Piv Piv Lagi Pyas #5

Nanak has said: ‘Ek Omkar Satnam.’
There is only one name of Truth; it is Omkar. In Omkar the whole search of India is contained. In this one small word the very nectar of India’s exploration through endless ages is condensed. Whoever has understood this one word has understood all. Whoever has missed this one word may understand many other things, but that understanding has no value. Therefore, try to understand this one word very attentively.
First, a few preliminaries.
The first thing: it is not quite right to call Omkar a word; it is a compulsion. One has to call it something, so we call it a word; but Omkar is not a word as other words are. All words have meanings; Omkar has no meaning. Omkar is beyond meaning. In a word there is meaning; in Omkar there is none. Omkar is pure sound. Yet even to call it sound is a compulsion. One has to say something, so we say it.
There are many sounds in the world, but all those sounds are produced by the impact of two things. The technical term is: ahata nada, struck sound. Clap two hands, a clap is produced. Strike two stones, a sound arises. Omkar is anahata nada: an unstruck sound. It does not arise from the collision of two things. It is the clap of one hand. We cannot call it a word, because it is beyond meaning; a word must carry a meaning. We cannot call it sound, because all sounds are born of impact. Omkar is anahata; it does not arise by any striking.
Thirdly, the Omkar that you recite, the Omkar you repeat mechanically, the Omkar you chant—Nanak or Dadu are not speaking of that Omkar. Because whatever you repeat will be ahata nada, the collision in your throat. Omkar cannot be chanted by you. Prepare yourself for the japa of Omkar and one day the japa descends; but Omkar itself cannot be called japa.
The wise have called it ajapa: that which cannot be chanted. You can chant—Omkar, Omkar, Omkar—but that is only the striking within your throat. That is the Omkar born out of you, your offspring. And the Omkar under discussion is that Omkar of which we all are the offspring. You cannot become the father of your father. When you chant Omkar you are trying to give birth to the father; you are attempting to become the father of the father.
No—the seeker cannot chant Omkar; by chanting he only creates within himself the right arrangement in which the ajapa can descend. All sadhanas are only invitations; preparations to ready you, so that in your readiness that connection, that tuning settles where the anahata begins to resound.
Omkar is not chanted; Omkar is heard. Omkar is not chanted; Omkar happens. When Omkar descends, you do not remain; only Omkar remains. Omkar is the great death; therefore it is the great mantra. All other mantras are mantras; Omkar is the maha-mantra.
It is a great wonder that three great religions were born in India—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist. There are great differences among them, deep clashes of doctrine. Their positions are so distinct that no reconciliation is really possible. Try a thousand ways; among these three reconciliation does not stand. They are the three angles of a triangle; you cannot bring them close. Yet they all agree upon one thing: Omkar. Buddhists, Jains, Hindus all agree on this unique word. On this there is no dispute, absolute consensus.
So it seems even God is secondary; one may debate whether God is or is not. Atman too is secondary; one can discuss whether there is Atman or not. The Jains do not accept God. The Buddhists do not even accept Atman. But all three accept Omkar. Omkar appears greater even than Atman and Paramatman; only it stands undisputed.
And this is not only true regarding India’s religions. The religions born outside India also, unknowingly, accept Omkar. There is a small error in their interpretation. The error has a reason.
When the sound of Omkar is heard, if you are not perfectly alert, if you have not completely disappeared, if some shadow of mind remains hidden in some corner, you will not grasp the pure sound. Your mind will distort it somewhat.
All the Indian religions have attempted to dissolve the mind. Therefore, when mind dissolves, the pure sound of Omkar is heard. The religions born outside—Jewish, Islamic, Christian—have not tried to annihilate mind but to purify it. Even purified, mind persists; it does not vanish completely. It becomes completely pure, transparent, like air; you cannot touch it, you hardly feel it, but it is there.
When mind is not, Omkar is caught directly. When mind is—even a pure mind—the form shifts a little. Mind brings a slight fuss, a slight distortion. Hence the word with which Muslims, Jews, and Christians end their prayers—Ameen or Amen—is a form of Om. And they too have no definitive answer to what Ameen means. It is a form of Om—Om, Omen, Ameen.
In English there are three words—omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient. Linguists are puzzled; they cannot trace the root of ‘omni’. Where do these words come from? They are unique. Omniscient means: one who has seen all. But whence ‘omni’? It is a form of Om. He who has seen Om has seen all.
Omnipresent means: present everywhere. But where does ‘omni’ come from? It is a form of Om. Omnipresent means: one who has become one with Om, he becomes present everywhere. You are in one place. The day you become one with Om, you are everywhere. There will be no place in existence where you are not. You become one with existence itself.
Omnipotent means: one who has all power. But its meaning simply is: one who has the power of Om. He who has attained Om has attained all. He who is one with Om has become all. He who has drowned in Om has become all-powerful.
This Om is a most extraordinary word!
Whatever India has discovered in the inner world is contained in this one little formula. As Einstein’s entire discovery of relativity condenses into one small equation, so too in the small formula of Om, in the little principle of Om, India’s entire inner search is contained. In the outer search much still remains. Therefore Einstein will soon be out of date; another will take his place—indeed already has. But beyond Om nothing remains to be explored within. That journey is complete. There we have reached the destination. Therefore Om can never be displaced. It remains on the throne. You may wander far from it; you may forget it. But you cannot dethrone it. Whenever you return home you will find Om seated upon the throne.
Now, a few more things regarding Om.
Science says the whole universe is made of electrical waves—stone as well, gold as well. All existence, all objects, all matter—matter is not matter but condensed electrical waves.
We have known something else. Here in the East, by entering within, we have known that the whole universe is a condensation of sound—of nada—and that electricity is a form of sound. Scientists say sound is a form of electricity, and the universe is a mesh of electrical waves. We say the universe is a net of sound, and electricity too is a form of sound. You have heard stories that Tansen lit lamps with the raga Deepak. It is possible. The impact of sound can produce fire. It is possible. Many experiments are ongoing.
And this cannot be dismissed, for electricity is produced by impact. Water falls from a mountain; by its blow electricity is generated. Strike two flints; fire is born. Rub your hands; they grow warm. Friction produces heat, produces electricity.
By the friction of two sounds electricity can also be produced; but it is a very subtle art. Perhaps the science was forgotten; we no longer remember how to collide two sounds. But if someone—Tansen or anyone—once learned to strike two sounds together, lamps can be lit. If fire can be produced by the collision of two stones, why not by two sounds? Collision generates warmth, heat.
Even science has gradually softened now; its old stubbornness, its old pride, has waned. The rope is burnt, yet the twists still remain; exactly such a pride remains in science.
Thousands of experiments across the earth are uprooting science at its very roots. Many experiments have been made on sound.
In England there is a well-known laboratory—Delabar. There they experimented greatly. Under the influence of particular music, trees bear fruit out of season. Under certain music trees grow at double speed. Under certain music the child in the mother’s womb begins to develop with great rapidity. A plant that normally takes a year to grow, in two months reaches the same height with music.
Plants listen.
In Canada a small experiment was done. Ravi Shankar played sitar there for fifteen days. Seeds were sown on both sides of the hall. The plants that grew all leaned toward Ravi Shankar—from both sides—as a deaf man tilts his ear. They all sprouted bent. Not one plant was indifferent to listening. Outside the building, seeds were sown on the same day as inside; those grew straight. What happened? The inside plants were eager to hear. And those outside grew only half as much. In fifteen days the inside plants doubled. They had another grandeur.
There is nourishment in sound, life in it. It is hard to find a person who is not stirred by music: whose feet do not begin to tap, whose hands do not keep the beat, in whom no melody begins to play.
And now scientists say even metals—plants, all right—but metals too are influenced by music. If music is played to a metal, it is difficult for rust to gather on it. There is much possibility that the Ashoka pillar standing in Delhi—which scientists have not understood: why it does not rust despite centuries of sun and rain—has been prepared in deep music, amidst powerful mantra chanting. The mantras have preserved it still; they continue to protect it.
There are the pyramids of Egypt. They are built of stones so heavy that our most advanced cranes cannot lift them. And four or five thousand years ago, how could those stones have been transported? And where the pyramids stand there is no nearby quarry; the quarries are hundreds of miles away. The pyramids stand in the desert—so the stones were brought from hundreds of miles. Cranes then? There is no evidence of even one crane or machine. Bare-handed men hauled them—this is impossible. How could it be? But the science of sound says: in a state of particular sound, objects become weightless.
Perhaps you’ve noticed: when you dance, when you rejoice, when song resounds in your heart, you feel no burden; you become light. When the feet are stuck, dance does not arise; when the heart is closed, no song bursts forth, no call to dance comes from anywhere—then you find yourself heavy as stone.
Notice ordinary laborers even today: when they lift a great stone they raise a great hullabaloo. In that hullabaloo there is a rhythm—haiyya-he! If this sound is repeated, the laborers lift even the heaviest stone.
Watch oarsmen crossing a river in flood; they call out: haiyya-he! When the river resists fiercely and man’s strength begins to fail, the call to tone is invoked; the tone rescues instantly. A great energy surges within.
Energy is hidden in swara—tone. Omkar means: the primal tone from which all tones arose; the original source. Today our connection with it is broken; we have forgotten those summits that were once touched.
We think the world is becoming civilized for the first time. Illusion. The world has become civilized many times, has attained lofty heights many times, and again lost them.
Now prayer is mere word; worship a formality.
I was a guest in a home. The only son had not risen even late in the morning. The mother was saying, “Get up, my son, you were born in the land of rishis and munis; one should rise at brahmamuhurta.” The son, turning in bed, said, “Mother, you don’t know: Rishi Kapoor never gets up before nine; and Dada Muni Ashok Kumar sleeps till noon.”
Rishis and munis are gone; Rishi Kapoor and Ashok Kumar remain!
Prayer has become a bare word. Worship a pretense. Japa seems meaningless. People do not even know how to take the name of God; how to take it, when to take it.
I asked a friend’s boy: “Does your father ever pray?” He said, “Just yesterday he prayed.” I was surprised; to link prayer with his father would be the last thing to expect. I asked, “Tell me, what did he pray?” He said, “In the evening at dinner he prayed: ‘O God! Again the same mung khichri?’”
Prayer has become just that! Prayer is a complaint.
A friend came to see me yesterday evening. He said he is angry with God. He used to pray, worship, meditate—and a child was not born; thus he is angry! “O God! Again mung khichri!” So now he will not pray, will not worship—he is angry.
What kind of prayer is this? What kind of worship is this? Is it a deal? Were you bestowing some favor upon God? He said, “I never asked for anything; I did so much worship and prayer, yet a child was not born.”
If you did not ask, why does the question arise that the child did not come? Asking must have been there. Your worship is false; it is nothing more than a bribe. You are trying to cajole God, so that he fulfills the desire hidden in you. You want to turn God into the servant of your craving.
The devotee says: ‘Mhaane chaakar raakho ji!’ When Meera prays she says, “Giridhar! Make me your servant!” You are attempting to make God your servant. There the error begins. If anything is asked, prayer is lost. If anything is desired, worship is corrupted, becomes ugly. And Omkar descends only when you are pure as a temple, immaculate; when you become virginal like a small child.
Just last year…
In Israel there is a very unusual man, his name is Uri Geller. Without touching objects, merely by gesture he bends and twists them. Put a knife before him; with a mere hand gesture the knife bends into a circle. Give him strong rods; from ten or twenty feet away he can bow them with a gesture—rods you cannot bend with all your strength.
Last year a singular event occurred. On BBC television in England he demonstrated his experiment, and out of curiosity—out of the possibility of an extraordinary event—while demonstrating on TV he said: those watching TV, try the experiment at home along with me; who knows, among the hundreds of thousands watching, some may have such a capacity they themselves do not know. Thousands tried. The next day’s report said fifteen hundred succeeded—people who, while watching TV with Uri Geller, commanded things to bend, and they bent. The great surprise was that all fifteen hundred were children. None was above fourteen, none below seven. All were between seven and fourteen.
Between seven and fourteen there is virginity. The energy of semen is in its complete purity. There is power, and a certain innocence. Where power and innocence meet, there the ultimate event happens.
Uri Geller himself could not believe it—why only between seven and fourteen?
After fourteen, life is enfolded by desire, by kama. The mind is no longer clean. Lust enters the temple of worship. Before seven, the mind is pure, but energy is not yet there.
So seven to fourteen is the most important span of life, and that is the span being wasted around the whole world. In this country we used to make great use of those years. As soon as a child reached seven we sent him to the gurukul; he went to the forest. We would not call him back before twenty-one. Seven years before fourteen we sent him, and seven years after fourteen we kept him there, so that the sanctity he experienced could deepen, stabilize. Then, when he returned to the world, the world could not touch him. He would pass through the world yet remain untouched. He would marry too, but his brahmacharya would not be broken. He would have children, but kama would never distort him. All that would be duty—he would do it because it is to be done. But his bed would always be tied, ready for the moment when all this finishes and he returns. Because the taste he had in those few powerful moments would call him, its call would be heard day and night—he sleeps, wakes, works in the shop, raises children, but that call keeps pulling; once a taste of Paramatman is had, everything changes.
You worship without taste; you pray without taste. And you pray and worship in order to get something. No, you will never know Omkar that way. If Omkar is to be known, all craving must be dropped; the very asking must be dropped; one has to become empty.
Dadu is speaking about this maha-mantra. Let us try to understand.
Sabdai bandhya sab rahai, sabdai sab hi jay.
Sabdai hi sab upjai, sabdai sabai samay.
By shabda is meant Omkar—the Word of words, Omkar.
Sabdai bandhya sab rahai…
If the tune of Omkar resounds within you, an inner unity will arise; you will be bound together. You will not disintegrate, not fall into fragments; you will remain integral. As a thread strung through a mala binds its beads, so if the sound of Omkar begins to be heard, all the beads of your life will be threaded, one mala will form. Right now you are only a heap of beads, not a mala—because there is no thread running through all your acts, feelings, thoughts; nothing binding them into one.
Psychologists say a man is a crowd. They are right. You are a crowd; within you are many people—a bazaar. The one has not yet been born in you, because for the birth of the One you must become one; you must gather up the crowd; you must join all the fragments into a whole.
Omkar is the cement; it joins fragment to fragment and gives birth to the indivisible. And the day you become whole, what anxiety, what tension? All stress, all worry, all restlessness are because of the crowd. One part pulls west, another east. One wants to go to hell, another to heaven. One wants to worship, another thinks of a prostitute. You cannot do anything wholly. Even what you do is half-baked. You sit to pray, but the mind is not there; only a small part hums along. It is like listening to a radio whose battery has gone flat; you can barely hear something. Such is your prayer—full energy does not flow. The energy is going elsewhere.
Even if you reach heaven, you will not arrive whole. A piece or two may reach; the rest will lie in hell—and the distance between the two becomes your tension. Tension means: the distance between your fragments is vast, the pull is great. One hand is being dragged here, the other there. This is your restlessness.
There is only one peace in the world—when you become one.
Dadu says:
Sabdai bandhya sab rahai, sabdai sab hi jay.
Sabdai hi sab upjai, sabdai sabai samay.
By that alone there is binding; by that you become one. It joins not only you; the whole existence is joined by Omkar.
When you become perfect shunya, even then you will hear the tone. It will be the music of emptiness; that is Omkar. The music of shunya is Omkar.
Have you ever listened to the silence of night? Even silence has a music. When there is no sound at all, still a sound remains. When all noises die, in that silence a tone abides. In the same way, when all the inner crowd and clamor vanish, a tone will be heard within—that is Omkar: the music of shunya.
And not only you are bound by it; the whole existence is held by it. That is the foundation. Without it, all would scatter.
Sabdai bandhya sab rahai, sabdai sab hi jay.
If that shabda is lost from you, you fall into a scattered state. Your form becomes distorted; your beauty becomes ugly; the flute no longer sings in your throat; the radiance leaves your eyes; the stream of your life breaks at many places, as in the summer when rivers break into pools—here a puddle of water, then sand; again a puddle, again sand.
He who is connected with Omkar is like a river in flood, indivisible. From source to sea—from Gangotri to Ganga Sagar—one flow.
Sabdai hi sab upjai…
From this Omkar all is born, and into this Omkar all must dissolve. For in our understanding—in the vision of the inner explorers—the sound of Omkar is the essential element of this universe. From the concentrations, the stratifications of Omkar, all forms arise; and layer upon layer of Omkar’s vibration produces the multiplicity of forms.
There is nothing astonishing in this. Science says all things arise out of electricity. What difference if they arise from electricity or from sound? Both are intelligible. Why the difference? Because science searches from the outside. What appears as electricity from without appears as sound from within.
One person is one who looks at the house from outside; another is a guest who enters within—this is the difference between science and religion. Science stays without and knows the periphery. Religion enters the inner house and knows from within.
Between the two lies the world of art—the poet, the painter, the sculptor. The sculptor is between both, the painter between both, the poet between both. The poet generally remains outside; but sometimes, as a thief, he slips within. Art is a kind of thievery. Sometimes at night the thief enters your home. He is not a guest; he has no invitation; he did not enter through the front door. He comes when the host sleeps; if the host is awake he will not enter.
Science moves outside; the poet sometimes sneaks in. Therefore in poetry occasionally the resonance of religion is heard; occasionally in verse a slight illumination of the ultimate is glimpsed. And often it happens that reading a poet, you imagine how beautiful, majestic, divine this person must be.
But do not make the mistake of going to meet him, otherwise you will find him in a hotel sipping tea, or lighting a bidi. You will be surprised, disheartened—such heights in poetry, and the poet fallen here! He will seem utterly ordinary. It is not his fault; ordinarily he remains outside. Now and then, in the mix of dark and light, when time permits, he slips in like a thief and carries back a little news—just as a thief brings back a little news from within a house. But in darkness one cannot see much; trembling, frightened in another’s house, how much can he see? He brings a little report.
Religion enters within as a guest—invited, prepared. The seeker prepares, makes himself worthy, a vessel. He waits at the door until he is called. He does not even knock—for when I am worthy of the Master, I will be called; he waits. What he then sees is of another order. That one is rishi.
We call the poets of the Upanishads rishi. Among a thousand poets, only rarely is a poet a rishi. Rishi means: what he has known is not only known, it is his life. Poet means: what he has known is one thing, his life another. Do not go searching in a poet’s life. Read his poetry, and if you can gain something from it, gain it—but do not go searching for the poet, otherwise you will be disappointed.
If you find in the poet himself the very poetry you read, then he is a rishi. Sometimes it happens—a Rabindranath, a Kahlil Gibran—not just poet, rishi too. Then he does not only sing; he lives what he sings. His words are not merely words; within them beats the pulse of his life. He pours himself out; what he knows he knows by living. He has not peeped from a back window as a thief; he has dwelt as a guest in God’s house. And one who has lived there as a guest is transformed forever.
Sabdai bandhya sab rahai, sabdai sab hi jay.
Sabdai hi sab upjai, sabdai sabai samay.
What science sees from without and calls electricity, religion sees from within and calls shabda. Between them is art, which calls it rasa—Raso vai sah. All is made of rasa. But the whole rasa showers from Omkar; and what science knows as electricity is the warmth, the heat of that very Omkar—the throbbing of its life.
Dadu: Sabdai hi sach paiye, sabdai hi santosh.
Sabdai hi sthir bhaya, sabdai hi bhaga sok.
Dadu: Through the Word alone the Truth is found…
There is no other way to attain Truth. Not by thinking, not by philosophizing. You may bang your head against a thousand riddles, pile arguments, weave doctrines, manufacture scriptures—no: Truth is not attained that way. The way to Truth is not philosophy; it is sadhana, yoga, prayer, dhyana, Samadhi.
However much you think, you will be the thinker. Your thinking cannot go beyond you. Your doctrines cannot be greater than you; they will be smaller. Whatever comes into your grasp will be smaller than your fist. If you are to grasp the Divine, another way is needed: you must become equally vast; equally shunya; so empty that even if the Whole comes, there is space—space must be made.
Dadu: Through the Word alone the Truth is found…
Omkar is the making of space. When you are filled with the tone of Omkar, all becomes quiet, all becomes empty; only one resonance remains. As when all visitors have left the temple and only the bell continues to ring. At every temple’s door we have hung a bell. There is a reason. At the door, the bell is hung; every pilgrim rings it before entering. Do not think the bell is like a doorbell to alert the master within—perhaps God is dozing and must be awakened, or engaged in private talk. No. The bell at the door is a symbol: sound is the door to Him; through sound you will reach. The ringing is only a hint that the real doorway is nada. If you are to enter, master sound; become worthy of sound.
Have you seen a classical musician sit with his sitar? People get bored. The music has not yet begun; he is only setting the instrument, tapping and tuning strings; the tablawalla taps at his drums. People wonder: What are you doing? You should have done this at home. Why waste half an hour?
But the instrument must be tuned each moment; otherwise it grows stale. On a stale instrument fresh music will not arise. They could have tuned at home, yes; but in the time of arrival the tuning would go stale. At every moment the instrument must be made fresh. Only on a fresh instrument can fresh music be born. Lest it go even a little stale, the poor musician must tap and tighten right there. There is a secret behind this. When the strings sit right, producing the music is not difficult.
They say anyone can produce music, but only a great master can set the instrument. Tuning is the subtle art; plucking the strings is not so great a thing. Tuning is the work of the adept.
All religion is the tapping and tuning of the veena of your heart. The day the instrument sits rightly, even a child may pluck and music will arise. The essential thing is the instrument’s rightness; the whole of sadhana is for setting the instrument. The repetition of Omkar is recommended—only to set the instrument; it is not yet the music. You are merely hammering the tabla, tightening the strings.
The recitation of Omkar is prescribed. I will also tell you: in the twenty-four hours, take one hour when you do nothing else. Sit empty, close the lips, touch the tongue to the palate, keep the spine straight, and begin the inner tone of Omkar. By inner tone I mean: do not bring the sound out through the lips. Resound it within—but resound it so intensely that it is heard outside as well. Let it not come from the lips; yet let it be heard. Let it arise from every pore. Become a resonance.
A very sweet experience comes. Within, as if amrita begins to drip in a few days. And this is not the real Omkar yet; the imitation Omkar does so much—then what to say of the real. There is no comparison. Just close your eyes, spine straight—straight so that the entire inner emptiness stands upright—and resound Omkar within.
When the breath goes out, make the sound of Om inside—Om… Om. When the breath goes in you will not be able to make sound; a rhythm, a laya will form. Breath goes out—fill it with the sound of Om. Then breath goes in—silence. Then breath goes out—again produce Om so intensely that a passerby can hear; as when a swarm of bees passes, a hum is heard; such a hum will be felt outside. That hum will also make your body healthy, will bind your scattered mind, and within you an incomparable peace will be born, and a certain intoxication will arise.
Sound has its own wine. That is why, listening to music, your head begins to sway like that of a drunk.
I have heard that in the days of Wajid Ali in Lucknow, a great musician came and said to him: I will perform, but on one condition—no one should nod his head. Wajid Ali was mad. He said: Do not worry; whoever nods his head, I will have it cut off. The drum was beaten through the town: whoever nods his head will lose it. If you must nod, do not come.
Where ten thousand would have come to listen, hardly a hundred or a hundred and fifty came—and those who were very confident of themselves: hatha yogis, wrestlers, people sure they could keep their heads steady. The danger was real; the king was mad. If a fly sat on the head and you shook it off, he would not listen to excuses.
People sat like Buddha statues, fully composed. The music began. An hour had not passed when some heads began to nod—helplessly nod. Wajid Ali himself grew anxious. He thought unnecessary killing would occur. These fools came even after the drumbeat; they sit at the front; the musician can see them.
He had men with naked swords standing by. When the performance ended, those nodders were seized. Wajid Ali said to the musician: Speak—shall I have their heads cut? He replied: No; I had another reason. Send all others away; I will spend the night with these. They alone are worthy listeners.
For if music does not produce wine within, are they listeners at all? It was only a test. Now they are in the state of wine; now they are not in control. While they were in control they held steady; once intoxication came they could not hold. Those people said, “We did not nod; our heads nodded of their own accord. We insisted they not move; we tried to stop them many times, but helplessly they went on nodding as if not part of us.”
Watch a drunkard walking; he walks very carefully. No one walks as carefully as a drunk—he knows he is swaying. He is careful; but of what use?
Music has its own wine; none more subtle. All other wines are gross.
If you resound the tone of Omkar within—and remember, this is your tone; the real tone is still unknown—still an intoxication will arise; you will live in a delicious drunkenness. Your walk will be with a certain grace; energy will be more alive; in your eyes a subtle intoxication will hover, as if for the first time a festive hour has arrived.
If you continue producing Om in this way—again and again—some day suddenly you will find that while your note continues, another note is being born within. It is born on the day your instrument is fully tuned and ready—when the sadhana is pleased. Then you will find: one tone is yours, now pale, a carbon copy; and the real tone is arising. Then stop your tone. Become the listener. Until now you were the doer; now become the hearer. Now fix your gaze within. Now hold your very life-breath. For what is happening within is incomparable; without parallel. A stream of immortality will begin to flow; every pore will fill with a unique light; darkness gone, evil days gone; supreme bliss will shower; the moment of union comes near.
Begin Omkar yourself, but do not get carried away; wait for the day when the inner Omkar begins to well up. On that day do not insist on imposing your Omkar. Fall completely silent. Your Om was only an arrangement, to open the path for His Omkar to flow; a channel within your instrument to be carved for His Omkar. Your Om was just preparation, rehearsal; the real play begins when your Om departs and His Om begins—Ek Omkar Satnam!
Dadu: Through the Word alone the Truth is found…
And in that very moment there is union with Truth.
…Through the Word alone contentment.
And contentment is the shadow of that Truth. Before it, though you talk of contentment, your contentment is consolation, not contentment. Do not mistake consolation for contentment; consolation is impotence; contentment is the hour brimming with energy.
You too think you are content. You say, “Whatever is, is fine”—but in the way you say it there is complaint. Look within and you will find: nothing is fine. You are persuading the mind. If you do not say it, sorrow will not leave you; there will be unnecessary disgrace; people will come to know. So you keep a false smile bound around the lake of your sorrow; somehow you hold yourself together saying everything is fine.
Nothing is fine. It cannot be fine. Without Truth nothing has ever been fine. Therefore I do not say: cultivate contentment. I say: cultivate Omkar. By cultivating Omkar, Truth will come.
Contentment is the shadow of Truth; it follows it. One who has met Truth becomes content. Before that how could you be content? And it would be a misfortune if you were. For if you become content then who will seek Truth? The search will end.
Therefore it is God’s great grace that before Truth He does not allow you to be content. If you are content, the journey ends. Religion is not contentment; it is great discontent—a blazing fire of discontent. You will burn in that furnace, and only then can the journey ever complete. You want contentment quickly.
People come to me and say: we want contentment soon. If contentment comes so soon, it is a misfortune. You will remain where you are and not move ahead. So I say to you: in outer matters you may cultivate contentment; in the inner realm do not.
Fine, the house is small—tell yourself it will do; even in a bigger one it does not do. Whatever you get will be small. In truth, the only definition of small is: what you have is small; what the other has is large. Therefore whatever you get becomes small.
So, in outer affairs, let contentment be. But in the inner realm, until Paramatman is attained, do not agree to less. If you settle for less you will miss.
Have you read the story? Nachiketa was sent by his father to the door of Yama. Yama arrived after three days. Yama’s wife urged him to eat and rest first. He said no—first I shall settle the purpose for which I came. How can I rest, how eat? Lest I forget amidst food and rest; first I must meet.
Nachiketa met Yama at the door. Seeing such indomitable inquiry in this young boy, even Yama’s heart melted. He, who should be the most hardened—the god of death—melted. He said: Ask—horses, elephants, wealth, jewels. Nachiketa asked: If these are attained, will there be fulfillment? Yama was in difficulty. He said: Ask for the empire of the whole earth, become a chakravarti. Nachiketa replied: Answer my question: will I be content with that?
Yama could not lie. Where inquiry is intense, even Death does not deceive. He said: No, I cannot say that. There will be no contentment in this. Ask for life for immeasurable time; live as long as you wish.
But Nachiketa persisted: What use even then? One day I will die. Will that give me immortality—length of life? Will I meet the nectar? Will I be content?
Yama said: You are obstinate. No, that too will not give contentment.
Then Nachiketa said: Since you are granting boons with such generous heart, give me the path by which nectar is attained and contentment happens.
Sit like Nachiketa at the door of life until contentment arrives. Whatever life offers—many illusions—say: Fine, thank you; but keep your illusions. My fire I keep, my thirst I keep, my burning I keep, my longing I keep; I will burn, but now I want the rain that is final. What will these little showers do? Again the fire will arise; again I will burn. I want the last rain.
Therefore I say religion is discontent—great, divine discontent. Only one who passes through that discontent attains contentment. But contentment does not come directly; it is not obtained by your effort.
Dadu: Sabdai hi sach paiye, sabdai hi santosh.
Sabdai hi sthir bhaya, sabdai hi bhaga sok.
In the resonance of Omkar is union with Truth, contentment arrives. In the tune of Omkar steadiness comes; the life-breath becomes still; all restlessness, running and scrambling, disappears, and in that very instant—‘through the Word sorrow flees’—all suffering vanishes.
In the eyes of the knowers, restlessness is sorrow. In the eyes of the knowers, to become still is bliss. He who is still is happy; he who runs and rushes is unhappy. You think the opposite. Your logic is: I am unhappy, hence I run. If you see someone sitting, a Buddha beneath the Bodhi tree, you say: he is happy, hence he is sitting.
The matter is reversed. He is sitting, therefore he is happy. You are running, therefore you are unhappy. You too sit and see. You say: How can I sit unless I am happy? Then you will never be happy, for happiness comes by sitting. You say: If I stop running, what will happen? Many joys are yet to be had. Life has given only grief; let me have a little joy; let me run and get something—then I will sit.
Has anyone ever achieved anything by running? Is there any evidence in history—even one? Running we lose; we do not gain. Those who attained did so by sitting. The art of sitting is profound. Just sit. Do not run. Become still. Krishna in the Gita calls it sthita-prajna—one whose wisdom has settled; as in a house where doors and windows are closed, no wind enters, and the lamp burns steady—so the wisdom that is steady.
Sabdai hi sthir bhaya, sabdai hi bhaga sok.
Dadu: Sabdai hi mukta bhaya…
By the Word alone one is liberated.
…Sabdai samajhai pran.
And by the Word alone the secret of life is known.
Sabdai hi sujhai sabai…
By the Word alone the eyes open; insight begins.
…Sabdai surjhai jan.
And by the Word alone all entanglements are resolved.
This ‘Word’ points toward Omkar.
Why do Nanak, Dadu, Kabir say ‘Word’? There is a reason. They say: to say Omkar outright is not appropriate; it is a delicate matter. They indicate it.
Among the Jews is an old custom: do not take the name of God; to speak it too directly is not graceful. In India the custom is that the wife does not utter the husband’s name. It does not befit; it seems a little crude. Too direct. Love is delicate; the wife does not speak the husband’s name. The bhakta does not speak God’s name.
The saints call Him again and again ‘Word’—a hint.
Sabdai hi sujhai sabai, sabdai surjhai jan.
Pahili kiya aap thain, utpatti Omkar.
Dadu says: The first happening arising from the Absolute was Omkar; the first proclamation was Omkar; the first creation was Omkar; the first wave that rose was Omkar.
Remember: the first wave in God is the last wave in you—if you are to enter God. Omkar is God’s first wave—meaning, the Absolute became, the Creator entered creation; a wave arose. If you are to return, you must go by that very route. Omkar will be the final thing in your life. Beyond it is God. Beyond it nothing remains. The day even Omkar becomes silent and only the great emptiness remains, only God remains; that day you are God.
Pahili kiya aap thain, utpatti Omkar.
Omkar thain upajain, panch tatt akara.
And Dadu says: from Omkar arose the five great elements—earth, sky, water, fire, etc. The whole world is formed through different combinations of that shabda.
Dadu: Shabd baan guru saadh ke, door disantar jay.
Jehi lagai so ubarai, suta liye jagay.
Dadu: The Master fits the arrow of the Word upon his bowstring; he stretches it.
And however distant the direction, it does not matter. If the disciple is ready, wherever he may be, the Master’s arrow pierces him.
…Door disantar jay.
For the sound of Omkar has no direction, no distance. If the disciple is open and willing, if the windows of the heart are flung wide, the arrow will strike. At first it will hurt, it will kill—and then it will give life; and such a life that there is no dying again. That arrow is death and resurrection both.
Dadu: Shabd baan guru saadh ke, door disantar jay.
Jehi lagai so ubarai…
Whoever is struck by it is saved.
…Suta liye jagay.
Understand this. Those who are asleep—the arrow wakes them.
There are two possibilities. If the disciple is not willing and the Master shoots, at most he can awaken the sleeping. If the disciple is willing and the Master shoots, then he can be ferried across; the supreme liberation can occur. If the disciple is not willing, he will sleep again. If he is willing, there remains no means to sleep again—this is the meaning of liberation. Liberation means: one is awakened in such a way that sleep is no longer possible, no means of sleeping remains.
Often the Master shoots even when you are unwilling—then he only awakens you. So much he can do from his side: shake you, startle you, awaken you. If you are a little intelligent you will use that startled state. If you are utterly foolish you will roll over and sleep again—and perhaps abuse the Master for spoiling your sleep: mind your own business; let us sleep.
Dadu: Shabd baan guru saadh ke, door disantar jay.
Jehi lagai so ubarai, suta liye jagay.
Shabd sarovar subhar bharaya, harijala nirmal nir.
That lake of the Word is brim-full with the water of God.
…Harijala nirmal nir.
Dadu pive preeti so, tinkai akhil sarir.
Whoever drinks it with love becomes one with the Whole.
The art of drinking that water is love. You can drink it out of your thirst; but then you are using God. You can also drink out of love; then you are surrendering to God.
Understand this a little. You may pray in a way that you want God to serve your purpose; then your need is primary and God secondary. Whoever makes God secondary is an atheist. Or you may pray because praying to God is bliss—because it is your love. You pray not because you want anything to happen, but as one loves.
Have you ever asked why you love? You will say: love for love’s sake; prayer for prayer’s sake; meditation for meditation’s sake.
Dadu says:
Dadu pive preeti so…
He who drinks with love—meaning, not as a means but as an end.
…Tinkai akhil sarir.
He becomes one with the Brahman; all distances fall away; the gaps vanish. He dissolves as a drop in the ocean; the ocean in its fullness enters that drop.
Where to begin? The journey begins with your tone of Omkar. Your tone of Omkar is only preparation. Then, when the real tone rises and your instrument vibrates with it, withdraw your hand. You will be filled with a unique, unseen, unstruck music. You will be filled with nada-brahma. In that fullness there will be a wine.
Omar Khayyam speaks of this very wine, not of the wine of this world. Then you will live intoxicated. Whoever comes near, whoever is touched by your fragrance, will be drenched in that wine and begin to dance.
He who attains that intoxication begins to have the recognition of Truth. In that very ‘unconsciousness’ Truth is found, because that unconsciousness is the greatest awakening. And the one who has found Truth—contentment is its shadow—supreme contentment descends in his life.
Consider Paramatman as the end, not a means. Drink with love, not for a reason. Do not approach with the eye of profit; otherwise you will be deprived. Do not carry the sense of utility there. Whoever goes by utility always reaches the marketplace, never the temple. All roads of utility lead to the bazaar. There, the settlement is of mad lovers. If you are to come to the temple, you must come by way of the crazy lovers.
Dadu pive preeti so, tinkai akhil sarir.
Shabd sarovar subhar bharaya, harijala nirmal nir.
That lake waits for you. The moment you become willing, suddenly you will find the lake before your eyes. The moment the anahata within starts to sound, suddenly you will see that all around is that lake. You will be amazed—how did I miss so long? The fish is thirsty in the ocean!
Kabir says: ‘One wonder have I seen!’ The wonder is that the fish is thirsty in the ocean. That wonder is about you. I see that wonder too. All around is the full lake. You were born in that lake. In every pore of you is the ripple of that lake. You are the lake—and thirsty!
Enough for today.