Ek Omkar Satnam #5

Mahavira spoke of four ferries by which one can cross to the other shore. Two are easy to understand—the monk’s and the nun’s. The remaining two seem a bit more difficult—the layman’s and the laywoman’s. Shravaka means one who is capable of hearing; who has learned the art of listening; who has discovered how to listen; who has recognized what listening is.

Mahavira said: some reach the beyond through practice, and some reach simply by listening. The one who cannot listen is the one who needs practice. If you truly, totally listen, nothing remains to be done; by listening alone you cross over.

These aphorisms of Nanak proclaim the glory of listening. At first glance they seem exaggerated: will everything really happen just by listening? And we’ve been listening for lifetimes—yet nothing has happened! Our experience says, listen—listen as much as you like—nothing changes; we remain the same. Words fall on the slick surface of our clay pot and slide off; we remain as untouched as ever. If our experience is right, Nanak sounds like he’s indulging in hyperbole. But our experience is not right; because we have never truly listened. We have strategies for not-listening; first, understand those.

The first trick is: we hear only what we want to hear, not what is said. We are very clever. We hear only that which does not change us. What would change us—we do not hear; we are deaf to it. And this is not only the mystics’ claim; those who have scientifically studied the senses say we do not admit ninety-eight percent of incoming information; we take in only about two percent. We see only what we want to see, hear only what we want to hear, understand only what fits us. Whatever does not harmonize with us never reaches us; we have erected many barriers in between.

And what harmonizes with you—how will it transform you? It will only reinforce what you are. What convinces your mind—how can it metamorphose you? It will only give you more ground under your feet, stronger stones on which to raise your old foundation.

A Hindu hears only what strengthens the Hindu-mind. A Muslim hears only what strengthens the Muslim-mind. A Sikh hears only what fortifies his Sikh notions. Are you listening to make yourself stronger? Listening to sink deeper into your beliefs? Listening to fortify your house? Then you will miss listening. Because truth has no relation with Sikh or Hindu or Muslim. Truth has nothing to do with your conditioning, with the imprints on your mind.

Only when you set aside all your beliefs and listen will you understand what Nanak means! And there is no task harder than dropping one’s beliefs; they are very subtle, fine, transparent. They are not visible; a glass wall. Until you collide with it you don’t know it is there. You feel the sky is open, the moon and stars are visible; but in between, a glass wall.

As I speak, inside you sometimes say, “Yes, right”—when it fits you; sometimes, “This doesn’t sit well”—when it doesn’t. Then you are not hearing what I say; you are hearing what suits you, what polishes you, decorates you, empowers you. You will drop the rest. You will forget the rest. And if some statement contrary to you does enter, you will refute it inside; you will gather arguments; you will do a thousand things to prove, “This cannot be right.” Because one thing you assume is that you are right. So whatever agrees with you is true; what doesn’t is false.

If you have already attained truth, there is no need to listen. But you haven’t; and still you seek truth with the notion that it is already with you! How will you seek?

You will have to go to truth naked, void, empty. You will have to drop all your beliefs before truth. If your beliefs, your principles, your scriptures stand in the way, you will never be able to hear. And what you think you heard will be only your own echo—not what was said, but what resounded inside you. You will go on hearing the echo in your mind’s chamber. Then Nanak’s words will certainly sound like exaggeration.

The second way of avoiding is this: whenever something significant is said, people often drift into a trance. That too is the mind’s protection. A very deep mechanism. Whenever something is about to touch you, you fall asleep.

I was a guest at a great pundit’s house. He is immensely learned, master of the scriptures, and as a Ramayani, there is no one like him. Hundreds of thousands come to hear him. At night we went to sleep in the same room; the lights were switched off and we lay on our beds. I heard his wife come in and whisper in his ear. I could hear it. She said, “Listen! Munna is not sleeping—go say something to him.” The pundit replied, “What will happen if I go?” She said, “I have seen hundreds of thousands—no sooner you begin to speak than they begin to sleep. I’ve seen masses sleeping in your assemblies—so what power does this lone Munna have! Go utter a few words to him—he’ll doze off.”

People go to religious gatherings to catch up on sleep. Those who cannot sleep at night, fall asleep in a religious meeting. What happens? It’s one of your mind’s tricks. What you don’t want to hear, you cover yourself against with sleep; you protect yourself. Sleep is your shield. So you appear to be listening, but you are not alert. And without alertness, how will you hear?

You are alert when you speak, not when you listen. And not only in a religious assembly—whenever anyone else speaks, you are not alert; because there is an internal dialogue running in which you are entangled. The other speaks on. You maintain the posture: “I am listening.” But it’s just posture; inside, you are speaking. And when you are speaking inside, whom will you hear? You will hear only the one speaking within. The voice from outside cannot reach you. The echo of your own voice is enough. That is why drowsiness comes over you: you are bored with yourself.

When you speak, you are somewhat alert. When you listen, you begin to swoon; because you are bored with yourself. You have run that inner talk so many times—why again today? It is mere repetition. Repetition brings weariness. It brings sleep. That too is a defense. And it is a sign that an inner dialogue is going on.

The one who breaks the inner dialogue becomes capable of listening. The art of listening is available when the inner dialogue stops. And if, even for a single moment, the inner dialogue ceases, you will find the sky opens—an infinite sky. The unknown is known. The bottomless is sounded. The unfamiliar turns familiar. The stranger becomes your own. Suddenly!

This existence is your home. If even for a moment your inner dialogue breaks… the single aim of all satsangs and all masters is to find a way to break your inner dialogue. Whether they call it meditation, silence, yoga, or name-remembrance, it makes no difference. The whole effort is to shatter the ceaseless inner current of words; to create a gap in it. Let there be an opening even for a brief while and you will understand what Nanak is saying.

Nanak says, “By listening, one becomes siddha, pir, deva, and Indra. By listening, the earth and sky endure. By listening, islands, realms, and netherworlds move. By listening, death cannot touch. Nanak says, by listening the devotee is ever in blossoming joy, and by listening sorrow and sin are destroyed.”

Suniai sidh peer sur nath. Suniai dharti dhaval aakaas. Suniai deep loa pataal. Suniai pohi na sakai kaal. Nanak bhagta sada vigaas. Suniai dukh paap ka naas.

It sounds unbelievable—that by listening alone one becomes a siddha, a pir, a deva, even Indra! That by listening earth and sky abide! That by listening islands, worlds, and netherworlds stand! That by listening, death cannot touch! It sounds like exaggeration.

Not a trace of exaggeration. Because the moment you learn the art of listening, you learn the art of being intimate with life. And as soon as awareness of existence begins, you will discover that the silence you touch within in the moment of listening, the emptiness you taste then, is the very ground of existence. On that silence the sky is poised, on that silence the abyss is poised. In that very emptiness, in that very hush, the whole universe is revolving. In that silence a seed cracks and becomes a tree. In that silence the sun rises. In that silence the moon and stars are born and dissolve. When you nullify words within, you reach the place from which creation arises and into which it subsides.

It happened that a Muslim fakir came to Nanak and said, “I have heard that if you wish, you can reduce me to ashes in a moment, and if you wish, recreate me in a moment. This sounds like a miracle; I cannot believe it.” But the man was sincere, a true seeker; he hadn’t come out of mere curiosity. He asked with deep longing.

Nanak said, “Then close your eyes and sit silently, and I will do what you ask.” The fakir closed his eyes and sat quietly.

If he hadn’t been a true seeker, he would have been frightened. For his request was dangerous: “Reduce me to ashes, destroy me, and then recreate me. Pralaya and srishti are in your hands, so I’ve heard.”

It was morning—just such a morning. Outside a village, beneath a tree, by a well, Nanak was sitting. His disciples Mardana and Bala were present. They too were surprised: Nanak had never said such a thing to anyone! What now? They became alert. In that moment, as if the tree around them also became alert; the stones too. Because Nanak had said, “Sit, close your eyes, be still. As soon as you become still, I will show you the miracle.”

The fakir sat still. He must have been a man of great trust. He became utterly empty within. Nanak placed his hand on his head and intoned Omkar. And the story says the man turned to ashes. Then Nanak intoned Omkar again. And the story says the man was re-created.

If you grasp the story on the surface, you will miss. But within, this event happened. When, in every way, he became still and Nanak sounded Om, listening happened; the inner dialogue broke. Only the resonance of Om remained. After that resonance, the state of dissolution arises spontaneously within. Everything is gone—the world, all boundaries—ashes, a no-thing. No one remains within; search as you may, no one is found. No one at home; the house empty. Then Nanak intoned Om again. The man returned. He opened his eyes, bowed at Nanak’s feet and said, “I thought this was impossible. But you did it!”

Believe the story literally and you won’t understand. You’ll think the man became a heap of ashes and Nanak built him back from the ashes. Such notions are childish. Then you have missed. Within, dissolution and creation happen.

But that fakir was capable of listening. And when someone becomes capable of listening, you won’t be hearing me alone! The art of listening has arrived. I am only an excuse; the guru is an excuse. When the art of listening has arrived, when the wind passes through the trees you will hear; in that hush you will hear the tone of Om, the fundamental note of life. When water falls from a mountain, you will hear. In that sound you will discover that everything is poised in the void. Rivers flow into it, oceans merge into it. Close your eyes and you will hear your own heartbeat; you will hear the faint sound of blood flowing. And you will know: this is not me; I am the listener; I am the witness. Then death cannot touch you. For the one who has learned listening, nothing remains unknown.

Therefore Nanak says, “By listening one becomes siddha, pir, deva, even Indra. By listening, the earth and sky stand. By listening, islands, realms, and netherworlds move.”

All existence is happening through listening. Listening means: all existence is happening through emptiness. And when you are in listening, the imprint of the void falls upon you; the void resounds in you. That resonance is existence’s primal resonance. That sound is the basic unit of existence.

“By listening, death cannot touch.”

Once you have learned to listen—what death? For the listener comes to know the witness. Right now you “listen” by thinking about what you hear. The thinker will die. The thinker is mortal. The day you listen without thinking—only listen—that day you will become a witness. Here I will speak, there your brain will register it, and a third presence will arise within you that sees listening happen. That day a new element is born within you. A new process organizes itself. A new crystallization happens: witnessing. The witness has no death.

Hence Nanak says: “By listening death does not touch. By listening the devotees are ever in blossoming joy; by listening sorrow and sin are destroyed.”

How to fall silent, how to break the ceaseless inner talk; how for a moment the clouds part and open sky appears; how the inner chain dissolves—this is the whole process.

You sit here. I speak. Alongside, you have no need at all to speak. You can be utterly quiet. But the old habit goes on chattering within. Just habit!

I asked a little boy, “Has your baby sister begun to talk?” He said, “She has. Long ago she learned to talk. Now everyone is teaching her to be silent. Now she never keeps quiet; she talks all the time. At first she was completely silent—so we all taught her to speak; now we are all teaching her to be quiet, which seems much more difficult!”

You came without words—do you intend to go babbling? Then you will be deprived both of life and of the supreme touch, the supreme bliss of death. You came silent; prepare to go silent. Speaking is in-between, for the world, useful. When you are with another, speech is useful. When you are sitting alone, speaking is madness. Speaking is a process by which we relate to the other. Silence is the process by which we relate to ourselves. If you remain silent, it is hard to relate to others; if you keep talking, it is hard to relate to yourself. Speaking is a bridge by which we reach others. Silence is a bridge by which we reach ourselves. Perhaps you are making a mistake of means.

If a person keeps utterly quiet and never talks to anyone, he will form no relationships. Slowly people will forget him. That is why the mute appears the most pitiable; the blind is not as pitiable as the mute. Watch: you feel the greatest compassion for the mute. The blind cannot see, true; yet he can still relate. He can be a husband, a wife, a friend, a member of society. The mute is shut in upon himself. No way to go out, no avenue opens to relate. The mute seems unable to connect with anyone. Imagine his difficulty. He wants to reach out but cannot. Watch his gestures—what longing they carry; and how helpless he becomes when you don’t understand! How helpless, how forlorn he feels! No one more pitiable than the mute, because he cannot be part of society; cannot make friends; cannot speak of his love; cannot share his heart; cannot confess his grief and be soothed.

Just as the mute is incapable of relating outwardly, you have become incapable of relating inwardly—because there you keep talking. There you need to be mute. There, be totally quiet; because there is no “other” there. With whom are you conversing? To whom are you talking inside? You raise questions and answer them yourself—this is a symptom of insanity. What is the difference between a madman and you? The madman talks loudly to himself; you do it softly—that’s all. Some day you too may begin to do it loudly; then you will be called mad. Right now you are sitting on your madness as if suppressing it; it can erupt any moment. It is an abscess; the pus can burst any time.

Why does inner talk go on? What is the reason? Habit. Your whole life you have only been taught to speak. A child is born and the very first thing we try to teach is to speak somehow. And the child who speaks early proves more useful to society. We call him gifted—the earlier he speaks. The later he speaks, the more we call him dull. Speech is a social art. Man belongs to society. So our first concern is that the child speak. And when he does, the parents are delighted!

Then every need of life is met through speech. Hungry? Say so. Thirsty? Say so. Speech preserves life. What use is silence? In this world, silence seems to have no utility. What will you buy with silence? What can you bring from the market with silence? What need will be met by silence? Speech fulfills all the body’s needs. And so we become habituated to talking. Then we talk at night, too; we talk in sleep. We talk twenty-four hours a day. Speech becomes autonomous, mechanical.

We go on talking. We rehearse. Before speaking to someone we talk inside about what we will say. After speaking we repeat inside what we said. Slowly we forget that with this speaking we are losing something. Outwardly there is gain; inwardly destruction. In the world there is movement; the bond with ourselves breaks. We connect with others; we go far from ourselves. The closer we come to others, the farther we move from our own center. And the more skillful you become at it, the harder silence becomes. Habit! And habits cannot be broken in a moment.

Even if you understand completely and see clearly: What is the need to talk to oneself? When someone walks he uses his legs; but while sitting there is no need to keep moving the legs. Because when you need to go somewhere you must move your legs; but when you are seated, why keep moving them? When hungry one eats; when not hungry, if one keeps eating he will go mad. When sleepy, one sleeps; when not sleepy, making efforts to sleep is needless torment. Yet you never think this way about talking: when needed we will use it; when not needed we will stop it.

It seems you have forgotten that speaking can be switched off and on. It can. Otherwise all religion would be impossible. Religion is made possible by silence. That is why Nanak extols listening so much. If you understand his praise of listening, it is praise of silence. It is the glory of silence: that you become quiet so that you can hear what is being said. You are sunk in yourself; you are running your own program; you are talking to yourself—even if you grasp this much, you still cannot stop it at once. Habits take time to go. And to break a habit, there is no way except to create the opposite habit.

So you will have to practice silence. The only meaning of being in the company of sadhus is that you practice silence. The only purpose of going to a guru is that there you have nothing to say, only to listen; you will listen, you will sit quietly. You do not go to the guru for a conversation.

A friend came some days ago. He said, “I want to have a discussion with you.” I said, “Then you speak; I will listen. But I won’t speak.” He said, “No, I mean exchange of ideas.” I said, “If you have ideas, I have nothing to take and nothing to give. If you are without ideas, I can give you something. And if you have something to give, I am ready to receive.”

Nothing to give—yet he wanted an exchange of thoughts! People say “exchange of thoughts”—you give me your madness, I’ll give you mine. Both were mad enough already; no exchange was needed.

We do not go to the guru for a dialogue; we go to become silent. And when we become silent, only then can he speak; when we become silent, only then can we listen. Understand the glory of listening as the glory of silence, because listening will be possible only when you are quiet. And to be quiet you will have to do a little practice.

What will you do to be quiet? Not much. Once a day, when it is convenient, sit silently for an hour. The inner dialogue will run. Do not become its ally. This is the key. The discussion is going on inside—just listen, as if two people are talking; but remain at a distance. Don’t get in the middle! Don’t get entangled! Keep listening: this corner of the mind is talking to the other corner; I am listening. Whatever comes, let it come. Do not suppress, do not push away, do not try to stop; remain only a witness.

A lot of rubbish will pour out, because you are suppressing much. The mind has never been given free space, leisure. Give it leisure and it will run like a horse whose reins have snapped. Let it run. Just sit and watch. In that watching is your patience. For your old habit will be to mount the horse; to catch the reins; to steer left or right. To break that habit, keep a little patience—let the horse go where it will; let the mind go where it goes; I will only watch. I will not control. One word will bring another; everything is interconnected. One word will rise; a thousand will rise; nothing is unconnected.

Freud made great use of this process. It is an ancient yogic method. Perhaps Freud did not even know, but he based psychoanalysis on it: free association of thought—everything is linked. One thought comes; snagged in it comes a second; snagged in that a third—forming a chain.

I was traveling by train. It was very crowded. The ticket-checker came; an old man was hiding under my seat. “Old man, show your ticket!” He began pleading, folding his hands, “Forgive me this once. I have neither a ticket nor a penny. I am going to my village to arrange my daughter’s wedding. Great kindness if you let me be.” The checker relented and moved on. Under another seat a young man was also hiding. The checker, in fun, said, “So brother, you too going to get your daughter married? Where is your ticket?” The young man replied, “Sir, I have no ticket. And I am not going to marry my daughter. I am that old man’s future son-in-law.”

So it is within—everything linked. A son-in-law and a father-in-law—both hiding. They need to be brought out. Inside you, the whole chain is tied together. You yourself will be surprised, amazed, at how one thought leads to another; where they come from! You may feel afraid; “Am I going mad?”

But it is a wonderful experiment. Let whatever happens, happen. If possible, it is even better to speak aloud what is going on, so you can also hear it. Because within, things are subtle; you may not remain conscious of them. Speak aloud whatever is running inside you! But keep awareness that you remain distant; whatever happens, I will speak it out impartially, detachedly. If an abuse comes, an abuse; if a foul word, a foul word; if the name of Ram, the name of Ram; if Om, Om—whatever comes, I will utter it and keep listening.

If you pass through this companionship for one continuous hour daily for three months, then slowly you will begin to experience that thoughts are now fewer. Your old stored stock is dwindling. Now fewer things remain. Sometimes a word comes and no word linked to its hook follows; it just hangs alone for a while and disappears. After six months you will find that sometimes an interval arises: for a moment nothing happens; you remain alone. In that very moment the capacity for listening begins.

But for six months you must patiently churn the mind, because you have been filling it all your life. If you do it very patiently even for six months, it will happen; otherwise it may take six years—or six lifetimes. It depends on how swiftly and wholly you do the experiment.

Many times you will forget and get lost in it. You will mount the horse and set off. You will be involved; you will fuse into it; you will become identified. Then you have missed; the experiment has failed. As soon as you notice, dismount. Let the words move; don’t climb onto them. Let them go wherever they go; you just follow behind as a witness, watching what is happening.

Slowly, slowly, you will begin to hear the footfalls of silence. And the day you hear the footfalls of silence, that very day you will also experience the art of listening. That day you will be able to listen. That day you will not need to search for a guru. Wherever you are, there is the guru. The wind will stir in a tree, a flower will fall, a dry leaf will drop—you will hear. Clouds will thunder, lightning will flash, the river will flood—you will hear. On the seashore the tumultuous roar—you will hear. A bird will hum its song, a child will cry, a dog will bark in the street—you will hear.

When the art of listening arrives, the guru is all around. Without the art of listening, even if all the perfected ones sit before you, there is no guru. The guru is born the moment you become capable of listening.

Hence Nanak says: “By listening the devotees rejoice. By listening sorrow and sin are destroyed.”

If you learn the art of listening you will be supremely joyous, because you will have become a witness. Witnessing is bliss. When listening happens, the mind is lost; the vanishing of mind is bliss. To go beyond mind is bliss. When listening happens, the chain of words breaks; to go beyond the chain of words is bliss. That is transcendence. You are no longer in the valley of words. You become a peak where words cannot reach; where even the dust of words cannot arrive. Where there is utter silence; where silence has never been broken. Now you stand on that summit. From that summit of peace, only bliss resounds. On that summit you attain supreme blessedness.

“By listening sorrow and sin are destroyed.”

One who has listened, who has learned to listen—what sin? For sin happens by becoming involved with thought. Understand this a little.

A thought arises in the mind. A car passes on the road. A flash, and a thought arises: “If only that car were mine.” Now you are entangled. How to get this car—you are possessed by it. Honestly if you can, honestly; dishonestly if need be—there must be a car. If there is no car you cannot sleep. A difficulty has entered your life; until it is resolved you will know no peace. The car in your dreams at night; the car in your thinking by day. The car surrounds you.

What happened? A car went by; a thought arose. This is natural—mind is a mirror. It reflects whatever passes. But you got entangled. The reflection would form and vanish as the beautiful woman passed by; if you remained a witness, there would be no possibility of sin. But now: by any means, this woman must be yours. By the straight path if possible, by the crooked if not; by love if possible, by violence if not; if love is not possible, then rape—but the woman must be had.

Now a thought has possessed you. A shadow crossed your mind; had you just watched it pass and kept your distance—“a shadow appeared and went away”—no sin would arise. All sins arise because you become one with thought. Then the thought seizes you like a storm, like a whirlwind—it shakes you. And even in following thought you never find what you seek. You find suffering. All the suffering you have known came from going with thought. Yet you do not have the awareness to see that all suffering has come from following thought, and all joy happens in thoughtlessness.

Nanak says: listening destroys sorrow and sin. For sorrow is the fruit of sin. Sin is the seed; sorrow the fruit. When sin goes, sorrow goes. When neither sin nor sorrow remains, the state you are in is samadhi, is bliss.

“Nanak bhagta sada vigaas”—the word “vigaas” is very significant. It holds both meanings—joy and ever-unfolding. Bliss is a flower that goes on blooming. There is no hour when the flower is “fully” open; it keeps opening—fuller and fuller and more complete. Like the morning sun that rises and rises—and never sets—that is bliss. A flower that blossoms and never withers; a sun that never sets—that is bliss.

When emptiness grows dense in the heart, when silence is born, waves of bliss begin rising unceasingly. Remember, bliss is not a thing like objects are; you get it once and it’s over. It keeps increasing. Once you have found it, it goes on growing. Its growth has no limit.

That is why we say the divine is infinite. And that is why we say the divine is bliss. Because bliss is infinite. You can never have it “completely.” Each time you will find it growing. And at every point you will feel utterly content. This is a paradox and cannot be solved by logic. Logic says: if it is attained and contentment has come, what more is there to grow? But contentment, too, grows—because contentment is alive; it is not a thing. Contentment is a living phenomenon.

Bliss is not something you can buy—one pound, two pounds—and be done. It is endless. Once you enter, you keep sinking. And the amazing thing is that each instant it feels “complete”—and yet it continues to grow.

The complete, too, is ever-unfolding. The complete is not dead; it has not stopped; it keeps expanding. Hence we have called existence Brahman. Brahman means that which is ever-expanding. It is that whose expansion never reaches a limit; which is not just what it was yesterday; not just what it is today; which keeps expanding day by day. Brahman means infinite expanse.

“By listening, Vishnu, Brahma, and Indra arise. By listening, even from impure mouths hymns of praise begin to flow. By listening, the devices of yoga and the secrets of the body are known. By listening, the scriptures, the smritis, and the Vedas are realized. Nanak says: by listening the devotees are ever in blossoming joy; by listening, sorrow and sin are destroyed.”

One who has heard the truth, the Guru’s word; who has felt its fragrance; who has learned to sit near one in whom it has happened—such that what overflows from him begins to enter you.

Knowledge is contagious. Bliss is contagious. If your doors are open, bliss enters you like a gust of wind from one who has it. Nothing of his is lost; yours increases. In the sharing, his too expands, for it becomes more widely diffused. If you are silent, there is room within you. And remember, existence does not like emptiness. Become empty here—and existence rushes to fill you.

Fill a pot with water from the river; you haven’t even finished and water from all around has filled the empty space. Remove air from a vessel and air rushes in from all around. Existence doesn’t like a vacuum. Be willing to be empty for once, and you will be filled with fresh breezes again and again. Empty here, filled there. Step out from this corner and from the other the divine steps in. As long as you are full of yourself, you remain empty. The day you are empty of yourself, that day you are filled with the supreme energy.

Nanak says: those whose lives were sinful, from whose mouths no beautiful word ever came, from whom auspicious speech never arose, from whose lips only abuse came, whose minds carried only curses—such evil people, if they once truly listen, become filled with glory. Even a small glimpse of listening refreshes you, bathes you.

Nanak does not tell sinners to drop sin first. He says: just listen. Sin will drop by itself through listening. He does not tell sinners: reform first, then you will be able to listen. That would make it impossible; you would never reach. If the condition is: until you are pure you cannot listen—you will never listen. Then there is no hope.

Nanak says: just listen—forget about sin and evil. In the very act of listening a new principle will enter your life, a new spark will fall that will burn up all your sin. Your entire past can turn to ashes—if you become silent.

For what is sin? What did you do in the past? You became identified with thought and set about turning thought into action—that is all sin is. Today, separate from thought; action breaks; the doer dissolves—the tie with the past is cut. You will then discover that the past too was only a dream. Whatever you did through lifetimes happened through the delusion of being a doer. Today the delusion breaks; those deeds are finished.

Nanak’s point is not understood by many. People think: the sins we have committed must be counterbalanced by good deeds. Until we do merit, how will the sins be erased? What was done wrong must be weighed with an equal right in the scales. The calculating mind says rightly that if you have done one bad act, do one good act to compensate. If this is how it must be, you can never be free. Because you have sinned across countless lives; it will take countless lives to balance them. And in the meantime, is there any guarantee you won’t go on sinning? Then the chain will never break. Liberation would be impossible.

The wise say something else. They use a different arithmetic. They say: the issue is not sin; the issue is the root of sin.

A tree stands before you; you have been watering it for fifty years. Do you think it will take fifty years to remove the water and only then will the tree die? Cut the root today; it starts dying today. Pluck the leaves, and you may spend fifty years and still the tree won’t die! Old leaves will fall; new will come. And now the tree is so big it doesn’t even need your water; it will draw from the earth itself.

No—if you cut leaves, the tree will never be finished. In fact, the more you prune the more leaves appear. That is the gardener’s art. You prune here, and richer shoots appear there. If you cut sins, new sins will sprout. Catch the root! What is the root? Deeds are leaves; the sense of “doer” is the root. If you cut the doer-sense, the tree begins to wither immediately. The source of nourishment was your sense: “I am doing.” The art of breaking the doer-sense is witnessing. Witnessing means listening.

That is why Nanak sings such an unparalleled glory. He says: sit quietly and listen. Because in listening you do not remain a doer. Listening is passive, non-doing. Listening demands nothing from you; you simply sit. Listening is not an action. You don’t have to do anything.

It’s a delightful fact—if you want to see, at least you must open your eyes; but the ears are already open. For seeing, some act is needed—opening the eyes. For listening, not even that—the ears are open. In seeing, a bit of the doer creeps in; in listening there is no possibility for the doer. Another speaks; you sit empty. Absolutely inactive. Passive. In non-action. Therefore, even the glory that seeing gives is not what listening gives.

Hence the emphasis on listening. Mahavira says: right listening. Buddha says: right listening. Nanak describes its wondrous glory. Listen; there the doer is not. In the moment of listening, who is within? Silence. A sound arises and passes. No one is inside. When thought comes, you come. When there is no thought, you are not. Ego is the sum of thoughts. Listening is the egoless state.

Nanak says, “By listening, the device of yoga and the secrets of the body are known.”

This is a very significant aphorism.

Suniai jog jugat tan bhed. Suniai shasat simriti ved. Nanak bhagta sada vigaas. Suniai dukh paap ka naas.

In the West, anatomists have been puzzled: how did the seers of the East know the body’s secrets? For in the East, the dead were not preserved. In the West, surgery developed and knowledge of the body became possible because Christianity preserves the corpse. Hindus burn. Here it is impossible to get a dead body for dissection. Ashes remain—what will you study there? As soon as a person dies, we cremate him. So Hindus kept burning the dead, never preserving. In the West, it became possible to dig up bodies from graves and examine them; through that, the body was known.

How was it known in the East? And even now in the West, with so many scientific tools still the knowledge is incomplete; whereas here the knowledge was almost exact—like mathematics. There were no instruments, no bodies available, no scientific development, no technology—how did this happen? Much debate has gone on about it. The answer is in Nanak’s aphorism.

“By listening, the device of yoga and the secrets of the body are known.”

When you sit empty and settle within, your own body begins to be seen from the inside. Until now you have seen your body only from the outside; so you see only the skin. When you see from within you see the vast network of subtle channels. A unique experience happens when, for the first time, the body is seen from within. Until now you have been like someone who has only circled his house and never gone inside; he sees the outer plaster—and that is his whole experience.

When you go in, like a man seated inside a royal palace sees its inner adornment, its inner decoration—so too when you sit quietly within yourself, when the mind does not create entanglement… For mind always takes you out. Start moving with mind—you go outward. What will you think? Whatever you think will be outside—wealth, woman, house, car, reputation, position—whatever you think will be outside. All objects of thought are external. What will you think of? Only that. The moment you become thoughtless, going outward stops. Energy turns within. You sit upon your throne, and for the first time your body begins to be seen from within. Then you will find this body is not small, though it appears small.

Hence the Hindu saying: within this egg is the whole cosmos. In this little body—in miniature—the entire universe is hidden. This small body is like a tiny model of the whole cosmos. Whatever exists in existence exists in this body—on a small scale, a model. Like a model of the Taj Mahal—everything like the Taj, but in small form. So is each living being a small form of the whole existence.

Nanak says: one who becomes quiet, who becomes silent, who has learned the art of listening, and who begins to listen to his own body from within—he comes to know the body’s secrets, the device of yoga, everything.

Whatever Patanjali wrote in the Yoga Sutras was not the result of examining others’ bodies; it came from experience within his own body. And to this day those words are a hundred percent accurate—no difference at all. Whatever methods yoga discovered were discovered by experiencing one’s own body.

If you sit silently—let me give you a few examples— as soon as you sit quietly you will find that your breathing rhythm changes instantly. When thoughts stop, breath changes. When thoughts run, breath changes. When you sit quietly and recognize the change—what kind of rhythm breath has now—then whenever you wish to be quiet, assume that same rhythm of breath and you will instantly become quiet. You have discovered a secret; a key is in your hand.

When you are utterly quiet, observe the state of your spine. You will find that if you are healthy—not old, not ill—as soon as you become quiet the spine naturally makes a ninety-degree angle with the ground. A key is in your hand. Whenever you wish to become quiet, make your spine vertical. In this way a yogi slowly experiences what is happening within.

As you sit quietly, you will notice: the more silent you become, the more a certain energy begins to rise up your spine. You will see it directly, experience it. A warm current runs through your spine. Waves like electricity begin to arise in your spine, which you had never known. And as those waves rise, you will feel more and more elated. As they climb higher, your sadness, your melancholy lessen and the sense of bliss increases. As the height of their ascent grows, you will feel the pettiness of life is left far behind in the valley; you have climbed a mountain. The smoke of the village, the buzz of people’s chatter, the turmoil—all left behind. You have gone far away.

That is why we call the backbone meru-danda—the pillar of Meru. Meru is the mythic mountain in heaven. When a person reaches the very peak of this little meru-danda, it is the same height as Meru in heaven. There is no difference. And that last summit—where Hindus keep a shikha, the seventh gate, the place where energy meets the infinite—when waves of energy begin to radiate from there, brahmacharya arises. Then you will not have to do anything for celibacy. And whenever lust seizes you, there will be no need to suppress it; just straighten your spine and let the energies rise upward; the very energy that flowed as lust becomes brahmacharya. It is the same energy. If it flows out the first gate, it goes into nature; if it flows out the seventh, it goes into the divine.

The one who learns the art of sitting silently will receive a thousand experiences from his own body. From your own body you can know the whole science of yoga. There is no need to read Patanjali. In truth, only later is there any need to read Patanjali’s scriptures. They will reassure you that all is going well. When you begin the inner experiment, the only use of scripture is that many times you will be afraid: “I don’t know what is happening. I am going into the unknown—what will be, what won’t be?” Fear will seize you. Scripture reassures you that you are not going into the unknown; whoever has gone, has gone by this very path. Whoever attained did so thus. These events occurred to them; further these events are possible; do not be afraid, be assured. Scripture is the testimony of the wise. But real knowing does not come from scripture; real knowing comes by becoming quiet within.

Therefore Nanak says: the shastras, the smritis, and the Vedas are known by listening.

Nanak says, “By listening the devotees are ever in blossoming joy; sorrow and sin are destroyed. By listening, truth, contentment, and wisdom are attained. By listening, one gains the bath of the sixty-eight sacred places. By listening, honor accrues from study. By listening, effortless meditation happens. Nanak says: by listening the devotees are joyous, and sorrow and sin are destroyed.”

Suniai sat santokh giyaan. Suniai athsath ka isnaan. Suniai padh padh paaveh maan. Suniai laagai sahaj dhyaan. Nanak bhagta sada vigaas. Suniai dukh paap ka naas.

Hindus have counted sixty-eight tirthas where bathing grants liberation. But those sixty-eight tirthas are like the sacred sites on a map. Within the body are sixty-eight points; passing through them, one attains merit.

Hindus did something wondrous—no other people did such a thing. Outwardly they created symbols; and when we got lost in symbols, the Hindu’s whole life-consciousness was lost. We say we are carrying Ganga water to offer at Rameshwaram. Within the body are points: from one point energy is to be drawn, and to another point it is to be offered. Draw from here and pour there—that is pilgrimage. But now we haul water from the Ganges to Rameshwaram. We made the whole earth into a map—man’s spread-out form. Inside man everything is very subtle. To explain that, these symbols were devised. When we took the symbols to be truth itself, we missed. A symbol is never truth; it is only a pointer.

Nanak says: “By listening, truth dawns, contentment dawns, wisdom is attained. By listening, you bathe in the sixty-eight sacred places.”

If you become silent, the inner tirthas begin to appear. If you become silent, you don’t have to “think” what truth is—you see what truth is. As long as you are thinking, there is no truth; there are only views, concepts, opinions—not truth. Truth is experience. When you see, why think?

“Contentment is attained.”

As long as you travel with thought, you will be discontent. Thought suggests a thousand things: do this, do that, do that. Doing and doing, you are discontent. Thought goes on prompting. It breeds new desires. Contentment happens only when you drop the company of thought. The friendship of thinking is dangerous. That friendship led you astray. If there is any “bad company” in the world, it is thought. If you are to leave anyone’s company, leave thought’s. Use it—but don’t keep its company. Used, it is very auspicious. If you follow it, all is chaos. Thought is like alcohol—follow it and it will lead you astray. Then you will be left with no answer to what to do or not do.

Mulla Nasruddin drank too much one night. He lost the courage to go home. Whoever drinks too much loses the courage to face home; there will be questions and he can think of no answers. His legs totter. He wandered here and there. At midnight a constable caught him: “What are you doing? Answer!” He stood completely silent. “Answer quickly or I’ll take you to the station!” Mulla said, “If I could answer, I would have gone home in the evening! It’s answers I lack.”

Thought is an intoxication; it has no answer. If it had an answer you would have reached home long ago. Why are you wandering the roads at midnight? There is no answer to explain your life. Thought has none. The answer lies in thoughtlessness.

Hence Nanak says: truth and contentment—by listening. The sixty-eight sacred baths—by listening. And by listening, meditation happens effortlessly.

If you truly listen, meditation has happened. Without meditation, you cannot truly listen. What is meditation? The state where there is no mind. Where there is no inner dialogue—that state is meditation.

“By listening, you reach the depths of noble qualities. By listening, one becomes sheikh, pir, and king. By listening, the blind find the way. By listening, the unfathomable comes into your hands. Nanak says: by listening the devotees are ever in blossoming joy; sorrow and sin are destroyed.”

Suniai sara guna ke gaah. Suniai shekh peer pātishāh. Suniai andhe pāveh rāh. Suniai haath hovai asgaah. Nanak bhagta sada vigaas. Suniai dukh paap ka naas.

By listening, the blind find the way. By listening, a beggar becomes a king. By listening, that which had no fathom, whose depth could not be found, is fathomed.

Thought is a tiny spoon with which you are trying to measure the ocean. Listening is to enter the ocean. Depth is found only when you dive. You don’t find it by dipping spoons.

Aristotle, a great thinker, was walking along the seashore, lost in thought. He saw a man who had dug a small pit and was transferring seawater into it with a spoon. Curiosity arose: “What are you doing?” The man said, “Isn’t it obvious? If you have eyes, you should see! I intend to empty the sea—by filling it into this pit.”

Aristotle laughed: “Are you mad? Are you in your senses? Where has a sea ever been measured with spoons? Where has a sea ever been filled into a pit? Why are you wasting your life?” The man burst into laughter and said, “I thought you were the madman! You are trying to fill an even greater sea into the spoon of thought.” They say Aristotle tried to find that man again—but he vanished.

He had spoken the truth. How small is thought! How vast existence! How will you haul this immensity with thought? What will you do? Your head is so small; the universe so vast. Your hands are so small; your reach so short. The vast is vast. You are engaged in a futile effort. Perhaps that man might empty the sea into his pit—because if a spoon can remove even a spoonful, the sea is diminished; it has a limit. But you will never grasp the infinite with thought.

So Nanak says: as soon as you become silent, the beggar becomes a king. The unfathomable is fathomed. The unknown becomes a friend. By listening, the blind find the path. By listening, the unfathomable comes into your hand. Nanak says: by listening the devotees are ever in blossoming joy; sorrow and sin are destroyed.

Enough for today.