Ek Omkar Satnam #7

One Omkar, the True Name. By whatever path, the One is to be found. The moment the One is found, the journey is complete—because it was by losing the One that the world began. There are many ways to find the One because the One has shattered into many ways. As a sunbeam passes through a shard of glass and breaks into seven colors—the rainbow appears. In the same way, life has been broken into many fragments. One ray breaks into seven hues. When all colors are joined, they are white; when they separate, they appear as different colors.

The world is multicolored; the Divine is pure white. The One has no color. Color belongs to the many. All spiritual practices are processes of finding the indivisible within division. Hindus say the One has split into two—consciousness and matter, purusha and prakriti. If you can glimpse the One in these two, your journey will be complete.

Another path says the One has split into three—satyam, shivam, sundaram: Truth, Goodness, Beauty. See beauty in truth, truth in beauty; let the auspicious be seen in the beautiful and the true in the auspicious. As you glimpse the One among the three, when satyam, shivam, sundaram fall away and only the One remains—One Omkar, the True Name—your journey is done.

Nanak says the One has split into five—through the five senses. If within these five you find the One, you have attained. You are accomplished.

It is not important into how many parts you divide. They can be infinite. What matters is: how to find the whole within the fragments!

There are five senses, but there is one attention among them. The senses are five; attention is one. Understand this a little, and you will have the thread of the One that runs through the five. Counting beads on a rosary is of no meaning; if one grasps the single thread on which all the beads are strung, one has taken refuge in the Divine. Counting beads is the world; seizing the string in the middle is the attainment of God.

Five senses—who is the One among them? When you see with the eyes, who sees? When you hear with the ears, who hears? When you touch with the hand, who touches? When you smell with the nose, who receives the scent? When you taste, who tastes?

That is the One. Nanak calls it attention. Therefore it often happens that you are eating...

There is an old story. A sannyasin came to an emperor’s gate. His master had sent him, saying, “What I could not make you understand, perhaps the emperor will.” The disciple did not feel convinced—“What I could not learn from my master, will I learn from a king?”—but he obeyed.

When he reached the palace, there was revelry—wine flowing, dancers dancing. He was distressed: “What a wrong place I’ve come to!” He told the emperor, “I should return. I’ve come with a deep inquiry, but here you yourself seem lost. Who will answer me?”

The emperor said, “I am not lost. But stay a little; only then will you understand. If you look from the outside, you will go back in vain. If you look within, you may find the thread. Your master sent you well. The thread is within—not in the senses but behind them.”

He added, “Now that you are here, stay the night.” The sannyasin was given the most beautiful bed in the finest chamber. But above him a naked sword was hung by a silk thread. The sannyasin could not sleep all night. He remained awake, turning sides, his attention snagged by the sword. When might it snap? A sword hanging by a flimsy strand—when might it pierce the chest? “What a cruel joke by the king! Such fine arrangements for sleep—and a sword above!”

In the morning the emperor asked, “Did you sleep well?” The sannyasin said, “Everything was perfect—none better. But why the joke of a sword above me? I could not sleep; all my attention was there.”

The emperor said, “So it is with me—the sword of death hangs above. My attention is there. The dancer dances, but I am not in the dance. Wine is poured, but I am not in the wine. Delicious food is served, but I am not in the taste. Because the sword of death hangs over me, my attention remains there.”

The five senses are the gates of your life—through them you enter the world. Without them you would have no connection to life. Yet the more you go out through them, the farther you drift from yourself. Within every sense a hidden attention resides; when a sense goes outward, your attention goes outward. The senses are the paths through which attention flows out.

Thus, if your attention is absorbed by one sense, the others may not register. Not the senses, but attention registers. Awareness belongs to attention alone. A thorn is stuck in your foot; pain is intense. Even if you are eating a sumptuous meal, you won’t taste it—the pain draws all your attention.

You are walking down a street—beautiful men and women pass by—but today nothing appears beautiful. You just heard your house is on fire. You hurry headlong. Someone greets you; you don’t hear. You bump into someone; apology doesn’t arise. Who is passing? What are the shops selling? What are people discussing? No curiosity. Your house is on fire—your attention is there. The ears hear, and yet they don’t. The hand touches, and yet it doesn’t. Even the most delicious meal will be tasteless.

Without attention, the senses cannot experience anything. All sensory experience depends on attention. Only when you pour attention into a sense does it become capable and alive. If you draw your attention back from the five senses, the five fall away and one remains—and that is the One you seek. Nanak’s sutra shows the process of shifting from the five to the One.

Now try to understand this sutra.

“Five are the authorities, and five are the eminences. At His gate the five are honored. The five shine in the court of the King. The guru of the five is the one attention.”

Panch parmaan, panch pardhaan. Panche paavahi dargah maan.
Panche soheh dar rajan. Pancha ka guru ek dhiaan.

“The five have one guru—and that guru is attention.”

If you remain scattered among the five, you will wander. If you grasp the One, you will arrive.

Kabir once passed a woman grinding grain on a mill. He said, “Between the two grinding stones nothing whole survives.” Whatever falls between duality’s millstones is ground to dust.

Kabir’s son replied, “But there is one more thing in that mill—a peg in the center. Speak also of the one who takes hold of that.” In another song Kabir remembered the peg: “Whoever falls between the two stones is crushed; but whoever takes support of the one peg between the two—none can destroy him. Even a grain of wheat that leans on the peg cannot be ground.”

Call it two, three, five, nine, or numberless—wandering has many names; arriving has only one. The process will differ depending on which wandering you choose to cross. To understand Nanak’s process: when you eat, give attention to attention. Food goes in, taste arises—receive that taste attentively. Soon you will find the taste is gone and attention remains. Attention is a blazing fire; tastes burn to ash—attention remains.

You gaze at a beautiful flower—look attentively. Soon the flower is gone and attention remains. The flower is dreamlike; attention is eternal. Look at a beautiful woman with care—don’t drift into thought—and you will find she has vanished like a ripple on water; attention remains. In every sense, if you are vigilant, the forms dissolve; the formless attention remains. Whoever catches hold of that attention—none can destroy him.

So Nanak says: these five senses have only one guru—and that is attention. All five pour their streams into this one attention.

This is why a very important fact—established by the mind-sciences—is that eyes see, ears hear, hands touch, the nose smells; the eye cannot hear and the ear cannot see. Who joins them?

I am speaking. You are both seeing me and hearing me. With the ear you hear; with the eye you see. But how do you make sure the one you are seeing is the same one you are hearing? Eyes and ears are separate. One reports sound, the other a sight. Who puts the two together—“the one we see is the one speaking”?

There must be one place behind your senses where all their impressions are gathered. The eye deposits the visual there; the ear deposits the sound; the nose deposits scent; the skin deposits touch. At a single point the senses place their experiences. That point is attention. There everything is integrated, and thus you can experience.

Otherwise life would be demented. You would not know that the one you see is the one speaking, the one you hear has that particular fragrance; you would be split apart. There must be something that joins the five. These five paths converge at one place; their experiences are assembled there. That place is called attention.

Nanak says: attention is the guru of the five. The one attention alone is the guru of the five.

The five are disciples. But you have made the disciples your guru, and forgotten the master. You have made the servants your lord, and forgotten the owner. You obey the senses; you do not consult attention. You forget that the senses are superficial—who is hidden in the depths? The senses are expansions of attention. Through the senses, attention goes outward.

If you want to steer life rightly, don’t listen to the senses. They are partial. The eye knows only its own domain; the ear knows only its own; the mouth knows only its own. If you follow them, you land in trouble. Often you will see that people enslave themselves to one dominant sense. One is mad about taste—food, food, food, nothing else. He keeps eating.

Emperor Nero kept physicians at hand because he was never satisfied—twice a day was not enough; three times, four times not enough. He wanted to eat around the clock. He had doctors induce vomiting after each meal so he could eat again.

You will say he was insane. Yet you will find the same insanity in lesser degrees in people’s lives. Some are drunk on the eyes—forever hunting beauty from door to door. Follow the eyes and you remain blind—the eye is not the real seer. It is only a window; the one who looks through is other. Don’t ask the window; ask the one peering through. The senses are windows. Another is mad for music; another absorbed in adorning the body; another enslaved to touch or to fragrance.

All are sense-mad, obeying servants. Ask the owner. Who is master of all the senses—without whom they are useless?

In 1910 the Maharaja of Kashi underwent an appendectomy. He had vowed never to take any intoxicant, any anesthesia. “I cannot be anesthetized,” he said. “Operate, but without putting me to sleep.” The doctors protested—“How can this be? This is no splinter to be pulled; we will cut the abdomen, saw bone; it will take hours.” The Maharaja said, “Don’t worry about me. Let me read my Gita; you do your operation.”

There was no other way—without surgery he would die. They took the risk. The Maharaja recited the Gita while the surgery went on.

The operation completed. The doctors were astonished—“How is it possible? The pain must have been intense.” The Maharaja said, “I did not notice; my attention was on the Gita.”

Everything is known through attention. Change your attention and what you know changes. You only see where you intend to place your attention. What you don’t attend, you don’t even notice. You will pass through the same market and only notice what you attend to. The cobbler notices shoes, the jeweler diamonds. Your gaze rests where your attention is. You see precisely where attention is flowing.

The deepest art of life is to reclaim the sovereignty of attention. Then if your attention flows toward the Divine, the world fades. Thus the wise call the world maya. Not that it doesn’t exist—it exists fully. But when attention flows entirely toward the Divine, the world is lost. Where attention is absent, being and nonbeing are indistinguishable. Where attention flows, life is bestowed. Where attention departs, existence evaporates.

The wise say: God is true, the world untrue. This does not mean the visible world is nonexistent. It means their attention has withdrawn. If your mind is greedy, money is truth. When greed dissolves, money is dust. Money is money not by itself, but by your attention. If lust is alive, the body is paramount; when lust falls, the body becomes secondary.

Where attention leaves, existence leaves. Where attention goes, existence appears. The day you understand this, you become your own master. You have found the master within. You no longer obey servants, or follow slaves, or consult disciples—what is the point of asking those who themselves do not know? You ask the guru.

Nanak says: “The one attention of the five is the guru. Whoever speaks of it, let him speak thoughtfully—for nothing is more deep or grave.” Speak with care. Don’t toss the words about. There is nothing more precious, nothing more essential.

Yet people talk about meditation without knowing—and have thrown the world into confusion. They enjoy speaking even when they know nothing.

People come to me. We are experimenting with hundreds of meditation methods. Someone arrives and says, “So-and-so told me—what you are doing is not meditation!” I ask, “Go ask him: has he ever meditated? Does he know it? If he does, learn from him. The question isn’t from whom you learned, but whether you learned meditation.” They go back and ask, and the fellow says, “Meditation? I don’t know, and I’ve never done it.”

Yet he is ready to declare what is not meditation! Even those who know nothing hold forth.

Nanak says: speak with thought. Speak with awareness. Only if you know—then speak.

The world is not misled by the ignorant, but by those posing as the knowledgeable who are not. The truly ignorant cannot mislead. But there are many who relish instructing; they have no idea what they are saying or why—and still they go on speaking.

It is not hard to find fools in this world. Start talking—anything, even nonsense—and soon you will gather disciples. There are always greater fools than you. To collect followers is no obstacle; a little craziness, a little pretension, a habit of shouting loudly—and people will gather. Events assemble around you. People live in darkness; they have never known light. They even get entangled in your talk of light. If you begin to talk about illumination, they imagine there must be something there.

People are wildly imaginative. What they believe might be, they begin to imagine into being. Then dreams appear—someone’s kundalini begins to rise, someone sees inner lights and colorful visions. As these “events” occur, the man posing as a guru gains more confidence. Hence so many gurus.

I know people who know nothing of meditation, have never tasted it—yet they have hundreds of disciples. And when these gurus meet me in private, they ask, “How to meditate? What is meditation?”

Nanak says: speak thoughtfully about attention. It is playing with fire—the subtlest thing; nothing is subtler or more valuable. The path from the world to God cannot be finer. Speak with great care.

Je ko kahe, karai veechaaru.
First ask: Do I know? Am I sure?

If every person made just one resolve—“I will speak only what I know”—the world’s confusion would end. Resolve simply this much: I will not speak beyond my right. If I don’t know, I will admit I don’t know. Even that much would end the wandering; truth would not be hard to find.

But there is so much falsehood, so many useless webs, so much counterfeit “gurudom” that you cannot find a true master. Finding Nanak becomes difficult—so many claimants all around! How will you tell the genuine from the false? There is no ready touchstone.

Thus Nanak says: only speak after deep consideration—only if you have known and recognized. Do not play with life. When you advise another, you are gambling with their life. If you don’t know, you will mislead. You may enjoy being a guru; but no sin is greater than turning someone astray from the path of wisdom. Murder is a lesser sin; theft is nothing; dishonesty and cheating are trivial by comparison. Theft? You take money—what is its worth? Murder? You destroy a body; another will be available, for life has no end. You cannot kill the soul. At most you snatch garments; you cannot snatch the self. If you deceive, you gain some petty thing.

But if you cultivate the delusion of being a guru and you expound what you do not know, you can mislead a person for lifetimes. No deception is greater; no sin, worse. A false guru commits the supreme crime.

And remember: one who has wandered among many false teachers loses faith. His trust breaks, hope withers. Slowly he concludes everything is hypocrisy. When ninety-nine are fake, how can one be true? And if after those ninety-nine he does come to the one—to Nanak—he still holds himself back: “I was cheated ninety-nine times; who knows, maybe here too!”

The atheism that pervades today is due to false gurus. People have lost trust. It is not because of science, nor because of atheistic philosophy. The fundamental cause is hypocritical gurus, who so destroyed faith that it seems impossible to believe there could be a true guru or a God—“These are all devices for exploitation.” People have been misled so much.

Therefore Nanak says: whoever speaks on this subject should speak with great care. It is playing with fire. You are inviting others to stake their lives. Think, otherwise remain silent.

Nanak says: Kartai kai karne naahee sumaaru.
About the Creator nothing can be said. He has no end, no boundary. One can only be silent. What will you say? Of attention, something can be said—speak thoughtfully. Of God—nothing can be said; so don’t say anything.

Understand this. Attention means method; God means realization. Something can be said of the path—if you have walked it. Of the goal—nothing can be said. The path has limits and a direction; the goal is limitless, directionless. I cannot tell you what God is, but I can tell you how I arrived. The method can be described.

Hence the Buddhas say: the awakened only point. They show the method. Nanak says again and again: I am a physician—prescribing medicine. Of health itself nothing can be said. Of medicine, yes: “This will remove your illness.” What remains when illness is gone—the joy, the ah!—that is health; nothing can be said of it.

Whatever we say of God must be negative—“not this, not this.” We cannot say, “It is this,” for that would limit it. The limited can be pointed to with a finger; the unlimited—how? Nanak says: of God, do not speak; be silent. Of attention, speak with care.

Yet people talk endlessly of God. No topic receives more words. Debates, books, arguments—marshal proofs, establish whether God is or is not. No one seems to care that God can be neither proved nor disproved. God can be known, lived, become—but not proven or refuted.

How will you prove God? Whatever you say will be inadequate. How will you disprove? Likewise inadequate. God means the totality—the Vast that spreads everywhere, for which “God” is a gathered name.

God is not a person sitting in the sky. God is an experience of immersion, of dissolution—a supreme state in which you vanish and yet are. A paradox: from one side you are utterly empty; from the other, utterly full.

So God is neither person, nor proposition, nor hypothesis. God is experience—the final one. So total that you are lost in it. There is no one left to return and speak.

Thus Nanak says: of That, nothing can be said. Of attention—something can be said. Speak only if you have known; otherwise remain silent.

Make this a rule in your life. Forget the world—for yourself, make one small rule that will transform your life: speak only what you have known. Not an inch more.

The mind loves exaggeration. You know an inch; you feel like proclaiming a mile. You sense a grain; you speak of mountains. The mind delights in excess—ego gets its juice there.

Mulla Nasruddin once fell on the road, unconscious. Taken to the hospital, as they laid him on the surgery table they found a note in his pocket: “Special instruction for doctors: I have had an epileptic seizure; this is not appendicitis. My appendix has already been removed many times.” “Many times!”

The mind immediately overdoes it. A little knowing and you inflate it—add spices, paint colors. The more colors you add, the more the truth of what you knew is lost. Soon only colors remain; the real is gone.

Avoid exaggeration. Say an inch less—it’s fine. But not an inch more. Saying a little less harms no one; saying too much does. Not only about God or attention—do not insist you “know” in any field of life. Life is vast; what you have known is tiny. Conclusions cannot be drawn from such a fragment.

You may have been a shopkeeper; you know shopkeeping. Life is immense, with infinite ways of being. You have not known the whole. Say only: “I was a shopkeeper.” Even shops are of many kinds; you did only one. And at even that shop, millions of customers could have come; only a few did. Your experience is a grain.

Newton said: people think I know a lot. My state is like standing on the shore and picking up a single grain of sand—that grain is my knowledge; my ignorance is the rest of the shore.

Keep attention on how much remains unknown—this makes you humble. If you focus too much on what you know, you become stiff; ego grows. Remember always how much remains to know, to experience—boundless. Then what you know is hardly worth accounting.

Thus Socrates says: when the wise attain supreme knowing, one knowing remains—that “I have known nothing.” The sign of the wise is: “I know nothing.”

Therefore Nanak says: keep limits, simplicity, humility. Say only what you know. Of the Supreme—say nothing. Who are you to judge? Will His being depend on your arguments? Your arguments can be broken; will He break?

Keshab Chandra came to Ramakrishna with strong arguments that God does not exist. Ramakrishna listened, delighted, embraced him: “Great grace that you came. I am a villager; I have not seen such splendor of intellect. Seeing you, my last doubt vanished—that there is God. How else could such a flower bloom without Him?”

Keshab had come to refute God and offered subtle arguments. He was a rare genius; his arguments were hard to answer.

Ramakrishna did not answer. He rejoiced: “Seeing you, the final proof arrived. If you can exist, the world is not mere matter. When such delicacy of reasoning is possible, this world is not just stone; consciousness is hidden here. You have become proof of God to me.”

Keshab returned defeated. He wrote in his diary, “This man cannot be defeated.”

A religious man is hard to defeat—he offers no arguments. You can only defeat one who argues; arguments can be broken by subtler ones. A little more skill, and you win.

You cannot defeat the religious, for he gives you no entry point. He says: my God is my trust, not my conclusion; my feeling, not my thought; my heart, not my head. The heart is silent. So the religious remain silent about God. Yes—about attention they speak, but only as far as they have gone. No more.

In the old days there was great honesty. Buddha set out in search of truth and for six years went to many masters. Sweet is the story. Each master taught what he knew. Then a moment came when Buddha knew all that the master knew. Buddha asked, “Now what?” The master said, “I have told you all I know; beyond this I do not. You must seek another teacher.”

The last was Alara Kalama. Buddha stayed months with him, did whatever he said. In time Buddha reached where Alara was. “Now what?” Buddha asked. “I am not yet fulfilled.” Kalama said, “Then you must seek another master. I have told you what I know. And if you discover more, do not forget me—come and tell me.”

Honest men! Not an inch beyond what they knew. “If you find more, bring me word.” Thus the past yielded so many enlightened ones—there was integrity.

Today integrity is hardly a concern. Whether you know or not, if you can assert and advertise, you will gather disciples. Market yourself as we market goods, tickle people’s lust and greed, and they will make you a guru.

So Nanak says—speak about attention with great care.

“Dharma alone upholds the earth.”

He who speaks lightly about dharma shakes life at its roots. Dharma holds you—and not only you; dharma upholds the whole existence. Therefore speak of dharma only if you know; otherwise, be silent. A small mistake about dharma, and life is thrown out of balance for lifetimes. This is no small device that can be easily replaced. The very balance of life is disturbed. Once you take a wrong view of dharma, your foundations are lost.

“Dharma sustains the earth; it is the child of compassion. Establish contentment in it and balance is maintained.”

Let these three sentences sink to the heart’s depths.

Dhaul dharam daiya ka put. Santosh thapi rakhia jin soot.
Je ko bujhai hovai sachiaru.

Dharma is the foundation of life, of existence. Foundation means that without it, existence falls apart; the building collapses. The rest is decoration—walls, bricks—by which a house is made. Dharma is the base. Dharma means the ultimate law of one’s nature, the last thread of swabhava.

Fire’s nature is heat; if fire becomes cold, it is no longer fire. The sun’s nature is to give light; without light, it is not a sun. A sun without light—what would you call it? It has lost its dharma.

Jesus often said: if salt loses its saltiness, how will you make it salty again? If salt itself loses its salt, how will anything be salted?

When anything falls from its nature, it is no longer what it was, for it was that by virtue of its nature. The sun is the sun by light; fire is fire by heat; man is man by attention. That is his nature. One who loses attention is man in name only—he appears to be man, but is not. At best he is an animal; he lives like an animal.

We never condemn animals; they live in their nature. So we never say to a dog, “Why behave like a dog?” We say it only to a man: “Why behave like a dog? Like a donkey?” We can say it to man because he is man only when he abides in attention, in his nature. A Buddha, a Nanak, a Kabir are settled in their nature.

But the crowd has fallen so far from nature that we call a Buddha, Nanak, Kabir, Krishna “avatars,” not humans. For if we call them “man,” what will we call ourselves? If we admit they are men, we must call ourselves something less. To keep calling ourselves human, we elevate them a rung as “incarnations.” That relieves us. At least we remain “human.” But we are not.

Understand “man” rightly. Only one who is given to deep contemplation and settled in deep attention is man. Awareness is man’s nature. And finding your own nature is the very door to the nature of the Whole. There is only one way to God for man: discover the deepest foundation of your own nature.

Nanak says: dharma upholds. It is swabhava, foundation. And it is the son of compassion. Establish contentment in it to create balance.

Compassion and contentment—two precious words. The seeker’s entire life can be contained in these two. Compassion outward; contentment inward. Two pans of the scale. Never show compassion to yourself; never be content with others. Keep contentment for yourself; compassion for others.

Understand this, for we do the reverse. A man dies hungry—we say, “It is all right.” A man lies sick on the road—we say, “It is all right.” We have been taught contentment always—“As it is, it’s fine.”

Compassion for the other; contentment for oneself. Wherever I am is fine; no need to clamor. What I have is enough. Who has contentment toward himself attains supreme peace, for unrest is born of discontent. First discontent, then disturbance. “What should be is not happening. I am not as I ought to be. What I should have has not come. My rights are denied. God is displeased with me. I am not getting honor befitting my worth; not getting wealth befitting my cleverness. People don’t know who I am!”

When the words of discontent gather, agitation begins. Discontent sees lack—what is missing. It is a way of seeking absence. Contentment toward oneself reveals what is present—and gratitude arises. You can thank the Divine—“You have given me more than I need.”

Contentment inward; compassion outward. Do whatever you can for the other—bring comfort and peace. Whether it happens or not—be content about the result, for that is inner. You make the effort; if you still can’t, be content.

We have reversed it—compassion toward self, contentment toward others. We show great pity for ourselves: “Everything should be for me.” Great contentment about the plight of others: “Whatever is, is fine.”

Thus India has suffered. We felt content about others—“All is God’s will.” But where ourselves are concerned, we do not accept His will; we struggle. Our struggle makes others poorer; then we say, “This too is God’s will.” He made the rich rich and the poor poor; us masters and them slaves—we are satisfied. No compassion for changing the lives of the poor and enslaved; we spend all our compassion on ourselves.

See—the words are precious, but reverse them and danger follows. If you can be content with yourself, you will be at peace, overflowing. If you can be compassionate toward others, poverty and misery will diminish; service will be born; merit, prayer, and worship will flower. Compassion for others becomes the path to God.

If you have only compassion for others without contentment within, you may be a social reformer, but not religious. If you have only contentment within without compassion outward, you become a dead ascetic—your life is lost.

Many have fled to forests—utterly content, but without compassion. They have found their comfort but seem deeply selfish. No feeling for others; their gaze is harsh.

Ask a Jain muni—he practices contentment, but compassion? He says, “Everyone suffers the fruit of his karma—what can I do?” Contentment he cultivates—for himself. It is incomplete; the balance is missing. Ask a Christian missionary—he cultivates compassion: in the jungles, bearing disease, serving the poor and tribal, hospitals, the leprous—he takes up every burden. But inside, no contentment.

These are half-men. The missionary has compassion; the Jain monk has contentment—but no balance. When one pan is heavy and the other rises, the supreme music of life cannot play.

Thus Nanak says: “Dharma is the child of compassion; establish contentment in it and balance is maintained.”

Whoever cultivates compassion and contentment in right measure and direction finds life’s ultimate foundation. He discovers what dharma is.

“Whoever understands this becomes true.”

Contentment within, compassion without; attention within, compassion without.

Buddha’s formula is the same—karuna and prajna: compassion and wisdom. Wisdom within; compassion without. Until both are there, knowledge is not true. Without outward compassion, inner knowing is incomplete. With compassion outward but no inner attention—still incomplete. By serving others alone you will not arrive; you must work within, too. Press the feet of the sick, open hospitals and shelters—but if you have not cultivated remembrance inside, awakened attention, found the One among the five—you will not arrive. You are a patient yourself; how will you arrive by serving others?

Life walks on two legs, the bird flies with two wings, you see with two eyes—so the last journey too has two wings. Nanak names them: compassion and contentment.

“He alone knows how much weight rests on dharma. There are many earths—and beyond them still more.”

Even scientists now accept that there are at least fifty thousand earth-like worlds. That figure only marks our present limits; there must be more. Life is not confined to this planet; by scientific estimate, at least fifty thousand planets host life. By the religious account, life is on infinite worlds. Vastness spreads. You cannot see such immensity with a small mind; you must lay the small mind aside.

As thoughts fall silent, the little window breaks. You stand under the open sky and begin to see the endlessness of life. What grandeur—and how you were lost in petty things! What tiny knots—someone insulted you; someone pricked you; a headache—that is your life’s story. While the Vast was happening every moment, you were busy with trifles—balancing silly accounts. While infinite wealth was showering, you were picking up pebbles.

Nanak says, “There are many earths—and beyond them still more. What power bears their burden? How many beings, races, colors—all their names written by His pen of command. Few can write such an account. If one were to write it, how vast would it be! How great His power! How beautiful His form! How countless His gifts! Who can know? Who can estimate? From a single Word how immense a spread! From that Word, millions of streams of creation flowed. How can one contemplate such Nature? Even if I offer myself again and again, it is not enough. What pleases You alone is good. You are ever-secure and formless.”

As you step beyond petty accounting, your condition is like this: outside, jewels and diamonds are raining, while you clutch pebbles to your chest—fearful someone may snatch them, fearful that if you open your fist, they may fall.

What are you holding to? What are you accounting? What do you think about constantly? What inner turmoil churns? If you tally it, you’ll see how petty—pettiest, not even worthy of accounting—and yet you spend life on it.

When all this falls away and you become thought-free—when the sound of Om resounds—and you see the vast glory of life, endless life, immeasurable nectar, infinite beauty, boundless power—then you have entered His court. Entering there, you cannot even estimate the immensity, the beauty, the flavor—how foolishly we were wasting it.

Nanak says: How can I think upon it? All thought stops, is stunned; wonder fills the eyes.

Raise your eyes—and you are filled with wonder. Keep them nailed to the ground—and you see only pebbles buried in the dust.

“How can I contemplate such Nature? Even if I offer myself again and again, it is not enough.”

When the immeasurable is happening, when infinite bliss rains—how shall I repay? Even a thousand self-offerings are not enough. Such ah! arises—and that ah! is prayer. In that prayer, Nanak’s words are precious:

“What pleases You alone is good.”

Jo tudh bhavai, sai bhali kar.
Let Your will be done. In such a moment you drop your will. There is only one prayer left: “Do not fulfill my will. Let Yours be done.” For whatever I ask will be small—children ask for toys, the unwise for foolish things. Do not let my will be fulfilled. What pleases You is good. I will no longer decide what is right or wrong. What You do is right; what You do not is wrong. Only one touchstone remains—

“What pleases You is good. You are ever-safe and formless.”

Tu sada salamat, nirankar.
You are ever—while I sometimes am and sometimes vanish. My being is like a bubble on water; You are the ocean, I the wave. What can a wave ask? How can its asking be right? How can truth be in the desires of what lives for a moment?

The last words Jesus spoke on the cross are these: “What pleases You is good.”

Jo tudh bhavai, sai bhali kar. Tu sada salamat, nirankar.
A moment of doubt did arise. Nailed to the cross, blood flowing—one moment showed how weak a man can be. In that moment Jesus spoke the question of our shared humanity: “What are You showing me? What are You doing to me?” The question is intimate, not a doubt laden with skepticism—but still a line of doubt is there. He is not able to like what is happening. “This should not be.” Our whole humanity appears in that complaint.

In your life too, such moments will come—your faith will shake: “What is this? What are You doing? I trusted You—and this is the fruit?” That shows the trust was not complete—for if it were, whatever came would be accepted with joy. If you accept with complaint, acceptance is incomplete; faith is not full.

But Jesus gathered himself. Humanity trembled in him, and within a moment he looked up and said, “No—let Your will be done. Your will is my will.”

In that moment, humanity dissolved and the Christ was born. Jesus vanished; Christ arose. Precisely such a moment separates ignorance from knowing, you from Buddha, you from Nanak.

You may rise high, yet one subtle doubt remains—Is my will being fulfilled? Even a devotee keeps an eye on God—“Are You obeying me?” If not, he complains, sweetly perhaps, but a thorn is a thorn.

The supreme devotee has no complaint, for his only cry is: “What pleases You is good.”

Jo tudh bhavai, sai bhali kar.
“You are ever-safe, eternal and formless.”

I am a wave—what place is there for my will? Let Your will be done—Thy will be done. Let there be no distance between Your desire and mine. Your desire is my desire. The wave desires what the ocean desires; the leaf what the tree desires; the limb what the body desires. Let us abandon ourselves like a drop into the ocean.

But such surrender is possible only after you have found the One among the five. As you are now, you are not; what will you surrender? You are so divided—an inner crowd. One part pulls left, another right. In such division who can leap? You have no authentic being yet.

So first, Nanak says: among the five, find the One—attention.

Second, as attention deepens—contentment within, compassion without. As compassion ripens, contentment deepens; and then this prayer descends of itself into your life: “What pleases You is good.” This is fulfillment.

That is all for today.