Tao Upanishad #100

A few words before the sutra.

There is a kind of auspiciousness that is practiced in opposition to the inauspicious. As if one were to cultivate compassion against anger, nonviolence against violence, truth against untruth. Whatever is opposed will remain within you, repressed but present. There is no freedom through opposition. There is no greater foolishness than opposition. For opposition means: I am angry, and if I adopt non-anger as my ideal, then I will paste non-anger upon my behavior from above while pushing anger down within. A time will come when no one else will be able to detect that I am angry. But before myself I shall remain angry. It may even be that not a hint of anger shows in my outer behavior, yet within, in my innermost being, anger will be boiling.

Nothing is erased by repression; repression merely stuffs the mind more densely. Hence one who pursues Brahmacharya against sexuality—within him you will find such a flood of sexuality as you will not find in the most lustful. Your sadhus are as angry as you will not find the ordinary person to be. And the kind of violence that flashes through the eyes of your sadhus, you will not find even in a soldier whose very profession is violence.

Often one sees the reverse. If you watch closely you will find a hunter quite simple and straightforward. He indulges violence as sport; he has not loaded violence with any moral valuation; he is simply enjoying it. Hunters, everyone notices, are very affable people. Go into a prison and look at the criminals—you will catch a childlike glimmer in their eyes. The criminal is not very complicated; he is clean, simple. Perhaps he became a criminal because he is not as cunning as you are. Perhaps he fell into crime because he could not learn the cunningness of a cunning society. The cunning also commit crimes, but their crimes are organized; behind their crimes stands the support of law. The simple man commits a crime and is caught immediately.

Even in the criminal’s eyes you will glimpse a childlike innocence. But you will not see such a glimmer in the sadhus seated in your temples. The sadhu is very complex.

A criminal can be simple—because he has not repressed. He is bad, he is wicked, yet he is simple. The sadhu is virtuous, does no harm to anyone, but he is highly complex and layered. His simplicity is imposed from above. Within, the exact opposite man is hiding. Therefore each of his acts is double. And where there is doubleness, complexity arises. The sadhu is clever. For a straightforward man, being a sadhu is difficult. He will get entangled in a thousand other troubles. He does not have the required cunning; he cannot manage such a vast hypocrisy.

Jesus said again and again to his disciples: unless your morality surpasses that of the so-called good people, do not consider yourselves moral. Unless your understanding goes beyond the pundit’s, do not call it knowledge. And if your rectitude is like that of the hypocrites, it is worth two pennies; you will not enter my Father’s kingdom.

What is the difference in the morality of the hypocrite?

The hypocrite’s morality is superficial; it is mere conduct. Behind it, the inner hand is absent. The inner stands in opposition. So he does something, but he is something else; there is a great gap between being and doing. That is one point.

The second to remember: whoever practices life against himself will commit violence upon himself and upon others. He will force himself, twist and break himself. And one who twists himself cannot leave the other untouched. Hence the so‑called sadhus will inflict a thousand forms of violence upon their disciples. You may not even see that violence, because they will do it in the name of the disciples’ welfare.

Let me give you Gandhi as an example so you can understand—because in this century you will not find a man more gentlemanly than Gandhi. Extremely gentlemanly. But remember the difference between gentleman and saint. His gentlemanliness is very refined, but inside it hides all that he has imposed upon his behavior. If Lao Tzu were to see Gandhi, he would laugh. He did laugh at Confucius, who in his time was a man much like Gandhi.

In the Phoenix Ashram of Africa, Gandhi wanted even Kasturba to clean latrines. There is nothing wrong in the statement itself—this is the charm of the gentleman: his statement appears utterly logical and straight. He would say, if you defecate, why should another throw it away? And so not only one’s own, the days were allotted in the ashram for everyone to throw the latrines. For Kasturba this was difficult. Her whole initiation and conditioning did not agree. She agreed so far as to throw her own. But she would not agree to throw another’s. One night the quarrel grew so much—Gandhi insisting: why do you consider the other as other? You will have to throw latrines—that at two in the morning Gandhi dragged Kasturba out of the ashram. She was pregnant; nine months. In the dark night at two she was pulled and thrown outside the ashram.

Within such gentlemanliness a great violence seems to be hiding. And why impose your conviction upon another? Even if your conviction is good, it is for you. Why should anger arise? Whenever anyone tries to impose his conviction upon another, he is committing a very subtle violence.

You may make a request; you may express your feeling; to accept or not is the other’s freedom—even if that other is the wife. The wife is not your slave. She too has her freedom of lifestyle. If she does not agree with you, why anger? And if anger goes to such an extreme, then it becomes difficult.

But the gentleman always goes to extremes. He can never remain in the middle. He has to go to the extreme, for if he remains in the middle, what has been suppressed within will come out. This is the inner arrangement of the mind: if you want to repress something, you have to be fanatical. If you show even a little generosity, you will not be able to repress yourself. For when you are generous with the other, you will also be generous with yourself.

In such anger it seems that somewhere within even Gandhi does not wish to throw latrines; he forces himself. And this Kasturba is creating nuisance. Gandhi’s anger against Kasturba is anger against his own inner repressed mind. And so he would be more angry with the wife, for the wife is very near. She is like your unconscious; very close to you.

All Gandhi’s children lived in difficulty. One son, Haridas, became Muslim, became alcoholic, a gambler—because of Gandhi. In everything there was extremism. Haridas wanted to study, to be educated. Gandhi was against formal education. He would say, such education corrupts. Just read and write in the ashram, whatever you can.

Even a father has no right to impose his conviction upon the son. But the gentleman father is cruel. The gentleman father does not even see that the son too has desires, longings; that he is free in them. Even if he is wrong, he is free to be wrong.

Then there were restrictions on every small thing. In the ashram food and drink were controlled—no sweets could be brought, no sugar, no tea, no ice cream. Nothing could be done. Children are children. Stealth began. Haridas would go out and secretly eat things. Then the thefts were caught; then punishments began. The conflict thickened. A moment arrived when the son had to totally break with the father. In retaliation he began to drink. In the final retaliation he became Muslim.

When Gandhi heard that Haridas had become Muslim and had taken the name Abdullah Gandhi, he was deeply hurt. When the news reached Haridas that Gandhi was hurt, he laughed a lot. He said, what is the question of hurt? He says Hindus and Muslims are one. I am only following what he says. Why should it hurt? And if it hurts, then he himself does not trust his own statement that Hindu and Muslim are one. If truly they are one, what difference does it make whether one remains Hindu or becomes Muslim!

Gandhi says Hindus and Muslims are one, but Gandhi is a dyed-in-the-wool Hindu. He may deceive others, but he cannot deceive the Muslim. Deep down he is Hindu. He calls the Gita ‘Mother’; he does not call the Quran mother or father. And there is a great cleverness in this: in the Quran he praises only those parts that match the Gita; he cuts out those parts that do not. What kind of praise is that? It is praise of the Gita within the Quran. Where the Quran is opposite to the Gita—that is where the question lies. In the same way, a Muslim can praise the Gita, but only those parts that sound like translations from the Quran; the rest he will leave. A Jain too can then praise it.

This would be a unique experiment. If Jains were asked to collect the essential religion common to all; and Muslims asked; and Hindus; and Buddhists—you would find that what each calls essential would be different. For the Jain believes that truth is with Mahavira. There may be echoes in the Quran, a little here and there—echoes! So far, he will praise the Quran.

But to praise the entire Quran is not within Gandhi’s capacity. The Hindu is inside. The Hindu is repressed. On the surface he says, Allah‑Ishwar Tere Naam, but deep within sits Ram. Therefore when the bullet struck at his death it was not Allah that arose. When the bullet struck, ‘Ram—Hey Ram’ arose. What is repressed deep within is what surfaces at death. In that hour Allah was lost. In that hour neither Buddha nor Mahavira came to mind. At the moment of death one cannot deceive. In the moment of death, what is hidden within manifests. So ‘Ram’ came out.

A man, by repressing himself from above, commits violence upon himself, and in the same proportion commits violence upon those near him. Hence you will find gurus who nearly kill their disciples. Their very job is to annihilate the disciple. And when the disciple becomes utterly fake, almost nil, then they think obedience is fulfilled, initiation is complete.

There is one auspiciousness that we construct by fighting the inauspicious; Lao Tzu does not call this auspicious. There is another auspiciousness which we attain not by fighting the inauspicious, but by establishing a deep harmony with it. We do not make night and day fight. To make them fight is a mistake—no fight is happening there. Night and day are two faces of the same existence. We do not make flowers and thorns fight. To make them fight is an error—the flower and the thorn arise from the same sap of life. We do not make the auspicious and the inauspicious fight; we bind them into a music and a harmony. We bring such an arrangement that the auspicious does not break the inauspicious but redeems it; where the auspicious is not the opposite of the inauspicious but its fulfillment; where darkness and light meet; where the devil and God are no longer opposed.

Lao Tzu says: only when such auspiciousness arises should you know that the original nature has been found. For within nature there can be no conflict. And only then will you come to rest—not before. Then you will neither repress another nor yourself. Then you will have arranged all the notes, dissolved the tensions among them, and bound them into a single rhythm.

A madman speaks the same words that a musician weaves into song. There is no difference in the words; the alphabet is the same. Yet what is the difference between a madman’s speech and a musician’s song? The words are the same; the difference lies in arrangement. The combinations differ.

You speak the same words a poet speaks. What is the difference? You do not seek the music between the words; the poet seeks it. He arranges the words such that the words become secondary and rhythm becomes primary. The words become mere supports to reveal the rhythm. You may forget the words, but the rhythm will go on echoing within you. The greater the musician, the greater his art—the art of establishing harmony between opposites.

To discover the non-opposition within opposition is supreme wisdom. Wherever you see opposition and begin to fight, you will remain incomplete. If in your saintliness only the auspicious remains and you cut out the inauspicious, your saintliness will be dead—or tasteless. It will have no salt. If within your saintliness the inner devil has been included; if your saintliness has not opposed the devil but absorbed him; if your day has drunk your night so that they have become two banks of the same river, with not a trace of opposition—only then will you become whole. Only then will you be total, integral.

The gentleman is incomplete; the wicked man is incomplete. The saint is complete. What does complete mean? That the sting of gentleman and scoundrel is lost; their opposition has dissolved. Gentleman and scoundrel have embraced.

Hence the Hindus made a very deep discovery: we have included everything in God. Christians cannot trust it, Jews do not believe it, Zoroastrians cannot accept it—what kind of Hindu conception of God is this! The Hindu says God has three faces—Trimurti: Vishnu, Brahma, Shiva. Brahma is birth-giver, creative force. Vishnu is the sustainer, who maintains order. Shiva is destruction, the destructive force. And these three faces belong to one. There, destruction and creation have joined. There remains no opposition between good and bad. Everything is included. And then an incomparable height arises.

Think of it as weaving cloth with warp and weft. Warp and weft must be placed in opposition; only then is cloth woven. If you weave warp with warp, no cloth will be made. If you weave weft with weft, no cloth. Both remain incomplete. Combine both; unite the opposition of warp and weft—it is upon that very opposition that the cloth is created.

A mason, to build a doorway, places contrary bricks in opposition. The strength of the door lies in that tension; upon it the building stands.

Your gentleman is a one-sided row of bricks. This house will fall. Your scoundrel too is one-sided; it will fall. One is warp, one is weft; one black, one white. Join both. Do not erect their opposition against one another; turn their opposition into harmony. Only then is a house built that is strong.

A saint is such a house in which both evil and good have dissolved into a single element. From such a saint no harm comes to anyone, because within such a saint no hatred remains, no violence, no anger, no tension. Such a saint does not even want to change you. If you change in his presence, that is your freedom. Such a saint does not pursue you insistently. Such a saint does not want to break you. He is not against you. He does not stand above you condemning, belittling. Even if you are wrong, the wish to send you to hell does not arise in him—because he knows even the wrong becomes useful on the steps to heaven. Because he knows: in this existence nothing is contemptible. Because he knows: everything is usable, and everything participates in the supreme symphony. If any one of these were removed…

Imagine: a child is born without anger. It can be done; the hormones of anger can be removed—just as there are sex hormones. What is the suffering of a eunuch? Why such a deep inferiority in the eunuch?

Within the eunuch there is no warp and weft of man and woman. In an ordinary man a woman is hidden. In an ordinary woman a man is hidden. They are warp and weft. No man is only man, no woman only woman. Everyone is a union of both. It must be so. You are born of the union of mother and father. Half of you is your father’s, half your mother’s. Half your cells are from the father, half from the mother. Half of you is masculine, half feminine. The difference is only this: like two sides of a coin—one faces up, one down. If you are a man, your woman is hidden behind. If you are a woman, your man is hidden behind. Hence scientists say that by altering hormones a woman can be made man, a man woman. It is just a matter of flipping the coin. No great difficulty. In the future this will happen more. Many experiments have been done. Many men have become women, many women men. The ratio will increase. When someone is bored with being a man he may prefer to become a woman; bored with being a woman, to become a man. Freedom will open further. You can experience both in a lifetime.

What is the eunuch’s suffering? He is neither woman nor man. There is no warp and weft within; there is no tension. Power is in tension. There is no opposition whose joining could create music. Hence he is wretched, pitiable. In a sense he does not even exist; he only appears to be. His personality is a deception. The dignity of personality arises from the tension, power and energy created between two opposites.

We could create a child without anger. He will not be able to live. And if he lives he will be very pitiable. A child without anger will have no dignity, no radiance, no shine. He will not have the capacity to resist. He will be without a spine. He will slither like a snake upon the ground; he will not be able to stand like a man. He may crawl, but not walk. To run will be impossible. Without anger, asmita, the sense of ‘I am,’ will not arise. Ego will not be born. And one in whom ego is not born—how will he surrender the ego? What you do not have, how will you drop? In his life there will never be an experience of the Divine.

Understand the difference rightly. A beggar stands on the road; Buddha too stands on the road like a beggar. But do not think they are the same. The difference is qualitative. One has renounced an empire; the other has not attained it. One who has renounced—there will be the aura of a king even in his beggary. One who has known and so has let go—there will be supreme contentment in his renunciation, a light of experience. He has matured; the emperor is left behind. Therefore we do not call him a beggar.

For the beggar we chose another word: bhikshu. Bhikshu and bhikhari are very different. The beggar’s desires live; he would like to be an emperor but cannot. His longing is for richness, but he is unsuccessful. Within him is melancholy, frustration. He may even console his mind that there is nothing in palaces! Many such beggars sit as monks, thinking there is nothing in palaces! But so long as the question ‘what is there in palaces?’ arises, you are consoling yourself; you have not known the palace. It is consolation.

A Jain monk recited his song to me. The listeners were full of praise. The song was good. But I had no use for the tune; what was said was absurd. Neither the monk nor the listeners noticed. The song expressed the feeling of a renunciate: I have no concern with your palaces; your thrones are worth two pennies to me; your gold is like my dust.

I asked, what need to write this in a song? If truly you have no concern with thrones and crowns, why waste time writing a song? If truly gold is like dust, there is no need to say it. No one says: dust is like dust. No, gold is gold to you, and you have some taste for thrones. And the greatest wonder is that you say: I have nothing to do with your palaces. But who is asking you to come to the palaces? To whom are you speaking?

And the greater wonder is that such songs are written by sadhus and renunciates; emperors never write them. The emperor should write: I have nothing to do with your dust; your huts are worth two pennies to me; stay where you are, I have no competition. Emperors do not write thus. Why does the renunciate write? Why does the sadhu write?

No—this is a beggar, not a bhikshu. His longing too is to be in the palace; now he is patching his pride, saying: your palace is worth two pennies. If it is worth two pennies, why write a song upon a two-penny palace? And those around—who are as blind as their leaders—nod their heads: marvelous! Because they too are beggars; they too feel soothed. They too feel: yes, what is there in palaces!

Not because there is nothing in palaces. You know the story of the fox who could not reach the grapes. The grapes were high, her leap small. But the fox’s ego would not admit: I could not reach. When she turned back and the rabbit asked, what happened, aunt? She said, the grapes are sour; not worth eating.

The grapes you cannot reach become sour. In their sourness you save your ego.

The beggar says, the grapes are sour; Buddha knows. That is not consolation; that is experience. Hence there is the majesty of an emperor in Buddha. The beggar is merely wretched. Buddha’s beggary is immensely rich. In Buddha’s bowl an empire is hidden. In the beggar’s bowl there is only emptiness—broken rainbows of desire, withered dreams; melancholy and wretchedness. He is trying to cover his wretchedness.

If you could create a child without anger you would find he has no spine. He will not be able to stand in life. Asmita will not arise. Ego will not form. And one whose ego has not formed cannot surrender it. Real surrender comes only when a deep ego has been there. As a real bhikshu arises only when you have been an emperor.

So my words will seem upside-down to you. I want you first to form your ego, make it strong, powerful. Fight the world; organize your individuality. Let integration, crystallization happen; become a point of a strong ego. Only then is surrender possible. What you do not have—how will you leave it? What you have never attained—how will you dissolve it?

Half of life a man should spend in composing the ego, and half in dissolving it. And when composing and dissolving meet, then in your life harmony arises between the opposites—the birth of music.

No, anger too is necessary; ego too is necessary. So do not suppress, do not cut off. Otherwise you will be crippled. Just as cutting off the hand or eye cripples the body, cutting off anger, sex, greed cripples the soul. Everything is essential.

This does not mean live in anger. It means: within anger, search for how compassion may be born; how compassion may arise from anger; how compassion can include anger; how the energy of anger can dissolve into compassion—become compassion.

Surely Mahavira must have been very angry; otherwise such vast ahimsa could not have been born. The reason is clear. Buddha too must have been full of anger; otherwise from where would such great Mahakaruna arise? And that is why the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are Kshatriyas. For where will you find greater anger than among Kshatriyas? Buddha too is Kshatriya. Not one Tirthankara is a Brahmin or Bania. There is a reason: if ahimsa is to be born, it can only be born from great anger. And you will not find greater anger than among Kshatriyas.

Transform the energy of anger.

A little while ago lightning flashed in the sky, and man only trembled with fear. Now we have harnessed that same lightning in our homes. The same electricity runs your fan. If it is hot it gives coolness; if it is cold, it gives warmth. The same electricity works like a servant for you twenty-four hours. It is the same lightning that frightened the rishis of the Vedas. The same lightning they thought Indra sent in anger. The same lightning that once, when it thundered, made the chest tremble—has become our servant.

Today you cannot even imagine where civilization would be if electricity were lost. Imagine, if electricity suddenly disappeared, you would fall back ten thousand years. Not less. You would be at the beginning of civilization. Today the entire base of civilization and culture is electricity.

Three years ago, in America, due to a mistake in some automatic devices—America is divided into four centers electrically—one center failed and hundreds of cities lost power for three days. And experiences occurred no one had imagined. When electricity went, life went. With no electricity there was no water. People were imprisoned on the fiftieth floors; coming down was difficult. Trains stopped. Everything shut down. For three days, that part of America fell back ten thousand years. Villages looked deserted. Silence everywhere. The bustle, the noise—all gone. Offices closed, shops closed. The experience was as if electricity is now our very life-breath.

Once, electricity was our enemy—lightning like a foe. The rishis prayed: O Indra, be kind! They did yajnas, offered oblations—so that he would not be angry, would not send lightning. That lightning which brought death has become the base of life.

Exactly such a happening takes place within man. The anger that makes your life miserable—that very anger becomes compassion. The sexuality that makes life hell—that very sexuality becomes the supreme experience of Brahmacharya. Keep one thing in mind and Lao Tzu’s sutra will be easy: in life, nothing is useless. If you do not yet know how, do not be in a hurry.

Twenty years ago physiologists used to say that half the human brain is useless; it serves no purpose—because no function was apparent. Many parts of the body the anatomist cuts away just like that; the surgeon removes them as useless—tonsils have no use: take them out at the earliest. A slight problem—remove the tonsils. The appendix has no use: cut and throw it away.

But how can it be that the appendix is there without purpose? Why would existence create it? Where there is such order, where existence moves inch by inch by an immense, subtle law—existence is no anarchy—where such a subtle thing as the human mind has evolved, can something be without cause, without use?

Yes, if existence were accidental, mere coincidence, it could be so.

But science too accepts that existence is not mere coincidence. If it were, there would be no way to construct science. What trust could there be in accident? Science lives on the trust that existence moves by a deep law. The search for that law is the foundation of science. Water boils at one hundred degrees—this is law. If it were mere coincidence, then in Poona it would boil at one hundred degrees, in Bombay it would not. In India it would—because it is a religious land—while in Russia, the atheistic land, it would boil at three hundred. It is not accident. At one hundred degrees it boils; it is law. Trust in law is the foundation of science. And you will find nothing more trusting than science, for its entire trust is that the world is not accident, not coincidence, not an ‘exceedent.’

When the whole existence moves by some deep law, then within man too nothing can be without cause. It may be that we do not yet know. Today or tomorrow the function of the appendix will be known. Today or tomorrow the function of the tonsils will be known.

Half the brain lies inactive. So twenty years ago scientists said it has no function—it is accidental. But now its function has begun to be known. In these twenty years, research on the brain has shown that in all the miraculous things of life, that very part of the brain is active whose use we did not know. When someone reads another’s thoughts, that usually inactive part becomes active. Or, as in Russia, there is a woman, Mikhailova; she can influence objects twenty feet away. Standing twenty feet distant, if she wants to pull an object with her hand, it slides toward her. Many experiments were done in Russia: how does she do it? One thing became clear: when she does it, the part of the brain that ordinarily does not work becomes active.

So it means that all parapsychological phenomena—uncommon, occasional capabilities—are mediated by that part of the brain usually idle. Do not cut it out. In it lie your parapsychological potentials. Today or tomorrow we will find ways to train these capacities and make that part of the brain work.

In some aboriginal tribes that part seems to be active. In Australia there is a small tribe. Scientists were amazed: that part works in them, while the part that works in us does not work in them. But they are a very miraculous tribe, with deep experiences beyond understanding. They have no language, no script. But in the center of their village they plant a tree, used as a temple. Suppose someone’s son has gone to the city to buy things and later the father remembers something he forgot to say—he goes to the tree, stands with eyes closed, and speaks a message to the son: son, I forgot; buy this also.

Research has been going on for ten years. In every instance the message reaches the son. During that time the inner brain—ordinarily inactive—works intensely in that tribe.

In Israel there is a man, Uri. From a distance of ten feet he bends and twists objects with just a hand gesture. A spoon is placed ten feet away; he gestures, and the spoon curls into a circle. He has done thousands of experiments. The greatest marvel occurred last year in London on television. On television he showed ten or fifty objects on the table, bending and twisting them from afar. That was fine. But, coincidentally, another great event occurred: in the homes of those who were watching on television, many things got twisted—thousands. While people watched at home—like a flowerpot on the table suddenly tilted without cause.

In this man the part of the brain that ordinarily does not work is working. The day science understands this properly, it will prove to be our most important brain. Perhaps in this brain lie all the siddhis of Yoga and Patanjali. Perhaps all yogic methods are to activate this brain. Perhaps in the depth of meditation, this brain is the first to awaken—and miracles begin.

I say this so you may understand that in life nothing is without cause. Your anger, your greed, your attachment—none are without cause. They are to be used. Even the inauspicious is to be utilized—then the inauspicious becomes auspicious. And if you fail to use even the auspicious, it will rot and become inauspicious. The entire art of life is this one thing: how to bind all that you have received into a single rhythm.

Now let us understand the sutra.

‘Rule a big country as you would fry a small fish.’

Frying a small fish is an art. You must be very careful. The fish is so small that if you fry it a little too much, it burns; a little less, it remains raw. Lao Tzu says: to govern, to discipline—oneself or others—is a very delicate affair, like frying a small fish. A slight excess and you will err. Be saved from extremes.

There is only one thing to avoid: excess. And the whole tendency of the mind is to run to extremes. Either you overeat or you fast. Either you sit in the restaurant the whole day, or you run off to Uruli Kanchan. You do not stay in between. Either you go mad in indulgence or mad in renunciation. You do not stay in the middle. Like the pendulum of a clock—either left or right; you do not linger in the center.

And Lao Tzu says: to rest in the middle is the delicate art. Never go to extremes. All extremes are wrong—because going to an extreme means you are moving against something.

If there is anger in your mind, the extreme is to vow never to be angry. Now you have become the enemy of anger. That which you have made your enemy—how will you use it? Having taken a quarrel with it, how will you cherish it? How will you make music out of it? You have turned your back. You have sworn to cut off a limb—you will become crippled.

Hence, in the name of religion, some have become blind, some lame, some maimed, some deaf. In the name of religion people are cutting off their faculties; they cannot use them.

Going to extremes you begin opposition. Sexuality exists in life; you take the vow of Brahmacharya. Then you will be in trouble. It is an extreme. And no one can remain long at an extreme. Even the pendulum goes to the extreme only to return. Only in the middle can one remain forever; no one can remain forever at an extreme. Try to keep the pendulum at one end: how will it stay? Yes, in the middle if you stop it, it can rest—eternal rest.

The middle is eternal rest. The extremes are transformation; from there you must move. Pleasure is an extreme; pain is an extreme. Therefore you cannot remain long either in pain or in pleasure. Pleasure will come and go; pain will come and go. But if you rest between the two—the state of resting in the middle we have called peace, contentment. It is neither pleasure nor pain; it is stopping exactly in between. A very delicate art. A little away from the center and trouble begins. Hence the wise say: it is the razor’s edge; on this side is a well, on that a ditch; the path lies in the middle.

Buddha named his path: Majjhim Nikaya—the Middle Way. And all of Lao Tzu’s teaching is the Golden Mean—staying in the middle. He calls it the art of frying a small fish. Move slightly this way or that, and you err. Stay exactly in the middle—then the fish is saved; neither overdone nor underdone.

‘One who governs the world in accord with Tao discovers that inauspicious spirits lose their force. Not that the inauspicious spirits actually lose their power, but they cease to harm people. Not only do they cease to harm people—the sage himself does not harm people.’

Remember this saying. Ordinarily you will think: a saint is one who harms no one. Lao Tzu says: even the sage does not harm people. Which means: even from a sage harm is possible.

If the saint is a gentleman, harm will be done. And the difference between gentleman and saint is very difficult to discern. Frying a small fish is easier; distinguishing saint from gentleman is very hard. Mostly the gentleman will appear a saint, and you will miss the saint—because extremes show; the middle does not. Extremes are exciting; the middle is quiet. The middle is as if it is not. Extremes are noisy; the middle is silence. You often miss the saint; you never miss the gentleman. You make the gentleman a mahatma; the saint does not even come into view.

Understand a little more. The criminal will be visible. One who murders will be visible. The gentleman, who dies to save another, will also be visible. But one who neither murders another nor himself—how will you see him? The saint is not an event; he is not a happening. Hence no newspaper will carry his news. The wicked man’s news is printed; the gentleman’s too. Someone murders—headlines; someone donates to a hospital—headlines. The saint neither kills nor goes to massage lepers’ feet. He remains outside the newspaper. The saint seems to fall outside history.

Where the net of events is, there are extremes. The news of Hitler is printed; of Gandhi too. What news of Lao Tzu can be printed? It is not even certain whether Lao Tzu existed. Saints remain questionable. Even later, people ask: did such a man exist? When he is present, people do not see or recognize him. Later there is doubt, for no line of him remains in history. The wicked too leaves a huge line.

Some days ago in California a man murdered nine people. All of America’s newspapers were filled with the news. In court when asked, why did you do it? He said, life was going by and I had never seen my name in a newspaper. Should one just pass like that? I had no enmity with them. Some of them I do not even know; I shot them in the back, I have no idea of their faces. But I did not want to die unprinted.

Just as one thirsts for water, one thirsts for being printed. The bad man is printed. Hence the newspapers are full of politicians—because you will not find greater scoundrels. The good man’s news too is printed—one donates, builds a temple, a hospital, a school. But for the saint there is no reason to be printed.

The saint is utterly causeless. He is like a line drawn upon water—nothing remains behind. Lao Tzu has said: the saint is like a bird flying in the sky—no trace remains. The bird flies; the sky remains as empty as ever. Later people search: did this man really happen?

Lao Tzu is still doubtful. Historians are not agreed that he existed. And the influence of a saint upon people is so poetic—because the saint is a music, his influence too is poetry—that owing to this poetry he appears like myth, never like history.

Try to understand. Those who loved Lao Tzu wrote that he was born old. Does that happen? Madness! He was eighty years in the womb; when he was born his hair was white as snow—not a single black hair. This is to throw Lao Tzu out of history. But it is poetry, myth, purana. And in the life of one like Lao Tzu there is such inner music that the imprint he leaves is in poetry. His devotees are saying that Lao Tzu lived consciously from birth—therefore he is old. Most people die childish. We have no difficulty in accepting that—even an eighty-year-old dies childish.

Mulla Nasruddin went to his psychiatrist, saying: now you must do something; it is getting too much. My wife sits in the tub for hours playing with a rubber duck—stop her! The psychiatrist said, there is no cause for worry. Even if she plays, she plays with a duck; she harms no one. And if the wife is busy with a duck, the house remains peaceful; you will be at ease. What is the harm? It is better. Even those whose wives do not play should be taught to play; do not worry, it is innocent. Let her play. Nasruddin said, how can I let her? I get no time to play. She holds the duck all twenty-four hours—when will I play?

Even at eighty, the game of toys continues. Where do you step outside toys? Wealth is a toy. Fame, position, prestige are toys. A toy means: that which keeps you involved in play. A toy means: that which keeps you engaged. Whatever keeps you engaged is your toy. Someone is engaged in the game of politics—then politics is a toy. One spends a lifetime trying to reach Delhi without any thought of what to do once there. He will think after arriving—because there is no leisure to think. Arrive, and then it is seen: arrived; now what? He cannot go back; it would be an embarrassment. The tail is cut; how to return? So first people try to reach Delhi; then in Delhi they try to remain there: how to stay now! The tail is cut: now stay and keep saying that everything is wonderful. The games go on till old age.

So we have no difficulty accepting that people die childish. The reverse is said about Lao Tzu—that he was never childish; he was born old. A very poetic statement. But how will you place it in history? Difficult.

One who lives in the middle lives in music. Even the effect he leaves is dreamy, poetic—like a breeze came, the fragrance of a flower passed and was gone, and you kept remembering. But how to tell someone the fragrance of a flower? And Lao Tzu-like flowers blossom only once in a while—like sky-flowers, not earthly flowers. Therefore those touched by his fragrance sing songs, dance, celebrate—but they cannot say what happened. They become intoxicated.

The reason behind all this is that the saint lives in the middle. Otherwise he would leave some result in history.

‘One who governs the world in accord with Tao discovers that inauspicious spirits lose their force.’

That which is inauspicious within us, the evil, what we call the devil—what Lao Tzu calls the inauspicious spirit—its force is lost. Not that its energy is lost; its force is transformed. Energy remains, for energy is never destroyed. Nothing in the world is destroyed; only transformed. Forms change; energy is never destroyed. Energy remains—but it ceases to harm people.

‘Not only does it cease to harm people…’

The soul that was under the sway of the inauspicious ceases to harm others—and not only that—

‘The sage himself does not harm people.’

The sage lives as if he is not—as a gust of wind. Even when he passes by you, you remember; you are touched; you experience—but he remains invisible. He is not aggressive. He is not eager to change you. He has no effort to make you good—because very often, in the effort to make you good, you become worse. That effort offends your ego.

Never try to make someone good. And if you try and he becomes worse, hold yourself responsible. People say, we tried so much, yet this man did not become good. The truth is the reverse: because you tried so much, it happened.

Bad sons are born in good fathers’ houses—because the good father tries hard to make the son good. If he cannot go beyond himself, at least let the son be like him! This trying becomes a noose for the son. The son’s asmita is wounded. If the son obeys this father, he will die. It is necessary to break the commandment. It is necessary to go opposite, for only by going opposite will the son taste his existence. It is inevitable.

As a child must come out of the mother’s womb after nine months—that is necessary. The day he comes out, the process of going away begins. It will continue. The day the son plays with neighborhood children, he has gone further. The mother tries to prevent him from going out, to keep him indoors. But how will he grow? How will his ego form? Then he goes to school—further away. Then he lives in a hostel—further. Then he falls in love with a woman. On that day the work that began in the womb is completed. Now he is himself capable of giving womb—complete.

And the day he falls in love, no matter how much celebration the mother makes, inside she is pained. That is why parents cannot tolerate love. They tolerate marriage—because they arrange it. Love is arranged by the son. It means he has gone so far that in the deepest matter of life he decides by himself. Even in that he did not consult the father. To accept love is difficult for a father.

Mulla Nasruddin’s daughter fell in love with an actor—as girls often do; then they repent, because an actor is, after all, an actor. Afraid, she told her father. Nasruddin said: nonsense! An actor? These loafers? Love with them? You will ruin your life! But the girl said, Papa, I have fallen in love. He said, leave love and such. It is a matter of a lifetime. I will never tolerate it. Choose anyone except an actor.

But the daughter persisted. Finally she persuaded the father a little. A drama company came to town—the boy was an actor there. The daughter coaxed Nasruddin to at least come and see him once. Nasruddin saw the acting. Afterwards he said to the girl: the boy is good; looks and personality are fine. You may marry; I like him. And the thing I objected to is no longer there—his acting has convinced me he is no actor. From his acting I am convinced he is no actor. You can marry.

I asked Nasruddin, what did you do? He said, a father’s prestige has to be saved too. When the matter has gone so far that there is no way back, it is proper to grant permission.

Parents grant permission to love only when it has reached the point of no return—unwillingly. For this is the final break. Now this son, this daughter belongs to someone else. But this is necessary.

A mother would like that her son never fall in love. There are mothers who press the neck so much that the son cannot possibly fall in love. But they have killed him. They did not give birth; they gave death.

Hence the quarrel of mother‑in‑law and daughter‑in‑law is eternal—no way to avoid it. The mother was sole owner of his love. Suddenly a stranger woman is brought into the house and takes over the whole heart! And the son whom I bore—thinks the mother—he is not mine; he has become another woman’s. This quarrel is deep.

Even an excessive effort to do good leads to bad—because the son must build an ego, and the daughter too. Nature wants them to become persons. Their only way is to break commandments. So give your sons such commandments that they can break them without being harmed. This is a delicate art. Give them a few commandments which they can break so their ego can form, but in breaking them they are not destroyed.

To give birth to children is easy; to be a mother or father is very difficult.

Lao Tzu says: ‘The sage does not harm people.’

That happens only when auspicious and inauspicious both are available as music. Then the sage does not try to change anyone; yet in his inaction others change. He does not clutch anyone’s neck, yet in his presence, in his air, people change. He does not go to change anyone, but indirectly his very being becomes a cause of transformation.

This Lao Tzu calls the art of doing by not doing. The sage is merely like a lamp; in his light you begin to see things. And you begin to change yourself—for when the path becomes visible, how long will you wander?

But there are two kinds of people in the world. An old Sufi story: a fool and a wise man were passing through a forest; both had lost their way. Lightning flashed—deep lightning. For a moment the darkness was cut. The fool looked up at the lightning in the sky; the wise man looked down at the path. When lightning flashed, the fool looked up; the wise man looked down. In looking down, the path became clear.

Whenever you are near a saint, look down—at your feet. His light is there. Looking at the saint’s face will do nothing—no matter how enchanting. Being impressed by his words will do nothing—no matter how profound. Singing his glory will do nothing—no matter how high. When you come near the saint, look down at your feet—because the saint is a flashing bolt. If you are intelligent you will find your path. If you are foolish you will become either for or against the saint—enchanted by his face, his words, his personality. Both are foolishness. The wise man looks down and understands his own path. The saint has a light. If the path becomes visible, how long will you err? You wander because you cannot see. You wander because your eyes are full of darkness.

And remember in your own life: never try to change another. The opposite result will come. What you intend, the reverse will happen. If you want someone to change, do not try to change him. Only become yourself what you wish the other to become—just that. Then if through your sweetness, through your presence, something happens—let it. If not, let it not. Overt effort is injurious, violent. Indirect indication is precious.

‘And when both do not harm each other—neither the auspicious harms the inauspicious, nor the inauspicious the auspicious—then the original character is established. When both do not do each other harm, the original character is restored.’

That is the real character: when within you neither the inauspicious harms the auspicious nor the auspicious harms the inauspicious. When within you there is no conflict between anger and compassion, no opposition between sex and Brahmacharya, no struggle between bad and good; when within you Ram and Ravan stand with arms around each other—only then your original character, your nature that is beyond duality, beyond two-ness, beyond dvaita—Advaita—its first glimpse, its bud begins to bloom, its flower begins to form. Alone as Ram you are incomplete; alone as Ravan you are incomplete. The story may run, but you will not be whole.

Hindus are very skillful in this arithmetic. Therefore they did not call Ram the Purna Avatara; they called Krishna so—because in Krishna, Ram and Ravan are united. In Krishna both bad and good are present, and between them a harmony. You cannot find a more dishonest man than Krishna; and it is hard to find one more honest. He gives a promise and breaks it. He says in war he will not take up arms—and he takes them up. Not a trustworthy man—if you do not understand. If you do understand, you will see the supreme saint in Krishna. Krishna lives moment to moment, and totally. Whatever the reality of the moment demands, he lives it. In Krishna, Ram and Ravan have merged. Hence Hindus called Krishna the Purna Avatara. Ram is incomplete.

Two days ago someone asked me—he narrates the Ramcharitmanas—why do you not speak on Ram? I said, I have little taste for Ram. He must have been hurt. He asked, why no taste? I said, it is a long matter. No taste because Ram is incomplete. Krishna attracts me—because Krishna is whole.

And a whole man will be puzzling—because in him good and bad will be so mingled that you will not be able to separate them. The whole man will be unique; hard to grasp.

Ram is easy to grasp. Therefore people are devotees of Ram; his influence is widespread. If anyone is a devotee of Krishna, he also chooses; he does not accept the whole Krishna. Some accept the Gita’s Krishna; they do not like the Bhagavata’s. Some accept the child-Krishna; they do not like the youth.

Surdas does not like the youth. A child teasing girls—tolerable. A young man teasing—intolerable. So Surdas keeps Krishna a child; the anklets on his feet always ring; he does not allow him to grow up. If he grows, this man is dangerous. We can bear it in Ravan—but how in Krishna?

Therefore we have kept the inauspicious and the auspicious apart. Remember: in life they are together. The whole secret of life is known only by one who lives both together. The ultimate height belongs to one who lives total life—without choosing, without cutting. It is difficult indeed.

Ram’s life is easy—single-stream, clean; arithmetic is fixed. Do exactly what is right; do not do what is wrong. Ravan’s life too is clean. The arithmetics of both are straightforward. The puzzle is Krishna. There arithmetic dissolves and mystery is born. There cleanliness vanishes and the secret arises. For there all opposites are together; all dualities have met. Krishna is Advaita.

If you want to understand Lao Tzu—he is pointing to that supreme point. He calls it the original character. Your nature manifests the day Ram and Ravan within you embrace. It is very difficult. Nothing is more difficult. But without it life does not come to fruition. Until it happens you will remain incomplete and restless. It is the restlessness to be whole. The incomplete never finds peace. Let your circle not remain a half; let it be complete—then supreme peace begins.

Enough for today.