust has not happened in you. If you appear to be “faithful” out of fear of doubting, your faith is hollow. What connection can the real have with the hollow? Your faith is only on the surface. How will you meet the innermost? And when faith is only on the surface, inside doubt is always lurking.

Mullah Nasruddin stood for election. He received only three votes: one his own, one his wife’s, and one from an unknown person. His wife said, Hmph! My suspicion is confirmed—tell me quickly, who is this other woman?

Whatever lies inside you will find a pretext. If within you there is doubt, then the faith above will break at the slightest nudge. How long will it last? A small incident, and you begin to doubt God. A thorn pricks your foot—doubt arises. A headache—doubt arises. You lose your job—doubt arises.

The doubt is simply sitting there. It oozes out like pus. Just a small wound and the pus comes out. No matter how much you try to hide it with the ointment of faith, nothing will help. Whom are you deceiving? Who is fooled by you? Even you are not fooled by your own deception—how will anyone else be? You know perfectly well your “faith” is out of fear, and inside you are full of doubt.

So go—bathe at the pilgrimages. Go to temples, gurdwaras, churches: do your worship and prayers—everything is futile. Because until the note of trust arises from your heart, you have not called Him. And if you go out of fear, you will certainly ask for something—fear always asks. The one who asks, if his wish is fulfilled, feels reassured; if not, doubt deepens. You always ask. Trust goes only to give thanks. The trusting one too will go to the temple—but to thank: You have already given so much. You have given far beyond my worth. It is Your grace. Your compassion. The faithful is always filled with gratitude. And where there is gratitude, doubt is destroyed. Where there is asking, doubt keeps looking for a chance. You ask; if it is fulfilled, you keep doubt hidden; if not, doubt bursts forth. Asking is perhaps an examination.

In the life of Jesus it is said: when he went into deep solitude for forty days, the devil came to him and said, It is written in the scriptures that when a prophet is born, God protects him. So jump from this cliff. If you really are a prophet, His angels will spread their hands and catch you.

Jesus said, That is right. But it is also written that only those who are full of doubt put Him to the test. I have no doubt. Surely the angels will be standing below. But how can I test Him? Testing is done only by those filled with doubt. You are right: the angels certainly stand ready. But what does it mean to test? It means I had some doubt—who knows if they are standing or not? Who knows if He protects or not? Who knows if I am His prophet or not?

Where there is doubt, there is testing. Where there is doubt, there is verification. Where there is doubt, you set up demands: Do this—if You are. If it is done, You are. If not, You are not.

A man of trust never tests God. The faithful is graced; he does not ask. And the day you stop asking, your fear will begin to dissolve. As gratitude fills you, asking drops; as you grow more upright, a few drops of His ambrosial rain will begin to fall into you, and your fear will melt away. Then you will see: He is showering—I was afraid for no reason. Then you will leave your doors open. For it is He who comes—I was afraid for no reason. He comes even in the thief, He comes even in the dishonest. And until you see Him in everyone, you cannot see Him at all.

Nanak says, “If I have become pleasing to Him, I have bathed at all pilgrimages.”

“And if I have not pleased Him, what use are my baths?”

If I have not pleased Him, for whom am I making myself clean? If I have not pleased Him, my bathing and washing will only fatten my ego.

Look at the pilgrim! When someone returns from Hajj as a Haji, watch him—he returns with a strut. He should have returned humble. If the pilgrimage truly happened, the man would come back transformed, leaving his ego behind. But he returns puffed up. When the pilgrim comes back, he expects receptions. People will touch his feet: Amazing! You completed the pilgrimage? Such great merit!

Even through merit you want to feed the ego. You fast, and you expect a procession in your honor: bands playing, word spreading from village to village how many fasts you have done. Even there you are only seeking ego. And the stronger the ego, the more you turn away. The more you are, the more you are turned away. Keep this arithmetic in mind: the less you are, the more you are face-to-face. If you are not at all, He stands at your door. Then even if a thief comes, it is He who comes. Then there is no fear of anything, because all is He.

“If I have become pleasing to Him, I have bathed at all pilgrimages. And if I have not pleased Him, what use is bathing and washing? In this creation, whatever is seen, within it who has received anything without action?”

In this world, whatever is obtained is obtained by action. And from this a great confusion arises: just as in this world everything is gained by action, so to attain God one should also perform certain actions—and then He will be attained.

Understand this. In the world, all things are gained by action; but love is not gained by action, prayer is not, worship is not, faith is not, the nearness of God is not. Why? Because by action the doer gets strengthened. If you want to earn wealth, it won’t happen sitting idle. To earn wealth you must act. To gain fame, you won’t get it sitting idle—you must act, run here and there, push and shove, worry and strain. In this world, to get anything, toil is the way. From this we conclude: if for the petty one must toil so much, to gain the vast, many times more toil will be needed. There our arithmetic goes wrong.

The laws of this world are the reverse of the journey in that world. To obtain anything here, you must turn your back to God—therefore you must toil.

Understand this. The more we abandon His support, the more we must labor—because we must do what He would have done. To make up for His effort, we must pour in our sweat and work. Going into the world means turning your back to Him. Less and less reliance on Him. His stream of nectar is not accessible—not because it ceases, but because we do not open to it. Our doors are shut. We want to live on our own. We want to be self-reliant.

That is why Nanak keeps saying: He is the Master, and I am the servant. The drive to be self-reliant is the drive of ego. The more we want to rely on ourselves, the more we are saying, I will do it—and thus we do not take the support of His power. It is as if someone is rowing against the wind. Nanak gives the secret: there is no need to row against the wind. Let your boat’s sails rest in the very winds that He sends.

Ramakrishna used to say: Why do you row at all? Why not flow with the winds? Unfurl the sails and rest. The winds themselves are carrying you. The winds themselves carry you to the far shore. Just keep the right timing and the right sense of direction—that’s all. No other labor is needed. When the winds blow toward the other shore, release the boat. When the winds blow back this way, again release the boat. Why strain yourself in between?

If you go against the winds, you must labor. If you swim upstream, you must exert, and still you may not reach—you will only get tired. Look at people’s faces after a life of worldly running—other than weariness, you will find nothing there. Before dying they have already died—utterly tired, worn out. They crave rest: somehow, somewhere, let me rest. Why get so tired?

Animals grow old, but they do not become ugly. Even in old age they retain a certain beauty. Look at old trees—one thousand years old. Death approaches, yet their beauty is not diminished a jot. In fact, it has deepened. Now thousands can sit in their shade. An old tree has a charm that a young tree cannot provide. The young have no experience yet. The old tree has seen who knows how many seasons! How many rains, how many winters, how much sun, how many travelers rested and moved on, how much of the world flowed, how many winds passed, how many clouds drifted by, how many suns rose and set, how many moons—a whole history is written into it. Sitting by an old tree is sitting at the feet of history. A deep tradition flows through it.

The Buddhists have tried to preserve the tree under which Buddha was enlightened. Why? Because beneath it a supreme event happened. That tree is suffused with that experience. Still it vibrates with that resonance. The great festival that took place beneath it, the supreme illumination that bloomed in Buddha—the tree remembers some rays of that light. Sit quietly under the Bodhi tree and suddenly you will find a peace you never found elsewhere. Because you are not becoming peaceful alone—the tree has known an immeasurable peace. It will make you a participant in its experience.

Old trees become beautiful. There is a beauty in an old lion that is not in the young. The young is excited, restless, impatient, lustful. In old age all has fallen silent. But man becomes ugly—because man gets exhausted. Trees are not fighting God. They keep their sails open. Wherever His winds take them, they are willing to go. You fight against Him. Man alone fights against Him—so he tires, breaks, withers. If life is a struggle, it has to be so.

In this world, for anything you must act. But to attain God, no act is needed. Not worship, not prayer, not yoga, not austerity, not chanting. He cannot be attained by doing. He is attained by love. Love and action move in different directions.

Love is a feeling. And when you love, remember—there is only one thing in life that does not tire: love. Everything else tires—because love is not labor. The more you love, the more skillful you become in loving. As your experience of love grows, you discover you have become capable of greater love. Love only rises; there is no ebb in the tide of love.

But love is a grace. It is not your toil. Truly understood, love is your rest. That is why when you are in love you feel fresh, rested. Even in ordinary love—if someone you love sits by your side, you feel all fatigue vanish. You feel light, fresh, elated. The dust of toil falls away. Imagine then the love of God!

The day that love is born—what labor? What fatigue? God is not attained by effort but by grace. That is why Nanak says: Guru Prasad—by the Master’s grace. Your direct relationship with God cannot happen today; your eyes are not ready for Him.

If you want to prepare your eyes to look at the sun, you must begin with a lamp—fix your gaze (tratak) on a small flame, then a larger one, then larger still. Slowly, slowly, toward the sun. Otherwise, as you are, the sun will blind you.

If the pot is to be made upright, first turn toward the Guru. The Guru is preparation. When you agree to be filled by him—and being filled, you become thrilled and joyous—and all your fears dissolve—then you can open to God. Opening to God all at once can be dangerous. You may not be able to bear such a great gift. To bring the Ganges down from the sky, a Bhagirath is required. You may not be able to hold the Ganges. Not everyone can. You might drown in a small puddle.

Therefore Nanak lays great emphasis on the Guru. Because the Guru prepares you. If, little by little, you become capable of receiving what flows through him, you become a Bhagirath; then you can also receive the heavenly Ganges.

God is found not by deeds. In this world all else is found by deeds. How is God found?

“By hearing even a single instruction of the Guru.”

By hearing one instruction of the Master, God can be met—not by anything you do.

“When one hears that single instruction of the Guru, the mind becomes like a treasure of jewels and rubies and diamonds. It becomes precious.”

But hearing even one instruction of the Guru is difficult. Because to hear one instruction you must transform your whole life. As you are, you won’t hear anything. To hear the Guru’s teaching you must turn toward the Guru. You must learn the art of sitting by him in silence and stillness. When you come to him, you must leave your head at home. If you bring your head along, you will not hear. Even if teaching is given, you will derive your own meanings. Your head will transform and distort everything in between. Something will be said; you will hear something else. You came empty-handed, and you will go back empty-handed.

Because the Guru’s instruction is not heard with the head. It has nothing to do with the head. The Guru’s instruction is heard with the heart. While hearing the Guru’s instruction, you do not think whether he is right or wrong. Therefore it is heard with trust. It is right because the Guru says it. You are not there to think. You are not the judge of whether he is right or wrong. If you are still thinking, then you are with a teacher, not with a Guru. Then you are in a school, not in satsang. There you may think what is right or wrong—but you remain the judge.

To come to the Guru means: I am tired of deciding. Decisions don’t happen through me. It means: I am tired of thinking—I cannot think anything through. It means: I am fed up with myself. I have come to drop myself. In short, this is what trust is.

You can come to the Guru only when you are thoroughly fed up with yourself. If you still believe you are intelligent, there is no point in coming to the Guru. For now you are your own guru. Wander a while longer. Suffer a little more through your doubts. You still need more anguish to ripen. But the day you are bored with yourself—on that day come to the Guru. Coming unripe is pointless.

Hence the difficulty. People come to the Guru unprepared. Being prepared means: they still trust themselves. So they will think about what the Guru says—is it right, is it wrong? They will choose. They will accept what suits them, and reject what doesn’t. Then you are only accepting yourself.

Do not call this trust. Do not mistake it for surrender. You have not dropped anything. There is only one secret in going to the Guru: go after dropping yourself. Then whatever he says is right. Nothing remains for you to decide. Only then will you be able to hear his instruction. For only such a total heart can hear. And only then can you become a Sikh—a learner. The one who hears the instruction becomes a Sikh.

Sikh is a lovely word. It comes from the Sanskrit shishya: the one ready to learn. The one ready to hear the instruction is a Sikh. The one still living by his own stiffness, not ready to learn, is not a Sikh. You can wear the clothes of a Sikh—that changes nothing. You can adopt the outer style of a Sikh—that changes nothing. Being a Sikh is a heart-event.

Nanak says:
“When one hears even a single instruction of the Guru, the mind becomes like jewels, rubies, diamonds—priceless.”

Even hearing a thousand things will not help. Hearing just one—everything happens. And how much you have heard, how much you have read—still nothing happens. The reason is clear: you have not heard from where one should hear.

There are two ways of hearing. One is the way of the intellect. When the intellect hears, it always hears in duality: Is this right or wrong? True or not? Should I accept it or not? Intellect never goes beyond ego. Intellect considers the heart mad. Intellect does not trust the heart.

That is why you have all killed your hearts. Because the heart is “unreliable”—who knows what it will make you do, which later may be costly!

You pass a hungry person; the heart says, give. The intellect says, wait—first be sure this man is not cheating! He might be a professional beggar! And see—he is healthy—why doesn’t he work? The intellect will raise a thousand points. The heart had one impulse; the intellect will suppress it.

Love will arise; the intellect will say, dangerous path. Love is blind. Where are you going? Walk with eyes open, be careful. Love has ruined many. The intellect’s road is like a neat highway; love’s road is like a footpath that wanders in the forests. Where are you going? Don’t leave the road. Walk where the crowd walks—where all go must be right—why go alone?

Love is the way of the alone. That is why love seeks privacy, solitude. Love says, give. The intellect says, first think, investigate, learn everything—then give. Then you will never give. Love says, surrender—place your head at someone’s feet and let go. The intellect says, how can that work? The world is full of trickery. In the name of faith, who knows how many are looting.

But what do you have that could be looted? What do you have that if you give, you will be finished? Inside there is nothing but poverty—yet you cling even to that. And if you live by the intellect, slowly the heart shrinks. Slowly the heart breaks. Such a distance arises that no news from the heart reaches you. The intellect builds so many gates between. Then even when you “love,” you love from the head.

Have you noticed? Even your “love” comes from the skull, not the heart. You might say, I love from the heart—but even those words arise from the intellect. Search your heart—you’ll find nothing happening there. No thrill, no dance, no music. Not even a tremor.

The Guru’s instruction can be heard only by the heart. Kabir says: whoever can cut off his head and lay it on the ground—let him come with me. Which head is he speaking of? Cutting off the physical head won’t help.

Bodhidharma was a unique monk. He went to China. He used to sit facing a wall, his back toward people. He would say, When a disciple comes, I will turn toward him. Why talk to you? Talking to you or to a wall is the same.

Then one man came—Hui Neng. He stood behind him for twenty-four hours. He said, Bodhidharma! Turn this way. Bodhidharma remained silent. So he cut off his hand and offered it to Bodhidharma. He said, If you delay, I will cut off my head. Bodhidharma said, Cutting off this head will not help. If you are prepared to cut off that head... Hui Neng said, I have come fully prepared—whatever you say, I am ready.

For the first time in nine years, Bodhidharma turned his face toward someone. Hui Neng became his successor. But first he was asked: cutting off this head will not help—what about that head?

Which head? The inner sense of “I,” the ego. If you are, and you are the judge—you cannot be a disciple; you cannot learn the instruction.

“And whoever hears even a single instruction of the Guru—his mind becomes like a precious jewel.”

His consciousness attains a clarity, a transparency. He sees through and through. Thoughts retreat, for the heart has no thoughts. The head falls far away. All the head’s smoke clears. A cleanliness, a freshness—and that is the real bath in the Ganges.

Nanak is right: “If I have become pleasing to Him, I have bathed at all pilgrimages. And if I have not pleased Him, what use are bathing and washing?”

There is an inner bathing where life becomes clean, consciousness becomes clean—where you do not think, where you lay down your head. The head is borrowed. The heart you brought into the world; the head the world gave you. When you were born you were a heart—no head at all. Inside there were no thoughts—an empty, innocent sky. Then, one by one, words and thoughts were given to you. Society taught you. Society conditioned you. Layer upon layer of conditioning prepared your intellect—for what is needed in the marketplace. And whatever in you was dangerous to society was suppressed. A split arose within—heart and head broke apart.

Head means what society has taught, what you did not bring. The head is borrowed, given. The heart is your own. And here is the dilemma: what is your own is no longer yours, and what is alien has become your center. What is pasted on from outside has become your core, and your true center you have completely forgotten.

Remove this—and only then can you hear the instruction. The moment you hear it—even one instruction is enough. No need for thousands. One small key is enough. And what is that key?

Nanak says, “One key solves everything: There is one Giver of life to all beings—may I never forget Him.”

Just this—may I not forget Him—is enough instruction. Understand a little. Learn the two words: remembrance and forgetfulness. Remembrance means a continuous inner awareness—whatever you do—walking, moving, getting up, sitting—an unbroken sense remains.

Like a pregnant woman. She works, cooks, makes the bed—but all the while the remembrance of pregnancy remains. A new heart has begun to beat within her. A new life has sprouted. The sense of it remains. She walks in a certain way—you can tell by the way she walks that she is pregnant. She can talk while walking—still, an inner remembrance continues. A constant stream flows within: a life is to be cared for.

Remembrance is not a separate effort. If it is a separate effort, you will keep forgetting. Cooking—you will forget. In the shop—selling goods—you will forget. Talking with someone—you will forget. So if you mechanically repeat “Ram Ram, Ram Ram” with your lips—that is not remembrance. How long will you repeat? You will sleep—and forget. Ride a bicycle—and forget. And if you try not to forget even while on the road, you will collide. A horn will sound—you won’t hear it. Any remembrance you create by effort—echoing in the head—is not remembrance.

What seeps into your every pore—Nanak calls that ajapa jap, the unchanted chant. That which does not need to be chanted—because chanting is only on the surface. What penetrates your every fiber—Nanak and Kabir call surati. Their yoga is called the yoga of surati—of remembrance, of inner memory.

And the opposite state is forgetfulness—amnesia—that you remember everything else, but one thing you have completely forgotten: who you are. And for the one who has forgotten who he is, how can he remember what existence is?

In the West, Gurdjieff worked hard in this century on self-remembering, on surati. His entire method was: for twenty-four hours keep the remembrance “I am.” Only this: I am. If this remembrance becomes dense, a center forms within you—a crystallization. Something within you condenses, becomes strong. A sustained hammering creates within you a cohesive element.

But there is a danger in Gurdjieff’s method—the same danger in Mahavira’s method, and in Patanjali’s yoga. The danger is: you may join this newly condensed element with the ego. They are very close. What Gurdjieff calls the crystallized self—this new formation—ego can dominate it. You may become stiff with it. You may begin to proclaim “I alone am.” This is the fear—that you might deny God. You come right to the shore and still miss. You reach the very last place—and turn back.

This danger exists in Mahavira’s path, because there too the emphasis is on intensifying the sense of the self. There is no place given to God. Mahavira says: when the selfhood becomes perfect, God will appear right there—that very self becomes God. This is true. It happened to Mahavira. But for those after him, it does not seem to happen. That is why Mahavira’s stream has shrunk. There is danger: in the name of the soul, ego may begin its proclamation.

Hence you will find Jain monks, more than any other, to be egotistical. A Jain monk cannot fold his hands and bow—whom should he bow to? If you bow to him, he cannot even return the greeting—he can only give a blessing. His hands simply do not fold. The method is correct, but danger is easy. Every method has its danger—remember that.

In Nanak’s method, that danger does not exist. Because Nanak does not say: remember yourself. He says: There is one Giver for all beings—may I never forget Him. The One dwells in all. The One hides within the many—Ek Onkar Satnam. In every leaf He trembles. In the gust of wind He flows. In the cloud, in the sky, in the moon and stars, in each particle, in the soil—He alone is. May I not forget Him. May His remembrance grow dense in me. May it crystallize within me.

Here there is no danger of ego. You can never become egotistic through this. That is why it is hard to find a knower more humble than Nanak. If He is everyone, you can fold your hands to all. You can touch anyone’s feet—because He is in all. The one whose feet you touch may not know—but you do.

This danger is not in Nanak’s way—but another danger is. That danger is this: while remembering that He is in all, you might slip into forgetting yourself entirely. You might drift into a yogic trance—moving about half-asleep. You may see Him everywhere—except in yourself. All ten directions fill with Him, but the eleventh—your own direction—remains untouched. You will sing His glory, but be deprived of that glory yourself. This is the danger.

But this danger is smaller than the first. Because one who sleeps can be awakened. The one filled with ego is in a dreadful sleep—like a coma. It is very difficult to awaken him. Yogic trance can be broken—hence they did not even call it sleep; they called it tandra, a doze. A clap can break it.

Nanak’s path is easier than Mahavira’s. But keep danger in mind—every path has it. On every path you can go astray. And you are such that, unless warned of the danger, there are ninety-nine chances out of a hundred you will go astray. Your intellect is such that it can hardly move straight—it moves skewed.

Have you seen a donkey walk? It never walks in the middle of the road—it always rubs along one wall or the other, at the extreme. To call intellect a donkey is appropriate. You call fools donkeys—but real donkey-ness is the cleverness of the intellect. It always moves at the edges—catches one extreme or the other. The sign of the wise is to be in the middle—and that is where the danger lies.

That is why Nanak’s supremely esoteric teachings have been lost. Sikhs remain—but where is Nanak’s Sikh? The one who has heard his instruction, who has dropped his head, who is filled with trust and heart, who remembers one thing: “One key solves all—that there is one Giver of life to all beings. May I never forget Him.”

Let that remembrance remain. Let that unbroken sense be present. Rising and sitting, let it permeate me. Whatever I do—let it be done in remembrance. Then, while living in the world, you will be beyond it. Being here, you will be there. No need to go to a temple—your house will become a temple. Your ordinary tasks will be suffused with a special grace. Nothing you do will remain ordinary—everything will become extraordinary. Wherever you bathe, there the Ganges will be.

But beware of thinking: then there is nothing left to do; wherever I bathe is just fine. It is not a question of the Ganges; it is a question of you. When you are different, the ordinary village stream becomes the Ganges. And when you are not different, you can turn even the Ganges into an ordinary river. The question is of your ordinariness or extraordinariness.

What is ordinariness? Living without remembrance. And extraordinariness? Living with remembrance. And that remembrance is precious. If anything must be lost for its sake—be ready. But do not be ready to lose remembrance for anything.

Therefore Nanak says, “Whoever hears the instruction—his intelligence becomes like jewels, rubies, diamonds.”

Why does he speak of diamonds and jewels? So that if necessary you will be willing to let go of everything else—but not the diamond. If in your pocket there is a banknote and a diamond, in need you will let go of the banknote. If necessary you will forsake the whole house—but not the diamond. Because you know—that is most valuable. Everything in life may be lost, but not remembrance. Because you know—everything else is worth two pennies. Remembrance is like the diamond—supremely precious.

“Even if someone’s lifespan equals the four ages, and then ten times more, even if the people of the nine continents know him and walk with him; even if he has a good name, and his fame spreads across the world—if he is not in the sight of His grace, there is no value in any of it. No one asks about him.”

Nanak says: even if you had the lifespan of the four ages—Sat Yuga to Kali Yuga—the entire age of the universe for your own, and ten times more; even if the people of the nine regions knew you and followed you; even if you had a great reputation and your renown filled the world—yet if you do not please Him, it is all without essence.

Consider this. And this is all we chase: the whole world should know us, the world should be our empire—age, wealth, good name—this is our quest. Nanak says: gain it all, become master of the universe—but if you do not please Him, it has no essence.

What is the point? What is the reason?

Have you ever seen anyone satisfied after getting everything? Ask the billionaires, the conquerors. Did you ever find them content? Did you ever see around them an aura that says: all has been found?

The opposite: the closer you get, the more you find their poverty enormous. Their begging bowl has only become larger—they want more. Nine continents are not enough. A lifespan of the four ages is not enough. Their wanting is larger than anything they get. Their lack is infinite. It cannot be filled. There is no way to fill it. Their craving is insatiable; there is no limit. Whatever is gained, desire runs ahead.

Desire always runs ahead. It walks miles ahead of you. Wherever you go, it reaches before you. And the more you have, the more you sense you are on the wrong path—because contentment never arrives. Nor can you return—ego says, where would you return now?

Two beggars were resting under a tree. One beggar was crying and complaining. When emperors cry and complain, what about the poor beggar! He said: Is this any life? Today this village, tomorrow that one. Traveling without a ticket. Thrown out anywhere. Ask for bread and get a sermon. Everyone says: You are healthy—go work. Everywhere insult, everywhere condemnation. Is this any life? And driven off at every place. The police always standing behind. Wherever you sleep, you are dragged up—one cannot even sleep a whole night in one place.

The other said, Then why don’t you leave this work? He said, What? Should I accept that I have failed?

Even a beggar cannot accept that he has failed. Then how will a millionaire accept it? How will a politician accept failure?

No, he says, I will prove it. Although no one has ever proved it. Otherwise Mahavira, Buddha, Nanak are fools. No one has ever proved that getting things brings fulfillment. But the ego does not want to turn back. It says: go further. Perhaps the goal is just a little ahead. Who knows? Two steps more. The net of hope stretches on. Ego does not let you return; hope pulls you forward. Hope constructs the road of the future. Ego says: we have come so far; we have never admitted the weakness that we are on the wrong path—how can we admit it now? Cover it up, hide it—keep going. One day success will surely come.

Inside all your “successful” people there are hidden tears of failure. They don’t show them. That is why their public face and private face are different. The face they show the crowd is one thing; the face they see in the mirror in their bathroom is quite another. You will find them weeping. In public you will find them smiling. Their smile is false. Inside that smile there is nothing—only hidden tears.

Nanak says: obtain everything, and still contentment does not come. Contentment comes only if you become pleasing to Him. Then even a naked fakir has it. One who has nothing—still we have seen him blissful. And those who have all—sorrowful.

Then surely the key to contentment lies elsewhere. It has nothing to do with what you possess. It has to do with what relationship you have with the Supreme. Not what you have—but what tether is tied between you and God—that decides whether you are content or not. If the bond is made, if you turn toward Him—and that is the meaning of “becoming pleasing to Him.”

You already please Him—otherwise why would He create you? You already please Him—otherwise why would He give you such opportunity? But you stand with your back to Him. Pleasing Him means: you turn toward Him. When you see His face in all faces—when you find His presence everywhere—even a stone cannot deceive you; you feel Him pulsing in the stone. When you find Him all around—then you have pleased Him.

Nanak says, If I have become pleasing to Him, I have bathed at all pilgrimages. The Ganges of heaven has poured upon you. This Ganges that flows from the Himalayas, touching Prayag and Kashi—bathing in this will do nothing. The other Ganges must descend. You must become acceptable to Him—pleasing to Him—accepted.

“If he does not please Him, no one asks about him.”

Gain as much as you like—it is futile. All your gaining is, in a deep sense, only losing. There is only one wealth—to become pleasing to Him. When this becomes your quest, you are a sannyasin in the world. You do everything—keeping your attention on Him. You move everywhere—keeping your gaze on Him. You stay busy with small, trivial tasks—but you do not let His remembrance be lost. He abides within you.

This remembrance—this surati—this ajapa jap—slowly, slowly, you become pleasing to Him. You become acceptable. And the day you become pleasing to Him, that day a dance descends into your life—a festival descends. That day you have nothing—and you have everything.

“He is made a worm among worms; even the guilty heap guilt upon him.”

The one deprived of God—even if he gains everything—is made a worm among worms; even the guilty cast blame onto him.

“Nanak says: He makes the unvirtuous virtuous, and gives more virtue to the virtuous. Apart from the Lord there is no one who can bestow virtue.”

Apart from God there is no one who can bestow quality upon you. If you miss Him, you miss everything. He alone is the target. Remember each moment—He alone is the target. If the arrow of your life does not reach Him, however far it flies, it is failure. There is only one success—to attain God. All else is failure. There is only one achievement—to become pleasing to Him.

Think: you love someone and you please them; the beloved accepts you—holds you to his heart—what thrill enters your life! Your feet don’t touch the ground. You fly in the air—as if wings have grown. Some unknown anklets begin to ring—never heard before. The radiance of your face changes; the color of your eyes begins to announce another news.

Love is hard to hide. You can hide everything—but not love. If you have fallen in love, it will show. There is no way to conceal it. You will walk differently, rise differently—your eyes will tell the tale. Your every pore will broadcast it. Because love is remembrance. Even in ordinary life, if your beloved accepts you, how thrilled you become!—then imagine: if the whole existence accepts you, what will your thrill be? If existence loves you, embraces you—if the embrace happens, and you are bound in love with the whole existence...

That is what Meera is saying: Krishna, when will you come to my bed? These are metaphors of the lover. Meera says: I have readied the bed. I have made your couch of flowers. When will you come? When will you accept me?

The devotee thirsts for God like a beloved thirsts for her lover; like the partridge thirsts for the Swati drop. He calls—and a single drop becomes fulfillment. A single drop becomes a pearl. And when someone lives with such thirst, even ordinary water becomes a pearl.

If there is that much thirst, one instruction of the Guru becomes a diamond. One drop is enough—one drop is the ocean. Whoever has understood the Guru’s instruction—what is the instruction? A tiny sutra. If you understand, it is very small; if you don’t, lifetimes pass. Nanak says: The Guru gives one understanding, and the whole thirst is quenched.

“There is one Giver of life to all beings—may I never forget Him.”

Only this—may I not forget Him. One small key puts an end to all thirst. All craving drops. All wanting vanishes.

Nanak says, “He makes the unvirtuous virtuous; he gives more virtue to the virtuous.”

The moment your face turns toward Him, you become a vessel. You were always a vessel—only empty. Turned toward Him, you are filled. His glory moves and stirs you. Your vina was always tuned—place it in His hands. His fingers touch—and music is born. The music was asleep; it awaited the fingers. But first, give your vina to Him!

That giving is called faith. That giving is called discipleship—becoming a Sikh. That giving is called surrender. That giving is called sannyas: you place your vina in His hands and say: As You will. Your will shall now be my life. Let me keep You in remembrance—this much is mine; all the rest is Yours. Grant me only this: that You never forget me—and all other demands are finished. One small key!

Nanak says, “He makes the unvirtuous virtuous, and gives more virtue to the virtuous.”

There is only one virtue in life: that He should enter your vessel and fill it—that you are no longer alone; that His company happens; that you don’t wander alone anymore. Otherwise you go on searching for Him in many places—and do not find Him.

Someone seeks Him in wealth—perhaps some companion will be found there. Someone seeks Him in wife, someone in husband. But all such seeking is incomplete. Until you seek Him directly, you will not find Him. The moment you find Him, all vices fall away.

Therefore Nanak does not tell you: remove your vices one by one. They are countless. Give up theft, dishonesty, violence, anger, lust, greed, attachment, jealousy—what all will you give up? They are infinite. Nanak does not say: start throwing them out one by one.

Nanak says: turn toward God. Remember Him. The moment His gaze falls on you, everything changes. You are accepted—you please Him. Anger will vanish on its own. Greed will drop on its own.

One who has found Him—what greed can remain? What is left to gain? One who has found Him—what anger can remain? Who is left to be angry at? One who has found Him—what lust can remain? What craving? The supreme union has happened—the marriage with existence is complete. What lover is left to seek? Kabir says: I am Ram’s bride! I am His bride. And when one is attached to Ram—when one becomes His bride—what lust can remain?

In lust we were searching for Him. In dirty drains we were seeking His Ganges. We were never satisfied, because from that filth we cannot be satisfied. As if offering dirty drain water to a swan—and the swan not drinking! It needs Mansarovar. Your swan too seeks Mansarovar—crystal-clear water. Nothing less than God can quench your thirst. The moment you turn toward Him, all vices fall. You become filled with virtue.

“He gives more virtue to the virtuous. Says Nanak: other than God, there is none who can bestow virtue.”

Other than Him, if you wander anywhere, you cannot be fulfilled. Other than Him, you have wandered for lifetimes, and still you have not become alert. Hope still remains—perhaps without Him we will reach. And ego chases—after doing so much for so long, shall we waste it?

You are like a man building a house whose foundation is unsound, laid on sand. When the house is near completion, someone says: Do not enter that house—it will collapse; you will die. Your mind says: I have spent so much, labored so hard—shall all these years be wasted? Hope rises: who knows, maybe it won’t fall! Maybe this expert is wrong! It has stood so far—what difficulty to stand a little more? This is your condition.

Like a man who has lost the road. We tell him: You left the path far behind.

I was reading a writer’s memoirs. He sent them to me. One story I truly liked.

He writes that he got lost while traveling in the foothills of the Himalayas. He parked in front of a hut. A woman opened the door. He asked, Am I on the right road? I want to reach Manali—will I reach? The woman looked carefully and said, I don’t even know yet which way you are going. Which way are you going? The poet thought, a hill woman—not too intelligent perhaps. He said, Then at least tell me if the beam of my car’s light is falling toward the Manali road. She said, The light is falling—red light!

When someone tells you—after fifty miles, or a thousand—that your red light is falling toward the destination—it shocks you. It means you must turn back. Your ego says: try a little more. Who knows whether this woman is right or not? She may be mad; she may be lying; she may have some motive—to mislead—who can trust?

Turning back hurts the ego: Was I wrong for so long? That is why teaching children is easy, and the old are hard to teach—because for the old it implies they have walked sixty, seventy years—were they wrong all those years? A child is easy—he hasn’t yet walked; he has no ego. He is ready to go where you take him. The old man is not ready; his roads are fixed. He says, My road is right. His ego is invested in those paths.

And you are all old—walking from who knows how many lifetimes. That is the real obstacle. That is why you don’t have the courage to drop it—so many lifetimes wasted? So many lives—was I ignorant all along? That is why you fear to go to the wise. Even if you arrive, you protect yourself—mustering twenty-five arguments and tricks—lest His rain happen upon you! Lest your cloak of knowledge and experience fall away!

Remember: you must turn back—because you left the path far behind. That is why Jesus says: Become again like a child. He is asking you to return. Please—turn back. The path is left behind. Become a child again. Put the intellect aside. Then a great rain of virtues will befall you. It always has.

Nanak was not much “educated.” Nor rich. Born in an ordinary home. No great schooling—his first day at lessons, and he closed the book. Yet the rain fell.

When it fell on Nanak, when it fell on Kabir—why will it not fall on you? Just one thing is missing: you stand turned away. Your back is to Him.

“One key solves everything: There is one Giver of life to all beings—may I never forget Him.”

Gura ik dehi bujhai—
Sabhnā jīā kā ik dātā, so maiṁ bisari na jāī.

That’s all for today.