Oru pollāppum illai. There is not one wrong thing. The Tamil pollāppu means something closer to harm or calamity than to any abstract "evil" — a real wound, a real disaster — and of the whole of it Yogaswami says: not one. This is not someone insisting the wound isn't real while you're still bleeding. It denies nothing. It says nothing is out of place. Wrong is a word that only means anything against a should — this should have been otherwise, this is a deviation, a mistake in the order of things. To say not one wrong thing is to say there is no deviation anywhere, nothing the universe got wrong on its way to this exact moment. It isn't the absence of darkness. It's the wholeness of everything, the darkness folded in.
Hold it beside another of his four sayings and it cracks open: it was all finished long ago. If it is already complete — already accomplished, already whole — then of course nothing is wrong. Wrong is what we say about something unfinished, something broken we wanted fixed. But Yogaswami is standing inside the completion. From there, the wrongness you feel is not in the thing. It's in the recoil — the part of you that wanted it otherwise. Go looking for the wrong. You won't find it in the event. You'll find it in the refusal.
And here is the part people miss: it is not permission. Yogaswami was ferocious about right conduct. He corrected, he demanded, he wept over suffering, he tended the sick with his own hands. He was not a man who shrugged. The saying is not "do as you like, nothing matters" — it's the secret root underneath the work, never a substitute for it. You set right what your hands can reach, fully, fiercely, and underneath, the heart rests in knowing the Self was never actually wounded, that no real harm has touched what you are. Two visions held at once: the hands at war with what is wrong, the heart certain there is not one wrong thing.
Because in Shaiva seeing, even the concealment is His. Of Śiva's five acts, one is tirobhāva — the veiling, the deliberate hiding, the darkness drawn on purpose. The wrongness you meet is not an accident that slipped past God. It is grace wearing a mask, the same hand that reveals now choosing to conceal, so that the soul ripens. What looks like the thing gone wrong is the thing doing exactly what it came to do.
So in the end it isn't something to believe. It's something to turn toward in the precise instant the mind says this shouldn't be happening. That contraction — that grip of wrong — is the suffering laid on top of the suffering. The pain may stay. The war on the pain can end. You breathe, and where there was "this is wrong" there is only this too is His hand, and the whole field settles back into place. Nothing missing. Nothing misplaced. Not one wrong thing.