Ek Omkar Satnam #6

Understand the word manan. Thought and manan are both activities of the mind, yet they are very different—indeed, opposite.

Look at a swimmer: he moves from one place to another, but remains on the surface of the river. From A to B, from B to C, the place changes; the depth does not. Then look at a diver: he also changes position, but the depth changes—A to A-one, A-two, A-three—at the same spot he goes deeper and deeper. The swimmer goes from one place to another; he does not go into depth.

Thought is like swimming; manan is like diving. In thought we go from one word to another; in manan we go into the depth of a single word. The place does not change, the depth does.

Thought is a linear process; the surface remains the same. Whether you think of your shop or of liberation, the surface is unchanged; you remain on the water’s surface. Whether you think about God or about your wife, the surface of thinking remains the same.

With manan the journey shifts from the surface to depth. In manan you try to enter a single word in its totality, down to its deepest layers.

Manan itself is the mantra. Understand this correctly and the whole sutra becomes clear. In fact the essence of Nanak’s teaching is manan. Hence Ek Naam, Omkar—the one Name, Satnam—was all he gave to his disciples.

Don’t think about it; sink into it. Don’t analyze it; dive into its depth. One single Name keeps resonating—Om, Om, Om, Om... and as the resonance grows, the floor of your depth drops.

There are three levels. First, soch-char: you pronounce Omkar aloud—Om... The lips are used, the voice vibrates outward; call this the plane of speech. Then you close your lips, the tongue doesn’t move, and the hum resounds only in the mind—Om... This is the second level, deeper than the first. The body is not being used; lips, tongue, all are still; only the mind is employed. You have gone one step down. Then comes the third step, where even the mind is not used; you don’t make the sound of Omkar—you simply sit silently and listen, and the sound resounds. Then the mind is gone. As soon as the mind is gone, manan happens. Manan means the mind is no more. Where the mind is not, manan begins.

First of all, the sound of Omkar resounds within you at birth. That is why infants look happy—for no reason. Lying in their cradles, they kick their legs, wave their hands, smile. Mothers think some memory from a past life is arising and they are delighted—because what reason could there be? They haven’t won an election, earned money, gained status; the journey hasn’t even begun—what happiness could there be? Psychologists have worried greatly over the cause of a child’s joy. As far as their understanding goes, they say it is physical health: the child is happy because his body is healthy.

But as far as the yogis’ search goes, the cause is different. Bodily health is not enough. Inside, the Nada of Omkar is resounding, a sweet music is humming within; the child hears it and is entranced. He listens, he smiles, he is blissful. His health will remain later too, but this joy will be lost. He will be healthy later as well, but the Nada will be lost. It will become difficult to hear the tone of Omkar because layers of words will encase it.

Sound—Ek Omkar, Satnam—that is the first event. There is the source of life. Then comes the accumulation of words: our schooling, conditioning, society, civilization. Then a third layer: the utterance of words—speaking, conversation, talk. When you are talking, you are farthest from yourself. Hence Nanak says: first learn to listen; because when you are listening, you are in the middle. From there you can move toward speech, or, if you choose, toward the void. You stand between.

Three states: the state of Omkar; the state of utterance; and between them, the state of feeling and thought. When you are listening—shravan—you stand in the middle of feeling and thought. You can incline either way, right or left. What you have heard—if you run to tell another, you descend into talk. What you have heard—if you begin to savor it, to contemplate it—you enter the void. And the distance is subtle. Everyone has to understand that inner distance properly and give order to the balance.

Manan begins the moment you start descending into the depth of a single word. Any word can serve. But no word is more beautiful than Omkar, because it is pure sound. Allah can serve, Ram can serve, Krishna can serve. And there is no need to choose such great names either. The English poet Tennyson wrote that he would simply repeat his own name and the trance would descend—Tennyson... Tennyson... Tennyson... Even that would do.

Descend into the depth of any one word and slowly the word will drop away. And as the word drops away, manan begins. Words fall away. All mantras fall away. Only then does the proclamation of the Maha-Mantra happen—when mantras cease. For mantras are your mind’s own clutch. The Maha-Mantra is already resounding. A mantra does not take you to the Maha-Mantra; it only silences you. Then the Maha-Mantra becomes audible.

All mantras teach you the art of listening. All mantras teach you to dive rather than swim. How long will you go from one place to another? How long, from one birth to the next? How long will you keep switching from one event to another? How long will your journey run from one circumstance to the next? When will that auspicious moment arrive when, right where you are, you dive deep—instead of going elsewhere? Manan happens in that very moment. Keep this in mind and try to understand Nanak’s sutra.

“The way of manan cannot be spoken.”
Manne ki gati kahi na jai. Je ko kahai picchai pachhutai.
“The way of manan cannot be spoken; and whoever speaks of it repents afterward.”

Why? It cannot be spoken because, first of all, it is not a movement at all—it is non-movement. A journey is not beginning there; it is ending. It appears like movement to us.

Have you ever noticed—when you are sitting on a train it seems the trees are running. You are moving, yet the trees seem to run. Because you are always in motion, when the mind begins to stop, even that appears like movement. But when you truly stop, when your vehicle utterly halts, suddenly you find that the trees and mountains have also stopped. They were never running.

What is hidden within you has never moved. It has never taken a single step. It has made no pilgrimage. It has never stepped outside the house. It has always been right there.

The mind has been running, and the mind runs so fast that the unmoving appears to be moving. When the mind begins to stop, That too seems to stop. When the mind totally stops, the mind discovers that all is still. Motion can be described; how will you describe non-motion? From where to where you have gone—this can be discussed. Hence travelers can write books. But the man who sat at home—what will he write! He went nowhere, nothing happened, no situation changed—what is there to say?

You can write the story of a restless man’s life; what story will you write of a peaceful man’s life! There is no story. Novelists, playwrights, men of letters all know by experience that stories belong to the wicked. What life does a good man have! If you base a novel on a good man, it cannot be written. Nothing happens in his life. So all stories have to be written around the bad man.

Do not think the Ramayana is about Rama—it is about Ravana. Ravana is the real hero; Rama is number two. Remove Ravana—then try telling Rama’s tale! No Sita abduction, no tumult—everything is serene! What story does Rama have! What story can you write about God? As He was, so He is. No transformation ever happened; no story formed. Hence God has no autobiography. We cannot write anything about Him. For writing, a journey is needed.

Much can be written about thought; what will you write about no-thought! What can you say about no-thought! Whatever you say will be wrong—you will repent later.

Therefore the wise, whenever they speak, repent at once. For as soon as they speak, they feel that what needed to be said, they could not say; what should not have been said, they said. What needed to be conveyed, the listener could not grasp. What he did grasp was not the point.

So Lao Tzu says: nothing can be said about Truth; say anything and it becomes untruth. The more you know, the more you find it hard to speak. Each word becomes difficult—because within you is a touchstone by which you test it. Every word seems petty, too small. Something vast has happened; it doesn’t fit into words. A great sky has been found and you are to pour it into tiny word-capsules. It won’t go in.

And then, when you speak, the remorse grows even more. For what reaches the listener is something else. The tune and color change; the clothing changes. You gave a diamond—by the act of giving it became a stone. You gave a genuine coin—by transmission it turned counterfeit. The moment it reaches the other, you see in his eyes that what you sent did not arrive; something else did. And now this second person will carry that around.

That is how sects run. That is how crowds of thousands go on. What was never given is what they carry. If Mahavira returned, he would beat his chest seeing the Jains. If Buddha returned, he would weep seeing the Buddhists. If Jesus returned, the same battle would begin again—with Christians as it did with Jews. For what they said never arrived; something else arrived. If Nanak returned, he would be more angry with the Sikhs than with anyone else; with whom else should he be angry! Only with those he had addressed—for they carry something else.

We are very clever. When a man like Nanak speaks, we insert our meanings into his words—our convenient meanings. We do not shape ourselves according to Nanak; we shape Nanak’s words according to ourselves. This is our trick. It smooths everything out.

There are only two ways.

I have heard of a very wealthy woman—somewhat eccentric, with artistic taste and obstinate about everything. She had an ashtray—very precious, very costly. One day it fell and broke. She was greatly upset. She called artists and said, make it exactly as it was. She had her entire room decorated to match that ashtray: the walls were of that color, the floor of that color, the curtains of that color. The ashtray was the base—the soul—of the whole house.

Many painters tried. It was very difficult. They could not match the color exactly; even a slight difference spoiled everything. Finally one painter said, I can do it, but I need time, and no one should disturb me; when everything is finished, only then come in. He took a month. The woman was astonished—a month for an ashtray! He said, you have tried for so many days already; now give me time.

He stayed inside for a month. When the woman entered, she was satisfied. He had matched everything perfectly. Later another painter asked the successful one, we all failed—how did you succeed? He said, I first made the ashtray, and then painted all the walls to its color. The others kept trying to paint the ashtray to match the walls. That was impossible. Even a slight difference creates trouble.

When Nanak speaks to you, there are only two ways. Either you let yourself be dyed in Nanak’s color—and you will find fulfillment—or restlessness will persist. With a man like Nanak, restlessness begins; you are near fire. Either you burn—as Nanak burned. As Nanak turned to ash, so must you. As Nanak became a servant, so must you. As Nanak disappeared, so must you. The drop must fall into the ocean. One way is to be colored in Nanak’s hue.

If that cannot happen, the second way is to color what Nanak says in your own hue. The second is easy, utterly easy. That is why what is said is not what we hear; we hear what we want to hear. From what is told we extract meanings that suit us. We do not stand by Truth; we make Truth stand by us. We do not go with Truth; we drag Truth behind us.

And here is the difference between the true seeker and the false. The true seeker is ready to follow Truth—wherever it leads, whatever the outcome, even if life must be lost, even if everything is lost. The other is also a “seeker of Truth”—but only in delusion; he does not follow Truth, he wants Truth to follow him. And whenever you make Truth follow you, it becomes untruth.

How will Truth follow you? Only untruth can. Because you are untruth, your shadow will be untruth. You can choose to follow Truth; but Truth cannot follow you. Truth will not fit your notions, your containers. Truth is too big for your mind. How can Truth walk behind you?

Hence Nanak says:
“Manan’s way cannot be said; whoever says it, repents.”

There is another reason for regret, the one I mentioned at the start. As you draw near manan, you come to the middle. From there two paths open. If you go out to tell others, you will repent. So whenever the urge to tell another arises, first ask the master. Until the master says so, do not go to tell anyone. Do not trust yourself.

The ego’s games are very subtle! A tiny gain, and it trumpets the infinite. A fistful comes, and it claims the whole sky. A mere glimpse—and you announce, the sun has risen. Not even a drop has fallen—and you begin discoursing on the ocean. And once you get into talking, talk breeds more talk. Gradually even the drop is lost, the glimpse fades; people become hollow pundits. They know a lot—without knowing. They say much—without experience. Look closely into their lives and you will find they live the very opposite of what they say.

In a train, this happened. The train had started, and Mulla Nasruddin ran to climb in. He grabbed the handle, got one foot on the step—just then the guard pulled him down: Old man, it’s a crime to board a moving train—get down. Mulla got down. Later, when the guard’s own carriage came, near the end of the platform, the guard jumped to climb aboard. Mulla yanked him down and said, Sir, you forbid others, and then you do the same!

Such is the pundit’s state. What he tells others is only the relish of saying, not the river of life. It is not his experience. And this danger is always there.

When you come to the middle, you leave utterance and stand in the word. From there two roads open. One is the road of the pundit—for now you are a master of words. You have crossed one layer; you have gathered a little clue. Before you are two paths: the knower’s and the pundit’s. The pundit’s path leads you back outside, into the world of utterance, explaining things. The knower’s path is to drop even the word and be absorbed in complete non-utterance. Therefore, until the guru says so, do not go to tell others.

One of Buddha’s disciples was Purna Kashyapa. He attained knowledge, yet walked silently behind Buddha like a shadow. A year later—one full year after his attainment—Buddha called him: Why are you still trailing me like a shadow? Go now, and share what you have known. Purna said, I was waiting for your permission. Who can trust the mind! One might get a taste for telling—and what has been won with such difficulty might be lost in telling. Pride might arise, the ego might form: I know.

To attain knowledge is hard; to lose it is easy—because the path is so subtle. One can be lost in a moment.

So Purna said, when you judge that I can speak, you will say so yourself. Hence I was silent.

Until the guru says so, do not go to tell others—otherwise you will repent. And the regret will be heavy: you were almost at the shore—and missed. The boat was about to touch—and the bank receded. Your hand was about to reach—and you were absorbed in something else. Pedantry is the last temptation, because ego is the last temptation.

Nanak says:
“Manan’s way cannot be spoken. Whoever speaks of it repents afterward. There is neither paper nor pen, nor any writer who can reflect upon the state of manan.”

Who will speak? For as manan deepens, the doer fades; the mind begins to end. Manan is the death of mind.

The mind can speak, write, talk, explain. The mind is skillful at telling. It can tell even what you do not know. And by repeating it again and again, you yourself can fall into the delusion that you know. Because what you repeat often, you forget to ask, did I know this or not? It begins to feel as if, I too know. Consider: do you say only what you know? Or do you also say things you do not?

Do you know God? If not, do not tell anyone that He exists. Have you known Truth? If not, do not tell anyone that it is. The danger is not that the other will be deluded; the danger is that by repetition you yourself will be deluded. By constant reiteration you will come to believe, I know.

And this is exceedingly subtle... Once the thought takes root—I know, without knowing—your boat will never reach the shore. The sleeping can be awakened; but how to awaken one who lies there pretending to be awake! The ignorant can be lifted; but how to lift the one who has made himself “knower”! You will avoid those places where your ignorance is exposed. You will go where your knowledge is reinforced.

A pundit seeks the ignorant; he avoids the wise. If Nanak comes to the village, the pundit will flee—because the pundit has one fear: that someone may show the real state, tear away the curtain. With great difficulty he has managed the curtain, managed to maintain the posture of knowing; someone might rip it off. It is so weak—being false, it must be weak. A slight blow can break it.

Nanak says, where there is no paper, no pen, no writer—there, the mind is no more; who can reflect on manan! Who will bring news of it!

“That stainless Name is such that whoever contemplates it, only that one’s own mind knows.”

Only you will know. It will be like a dumb man’s jaggery—sweet, but unsayable. Your lips will close; your throat will choke; your heart will fill. So full that you can weep, you can laugh—but you cannot say. People will think you mad, not a pundit. For so much will be brimming within you that it will spill from every pore. You can dance, you can sing—but you cannot say.

That is why Nanak keeps singing. Mardana keeps playing; Nanak keeps singing. Whenever anyone asked Nanak something, he would signal to Mardana to start the instrument—and say, listen! And the song would begin. Nanak sang all this; he did not state it.

If you understand a knower’s words correctly, you will find that even when he speaks, he sings. There is poetry to his speech. Even if he sits still, he dances. There is a dance about him. Around him the air has a certain intoxication—a wine that does not put you to sleep, it awakens you. A wine that does not lead to forgetfulness, but brings remembrance. And if you agree to flow with him, he will carry you toward unknown shores. If you agree to descend with him into the ocean, he will take you on a long voyage—the final journey, where all journeys end.

But the tune a knower carries belongs more to a singer than a speaker. He is less a talker, more a singer. For what has been found cannot be said by speaking. Perhaps a song can give a hint. Perhaps a little glimpse can peep through the song. Perhaps you can be intoxicated.

Gurdjieff used to say there are two kinds of art. One is ordinary art, in which the painter, sculptor, musician expresses his own moods—as Picasso does; however great, he expresses his personal state in image, in song. This Gurdjieff calls subjective art. The other he calls objective art. He says the Taj Mahal belongs to the second kind; or the caves of Ajanta and Ellora. In such arts the artist is not expressing his personal feelings; he is creating a certain state. Through that created state, a specific feeling will be born in the viewer.

There is a statue of Buddha. If it truly is objective art—if the maker has known Buddhahood—then, looking at the statue long enough, you will be entranced. Gazing and gazing, you will find yourself descending into some deep canyon within. Just by looking, the dive will happen. The statue will become manan.

We did not place images in temples for nothing. They were objective art. Music we did not create for nothing; at first, music was born out of samadhi. The first musicians were men of samadhi. They heard the inner Nada of Omkar. Then they sought how to reproduce that Nada outwardly—so that those who know nothing of the inner Nada might get a taste from the outer. In temples we distribute prasad. Even if no one comes for the temple, perhaps they will come for the prasad—at least the children will come. Let it be by the pretext of prasad—but to come to the temple has value. Perhaps an outer melody can become a little prasad and remind you of the inner. The flavor in music is a glimpse of samadhi. The dances we created were objective art—watching them, you suddenly get lost in another world within; the boat slips from the shore.

Remember this about Nanak: whatever Nanak said, he sang. Whatever he wished to communicate, he sent with sound. For the essential thing is Nada. What is being said is not the real thing—that is the excuse. The point is to cause your inner note to hum. And if the note resounds properly, your chain of thought will be shattered and you will reach another plane of the word. And if you agree to flow, if you are not clutching the bank like a madman, if you have the courage to let go, the third event will also happen: manan will be born.

Nanak says, who can say anything about manan! No paper, no pen, no scribe. Who can reflect on the state of manan!

“But that stainless Name is such that whoever contemplates it, only that one’s own mind knows.”

It is a dumb man’s jaggery—whoever tastes it, knows. He never forgets it for the rest of his life, nor for endless births, nor for endless time. Once its taste arrives, that taste is greater than you—you cannot forget it. The taste is so vast that you dissolve into it; it does not dissolve into you. It is oceanic; you are a drop that is lost.

If you understand correctly, how will you taste God? It is God who tastes you—if you allow it. You become absorbed in that taste, drowned, one-pointedness is established. Such is that stainless Name.

“From manan arises surati—mindfulness—in the mind and the intellect.”

The more you enter conversation, the more memory is lost. Whether you have noticed or not, observe now—most of your disturbances arise from your talking: ninety percent, or more. If you did not speak, ninety percent of your troubles would drop at once. You say something and get entangled.

What happens in speaking? In speaking, awareness is at its lowest. Because in speaking the attention turns to the other; attention to oneself slips. When you speak, you go toward the other; your arrow points outward. Consciousness is an arrow: the tip faces the other; the feathered end faces you. The attention is on the person you are speaking to. Awareness of oneself is lost. And in that unmindful state you utter things you repent for lifetimes.

You tell a woman, I love you. You never thought it through. It had never occurred to you before. One thing led to another and it came out. Now you’re snared. It is hard to take it back. More words will come out of that one—like leaves sprouting on leaves. Now you are launched on a journey.

You have never considered how most entanglements begin with words. And once you’ve said a word, the ego grabs you: now it must be fulfilled.

You love a woman. You say, I will love you for lifetimes. You cannot vouch for a moment; you cannot guarantee tomorrow. Who knows what morning will bring? Yet you talk of lifetimes. If you have even a little awareness, you will say only this much: in this moment, love is felt; who knows about tomorrow? But the ego finds no relish in that. Because when you feel love you think, now I will love forever. Do you know what forever means? What it contains? How many things are hidden in it?

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife asked him, you don’t love me as before; is it because I am old? Because my body is withered? Because I am wrinkled? Do you remember—before the priest you said you would be with me in joy and sorrow! Mulla said, Joy and sorrow—yes. Who said anything about old age? In joy and sorrow I am with you—old age was never mentioned.

When you promise today, do you know what forever means? But you will say it today. Tomorrow it will be hard to honor that assurance. If you fail to fulfill it, you will repent. If you fulfill it, you will be miserable. Because when love slips from your hands, what will you do? How will you force it back? Then a web of deception begins.

If a person can keep awareness in words—it is difficult at the level of words, because at that level your eyes are on the other—so how will you keep awareness of yourself? Only for Buddhas is speaking safe, because through their life’s discipline they have forged an arrow with two tips. Their consciousness—its very name is surati—can see both ways at once. While conversing they do not get lost; the witness remains standing within. Then not a single word will entangle you. Otherwise, words will.

A Sufi story: the master sent four disciples to keep silence. Evening came. They sat in the mosque. No one lit the lamp. The servant passed by. One disciple said, Brother, it’s getting dark—light the lamp. The second said, You spoke—and the master forbade us to speak! The third said, What are you doing? You spoke too! The master forbade us to speak. The fourth said, Only we are right; we haven’t spoken yet.

In speaking there is forgetfulness. This story seems laughable; it is your story. Sit silently—you will see how much the urge to speak arises. Sit silently—you will notice how you begin to talk inside. And any excuse outside, and surati will be lost.

What does the story mean? It means that none of the four remembered they had come there to be silent. And when the servant walked by, attention went to the other—and surati slipped.

Nanak says, through manan surati arises in the mind and the intellect.

Surati is a beautiful word. It comes from Buddha’s samyak smriti—right mindfulness. Buddha emphasized mindfulness: whatever you do, do it with remembrance. Speak with remembrance. Walk with remembrance. Even the blink of an eye—remember. Do not do anything in unconsciousness. Whatever you do in unconsciousness—that is sin. And whatever you do in unconsciousness takes you farther from yourself. There is only one method of coming closer: gather as much awareness as possible. Whatever the situation, do not lose one thing—let everything else be lost—that one thing is awareness. Even if the house is on fire, step out mindfully.

Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar wrote a memoir: the Viceroy had invited him for an honor. He was poor; wore an old Bengali kurta, shirt, dhoti—torn clothes. Friends said it isn’t proper to go to the Viceroy’s durbar dressed like this; let us have good clothes made. It made sense. He refused a couple of times, then agreed, and had clothes made.

The day before the durbar, he was returning from his evening walk in the garden. Ahead of him a Muslim gentleman, dressed in style—churidars, sherwani, stick in hand—was strolling back home. A servant came running: Mir Sahib, your house is on fire—please hurry! The gentleman kept walking exactly as before, not a shade of change in his gait—as if the servant hadn’t come, as if nothing had been said. The servant thought the master hadn’t heard—because it was a matter of fire. He said, Did you understand or not? Did you hear or not? What thoughts are you lost in? The house is on fire! The servant was trembling, sweating, agitated. He was just a servant—nothing of his was burning. The gentleman said, I have heard. But because the house is on fire, should I change the gait of a lifetime? I am coming.

Vidyasagar was behind. He heard and was amazed. He thought, for the Viceroy’s durbar should I change the clothes of a lifetime? And here is a man who does not change even for fire! He followed him, curious. The man went exactly as he always went: same gait, same swing of the stick. He reached home. The house was on fire. He told the servants, douse it. He himself stood outside. He made all the arrangements—but not a particle in him changed. Vidyasagar writes, my heart bowed in reverence; I had never seen such a man.

What is he protecting? Its name is surati; it is memory—mindfulness. He is holding one thing: not to lose awareness. What is happening, is happening. What can be done, is being done. What is to be done, will be done. But mindfulness is never to be lost. There is nothing in this world so valuable as to be worth losing surati for.

You lose it for trifles. A rupee note falls and you go mad—searching like a lunatic. Searching even where it cannot be. Someone loses a thing at home; it may be big, but he opens even tiny boxes—perhaps... You are always ready to lose mindfulness. To say ready may not be accurate—you don’t have it in the first place.

Nanak says, through manan surati arises in the mind and intellect.

As Omkar sits deeper, first your utterance falls silent—and the arrow turns inward. There is no one outside to speak to; speaking is relating outward, it is a bridge—we reach the other by it; it is dialogue, a link between us and the other. Cut it. No speaking. Fall silent.

Silence means the journey reverses. The arrow returns. The inner journey begins. From that very moment, the first glimmer of memory appears. You find—you are. For the first time you awake and know—I am. Until now everything else was visible; you alone were not. You stood in shadow—dark under the lamp. Now you awaken. Then as the depth of Omkar settles, as you come to manan—awareness increases in exact proportion.

Imagine two pans of a scale: as one rises, the other descends in the same measure. In the same measure that you go within, surati rises. And on the third plane—where even the word is lost and only the sound of Omkar remains—Nada alone—Ek Omkar, Satnam—suddenly there is perfect surati! You stand awake—as if the sleep of thousands of years has broken. Darkness gone, light arrived. As if for lifetimes you were asleep and dreaming. The dream dissolves; morning comes. Dawn—the Brahma-muhurta—arrives for the first time!

“From manan comes remembrance of all the worlds. From manan one does not get a slap on the mouth. From manan one does not go with Yama. Such is that stainless Name: whoever contemplates it, only that one’s own mind knows.”
Manne surati hove man budh. Manne sagal bhavan ki sudh.
Manne muh chota na khai. Manne jam ke sath na jai.
Aisa nam niranjan hoi. Je ko man janai man koi.

The day you awaken you discover this infinite sky, these worlds, this existence—the infinite play of the Divine—for the first time. As long as you were lost in your desires, sunk in your mind, you saw nothing; you were blind. Mind is blindness; manan is the opening of the eyes.

Nanak says, through manan the memory of all worlds comes.

These infinite realms all become manifest. Life reveals its full glory. Then you see His signature in atom upon atom, His Name on leaf upon leaf, His melody in every pore, His song in every gust of wind. Then this life, this existence, wholly proclaims His majesty.

Now you ask, what is in life? People ask, what is life’s meaning? What purpose is there? Why were we born? Why should we live?

A great Western thinker named Marshall wrote: life has only one question—suicide. Why should we live? Why not end it?

This is the last state of unconsciousness, where suicide happens—where you throw away life’s precious gift because you see nothing in it.

The opposite happens when you awaken—such majesty, such immeasurable majesty! The worlds open; layers of mystery arise all around. Then you know life’s meaning, life’s bliss—that which we call samadhi—then you know why life is.

For now you cannot know. Ask as much as you like; someone may say, the goal of life is God—but nothing is resolved. Someone may say, the goal is samadhi—but nothing is resolved. The statement doesn’t ring true. It will ring true only when remembrance comes. Until then Nanak, Buddha, Kabir will not ring true. You will think: perhaps there is something in what they say. Generally you think such people are a bit off in the head. You consider your mind sound—and where has your mind brought you? Your mind has brought you near suicide. How to finish! There seems to be no meaning. How to throw away this priceless attainment that is life! How to return this gift!

The moment you wake, life’s mystery begins to open. A flower blooms; each petal becomes infinite delight.

“From manan one does not get a slap on the mouth.”

Nanak is a simple villager—but what he says is of great worth. He says, if what you speak comes from manan, you will never have to take your words back. If your words arise from manan, you will never have to lick up what you have spat; otherwise you will have to, daily. You will spit daily; you will lick daily. Daily you will be slapped on the mouth. Because what you say, you say in unconsciousness—in the sleep of ego. Your speaking is spoken in sleep. You are not mindful of what you are saying, what you are doing. Where you are going, why you are going—you have no idea. So daily you will be slapped.

Today you say, I love; tomorrow you find love has evaporated. Now you want to kill someone; a few moments later you want to revive him—great mistake! Now you say one thing, a few moments later something else happens. You are not reliable. You are changing weather. There is nothing crystallized within you, nothing steady. You will be slapped, again and again.

Nanak says, from manan one is not slapped—and from manan one does not go with Yama.

All die—but not all go with Yama. This is a symbol—understand it. All die. But sometimes someone dies with remembrance. Then he does not go with Yama. As long as you die in forgetfulness, you go with Yama. Yama means fear. The man who dies unconsciously—who lived unconsciously—trembles while dying, weeps, screams, tries to save himself somehow. Till the last breath he tries to hold on—somehow survive. Any excuse! Someone save me! He weeps, he begs. This whole state of fear—this black face of fear, mounted on a buffalo—this is called Yama.

But the one who dies with remembrance—who has no fear within—having seen life awakened—his fear vanishes. Then he finds death is life’s fulfillment, not its end. Death is not fear; it is God’s door. He finds death to be an invitation—absorption into That. Then he neither panics nor trembles, neither weeps nor cries. He enters that Supreme Beauty blissfully—as if going to meet his Beloved.

The day Nanak died, the words on his lips were precious: Nanak said, The flowers have bloomed! Spring has come! The trees are ringing with song!

Which world was he talking about? People assumed that he was recalling the season in the village where he was born—when flowers bloom and birds sing. At death, childhood memories surfaced. All who wrote about Nanak made this mistake. Let me tell you for the first time: this had nothing to do with his village. It was a coincidence that the season was spring. Flowers were blooming there too, new leaves sprouting, birds chattering—true. But would Nanak remember childhood at death? At death Nanak was seeing something else. He had to use symbols from this world—because to whom was he speaking? In that final moment he was entering a Supreme Beauty—where flowers bloom that never wither, where birds’ songs resound forever, where Beauty is eternal.

When a man lives awake, death is not termination but consummation. Death is not the end; it is the ultimate flowering. In death we lose nothing; we gain something. The door closes on this side; opens on the other. The knower goes dancing, singing. The ignorant goes weeping, screaming. The ignorant goes with Yama—by his own doing. There is no Yama; no buffalo-rider comes to fetch you. Your fear is your Yama. Become fearless, and God Himself opens His arms.

As you are, such will be your experience of death. Death is the test. How a man dies shows how he lived. If he dies radiant, serene, in gratitude and wonder, then his whole life was valuable. It is fulfillment. If he dies weeping and wailing, his life was torment—a hell.

Therefore Nanak says: through manan one does not go with Yama. Such is that stainless Name—whoever contemplates it, only that one’s mind knows. Through manan no obstacle blocks the path. Through manan one departs with honor. Through manan one does not stray from the way. Through manan one is linked with dharma. Such is that stainless Name: whoever contemplates it, only that one’s mind knows.

Manne marag thak na pai. Manne pat siu pargat jai.
Manne mag na chalai panth. Manne dharam seti sanbandh.
Aisa nam niranjan hoi. Je ko man janai man koi.

Your obstacles are not outside; they are inside. And they are inside because you are unconscious. There is no other way to end obstacles. If you try to remove them one by one, you never will. There is only one way: awaken within—and all obstacles vanish.

Imagine your house is filled with darkness. You enter; in every corner is fear—perhaps ghosts, thieves, dacoits, murderers. It is a big house; fear in every nook. A thousand fears. How will you conquer them one by one? How many thieves, how many deceivers, how many robbers, how many murderers—who knows! Snakes, scorpions, poisons—who knows what hides in the dark! If you try to deal with each one, you will lose.

No—one by one will not do. There is only one way: light a lamp. One lamp lit—and all fears end, the house is illuminated. Then whatever is there, you can see. Then, seeing, the way to deal with it appears.

In truth, as Buddha said: thieves are drawn to a dark house. Where a lamp is lit, thieves avoid that house. Where there is no guard, thieves and robbers come. Where a guard stands, they keep their distance. If within a lamp is lit and the sentinel of surati stands guard, obstacles do not enter; else they all do.

One morning Mulla Nasruddin came to me: Now something must be done; I’m very troubled. He handed me a letter. Someone wrote: Nasruddin, if you don’t stop following my wife, I’ll shoot you within three days. Mulla said, Tell me—what should I do? I said, why get so entangled? Stop following the man’s wife. Mulla said, Whose wife should I stop following? There’s no name on the letter. If it were one woman, I’d stop.

If there were one obstacle, remove it—but obstacles are endless. Endless women are being followed; endless desires. Destroy one, ten arise. Escape one, ten form. If you keep grappling one by one, you will never cross. Some method is needed that ends all obstacles at once. The one who reveals that method is the guru. The one who makes you understand—it is he.

Nanak says, through manan, obstacles do not arise on the path.

Repeat Omkar; let it descend to the ajapa state—then your eyes open. Obstacles do not arise on the way—because you were creating the obstacles yourself. There is no other enemy to remove. You yourself are your enemy—your unconsciousness is your enemy. Because of it, you get entangled. However carefully you walk, you will keep creating new obstacles.

There are people who control themselves, who restrain themselves—what difference does it make! They manage somehow. Restraint is not the end; surati is the end. Restraint means you somehow manage not to stray. But the music of straying hums within; someday it will make you stray. You will keep walking carefully, and any day it will push you off the path. It’s a matter of occasion. The man of restraint is always afraid, for unrestrainedness is boiling inside.

Nanak says, through manan no obstacle blocks the way. Through manan one departs with honor.

Do not mistake this honor for cannons fired by the government, mile-long processions, flowers showered from planes, photos on the front pages. Nanak has nothing to do with such honor. That is no honor at all.

There is another honor that does not depend on others. What depends on others—what kind of honor is that! The other honor is inner dignity. The one who departs with honor is the one to whom death appears as the Beloved’s embrace. He departs in joy and gratitude. He departs thanking life. He departs with a sense of grace all around. You will see the imprint of that grace on his face, inscribed on every hair. Even if no one accompanies him—even if he dies under a bush by the roadside and birds and beasts eat him—he has honor. That honor is inner dignity.

When death is not fear, you depart with honor. If death is fear, you cannot depart with honor. How will you—when you are crying, begging, pleading? No matter how many people come to see you off—what does it matter? Noisy bands cannot hide your sorrow; beneath showering flowers, your stench will not hide; beneath booming guns, your inner tumult will not hide. Your death will be dishonored.

When Nanak says through manan one departs with honor, he means self-honor—an inner esteem, a sense of wonder and gratitude.

“Through manan one does not stray from the way. Through manan one is linked with dharma.”

Read the scriptures as much as you like—your link with dharma will not be made. Temples, mosques, gurdwaras—they will not link you with dharma. Because it is you who will go to the gurdwara—the same man who sat in the shop. Your way must change. If your way changes, everything changes. Otherwise you will go on doing everything...

Nanak went to Haridwar; an incident occurred. It was the time of pitru-paksha. People were drawing water from the well and offering it to the sky for their ancestors. Nanak picked up a bucket too, filled it—and while others poured to the east, toward the sun, he began to pour to the west. He cried loudly, Reach my fields! After ten or fifteen buckets, when he had drenched everything, people asked, What are you doing? Are you out of your mind? Water for the ancestors is offered toward the east—you are doing the reverse! And what is this, Reach my fields? Where are your fields? Nanak said, about two hundred miles from here. People laughed: you are mad; we suspected as much. Can this water reach two hundred miles? Nanak said, how far are your ancestors? They said, infinitely far. Nanak said, if it reaches to infinity, how big is two hundred miles? If it reaches your ancestors, it can reach my fields too.

What is Nanak saying? He is saying, wake up a little. What are you doing? Have a bit of awareness. Where are you pouring the water? What will come of such foolishness?

Religion is full of such foolishness. One sends water to ancestors; another bathes in the Ganges to wash sins; another sits before stone idols without any feeling, without any worship, head bowed, asking for worldly things. In the name of religion a thousand stupidities are rampant.

Therefore Nanak says: neither scripture, nor sect, nor blind imitation will do. The link with dharma happens only when one attains manan.

When someone awakes, surati comes within. From where the Nada of Omkar begins—there the link with dharma begins. The day you become capable of hearing the Nada—no longer the doer, only the hearer—within, the Nada resounding—and you are rejoicing, a witness, a seer—that very day your link with dharma is made. Such dharma cannot be “religion” or “mazhab.” Its meaning is what Buddha meant by Dhamma; what Mahavira meant by dharma.

Dharma means nature—swabhava. What Lao Tzu means by Tao—Nanak means by dharma. You will be linked to your own nature. To be in your nature is to be in God. To stray from your nature is to be lost. To return to your nature is to reach home.

“Such is that stainless Name: whoever contemplates it, only that one’s mind knows.”

“Through manan one attains the gate of moksha. Through manan the family is saved. Through manan the guru crosses and carries the disciple across. Nanak says, through manan one does not wander for alms. Such is that stainless Name: whoever contemplates it, only that one’s mind knows.”

Manne pavahi mokh duar. Manne parvare sadhar.
Manne tare tare guru sikh. Manne Nanak bhavahi na bhikh.
Aisa nam niranjan hoi. Je ko man janai man koi.

The door is within; the wandering is within. The obstacles are within; the path is within. Let the lamp be lit and you will see both—what is false, what is true. Let the lamp be lit and you will see desire is false—and the pursuit of desire is the world. Let it be lit and you will see non-desire is true—and non-desire is the door of liberation.

You are bound because you ask. Asking is bondage. You will not be bound if you do not ask. As long as you ask, you bind yourself. You have forged countless chains; each desire becomes a chain. The moment you ask, you are entangled; you enter a prison. And as you keep asking, the prison grows stronger.

Nanak says, through manan one attains the gate of moksha. Because as soon as you awaken, it becomes clear: do not ask—then you will not be bound. No desire—no bondage; no want—no chains. When there is no want, the door of moksha opens. Wantlessness is the door.

“Through manan the family is saved.”

Which family does Nanak mean? Not the family of wife, children, siblings—that even Nanak could not save; no one can. That is not family at all. There is another family—the family of guru and disciple. That is the real family—because there love happens in its purest form, without desire, causelessly.

You love your father because he gave you birth—there is a cause. You love your wife because of bodily passion—a cause. You love your son because he is your support in old age—hope, a cause. What is the link with a guru? That is why it is so hard to find a guru in the world—because here you must find causeless love. Just love—no reason. No hope, no expectation. If you go to the guru with expectations, you cannot become part of his family. You must go causelessly. You have wandered the world by causes; what did you get? Go without cause—just spontaneously—let it happen.

Hence faith is called blind. It looks blind to the thinkers. They ask, why are you mad after this man? People come to me and say—their family tells them—why are you mad after Rajneesh? Your brain is spoiled. They are right in a way—the mind by which the world runs is spoiled. A new love has arisen. And for this new love no argument can be given. You cannot prove to anyone there is a cause for this love. Try to prove it—you’ll see it is impossible.

Nanak says, through manan the family is saved.

A guru creates a family. When it becomes a sect, the loss begins. As long as it is a family, one thing; when Buddha is alive, thousands join his family. When Nanak is alive, thousands join his family. To join Nanak’s family is itself a great event—entry into the causeless realm, into causeless love. The color and flavor of Nanak have been caught; the tune has taken hold; they are going mad.

But then Nanak will depart. Those who joined out of their own freedom will also depart. Their children will remain as Sikhs—that is a sect. Because love you did not choose cannot transform you. To choose Nanak is a great revolution. Then to be born in a Sikh’s home and call yourself a Sikh is no revolution.

A Muslim is born in a Muslim home; a Hindu in a Hindu home; a Jain in a Jain home; a Sikh in a Sikh home. Sect means what you get by birth. Family means what you choose by your own will. A religious person always chooses by himself. The irreligious is sectarian—chooses by birth.

You are Jain by birth, someone else Hindu, someone Buddhist, someone Sikh. But can anyone be Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Sikh by birth? By birth blood is received, flesh, bones, marrow. How will the soul be received?

That is why a great paradox keeps recurring: when the guru is alive, there is a light in which he floats and carries others too. When the guru is alive, something living happens. Then the guru departs; those who first offered their lives, who risked everything—depart. Then children are born in their houses—these children are Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists; they have no relation to dharma.

Understand this well: dharma is one’s own decision. No one can be religious by birth. The family that forms from that decision...

Nanak says, through manan the family is saved. Through manan the guru crosses and carries the disciple across.

Nanak says, through manan one does not wander for alms.

As manan deepens, begging drops. What is the world? Wandering for alms. Reflect on what you are doing—you are asking. Asking goes on twenty-four hours. You are a beggar.

Nanak says, through manan one does not wander for alms.

Through manan a man becomes an emperor, a shahenshah, a badshah. Manan frees him from begging. Through manan one attains That beyond which there is nothing left to attain. Through manan one meets God—what else is there to ask for? The final destination has arrived; what remains beyond? Everything is attained; nothing is left. Samadhi is attained—everything is attained. The begging habit drops.

“Such is that stainless Name: whoever contemplates it, only that one’s mind knows.”

Aisa nam niranjan hoi. Je ko man janai man koi.

Enough for today.