Tao Upanishad #101

When the rains come, lofty mountains remain empty; lakes, pits, and valleys fill to the brim. The mountains remain empty because they are already full—full of themselves. Pits, valleys, and lakes fill because they are empty. There is space there, an opening there, a capacity to assimilate the other.

Paramatma too is raining every moment. If you are like the mountains—stuffed with your own ego—you will remain empty. If you are like lakes and valleys—void, vacant—you will be filled. If you wish to remain empty, be filled with ego. If you wish to be filled, become empty of ego. He who becomes like shunya is filled by the Full. And he who thinks, “I am already full,” dies utterly empty. This is a great paradox. Yet, if you understand, it is simple and direct.

Jesus has said, “He who would save himself shall lose himself; and he who loses himself shall save himself.” He who dissolves will attain; and he who clings to himself loses himself in the very effort to save.

Understand this secret well. It applies to the individual, to society, to the state, to nations. The rule is one, though it has many expressions. The rule is: learn to be empty. First, before you enter the sutra, the art of being empty.

A disciple sits near the Master. If he is full, he will learn nothing. If you come to me full—full of your own knowledge, your own scriptures—you will return empty. I may devise a thousand devices, I may create a thousand winds around you, yet nothing will happen. If you are not empty, where is the door in you? Where is there a space through which I can enter? Upon your throne you yourself are seated; there is no place left to seat another.

If a disciple comes to the Master full of knowledge, he only wastes time. If he comes empty, he returns filled.

Thus from ancient times a disciple had to learn the art of coming to the Master. The first aphorism of that art is: whatever you know, leave it outside the door. Come as if you are ignorant, as if you know nothing at all. For if you know “something,” that very knowing becomes the wall. If you “know,” that stiff pride of knowing becomes the obstruction. Your suppleness ceases. Your doors close. Then within you, I may try hard, but you will not let me enter. You will go on protecting yourself.

If the disciple goes on defending himself from the Master, what will he learn? Or you will keep arguing with the Master. Argument too is defense. Argument is like a sword with which you guard yourself—so that only that enters you which you had already approved, already known. So that only you grow; you are not dissolved, you are enlarged, nothing of you goes out, only more comes in. Argument is like a miser who keeps guard in front of his safe. Stories say that even after he dies, he becomes a snake and coils around his safe, guarding it—that whatever is within may not go out.

The scholar too guards his knowledge. Hence the scholar dies ignorant. If you wish to die a “scholar” in the true sense, be willing to be ignorant. Ignorance means emptiness.

Kabir says: “Reading and reading, the world died—no one became a pundit. He who learned the two-and-a-half letters of Love—he alone became the pundit.”

What is the secret of love? The secret is egolessness, emptiness. The day you are empty, the energies of the whole cosmos begin to flow toward you. Become a hollow; you will find that from all sides Paramatma rushes to fill you. If you would become a hollow, one more thing is essential: learn to be low.

The river falls into the ocean because the ocean is lower than the river. The ocean is so vast that were it even a little higher than the rivers, a bit arrogant, there would be trouble. The ocean is low; small rivers are higher. Yet all rivers must reach the ocean. What is the ocean’s art? That it has made itself low. The lower the ocean, the greater the ocean. The Pacific is the greatest ocean because it is a trench five miles deep. Who can escape such a depth? All waters must run that way. All the rivers of the world will keep running to it. That is why it is called the Pacific—so calm! Being so low, how can it be agitated?

Agitation comes from the urge to be above. The more you attempt to climb thrones, the more restlessness grows. When you become lower and lower, what agitation can be there? From there no one can dislodge you; there is no further “down” to go. From there, no one can insult you—you have chosen the last place. There is no more retreat possible. How can you be defeated now? Who will defeat you now? Now you are established in the Ultimate Victory—you have attained jina-hood. Your victory is final; you are invincible. No one can defeat you, for you have already arrived at the very place where your enemies hoped to hurl you. And the wonder is: the moment you arrive there, all the rivers of the world begin to run toward you—rivers of knowledge, of love, of light, of Paramatma—they all begin to flow toward you.

It is natural: the lower one is, the richer one becomes. The more one stiffens and climbs above, the poorer one becomes.

Hence Mahavira and Buddha stepped down from royal thrones and stood on the road as beggars. Were they mad? They understood something: the higher you climb, the less the streams of life flow toward you; the lower you descend, the more worthy a vessel you become. The day you become like a pit—the lowest of all—your capacity becomes immense. That day Paramatma will fill you—from every door, every direction, every dimension.

If you would become a hollow, then remain lower and lower. But the mind understands the opposite. The mind shows the opposite path. And what the mind asks you to do appears so logical that the root-note of illusion, of mistake, of ignorance hidden in it is not visible. The arithmetic of the mind is not paradoxical. The mind says: if you want to be above, climb above. To be above by going below—what sense is there? If you want to rise, set a ladder. If you want wealth, it is in palaces. If you want fame and prestige, it is in position and respectability.

The mind’s arithmetic appears neat and clean. It appeals. If you want wealth, seek wealth; if you want fame, seek fame; if you want to save yourself, protect yourself. These Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tzu—their heads seem turned upside down. The mind says, if you get entangled in their words, you will get into trouble. What are they teaching? They speak utterly illogical things: if you want to go up, go down; if you want to be great, become small; if you want wealth, become a beggar. They say the throne is hidden in the begging bowl, and in thrones there is nothing but begging bowls.

It is obvious we obey the mind, because the mind’s arithmetic appears so clear. If only the mind’s arithmetic were the arithmetic of life, you would not be defeated; there would be no failure in your life; there would be no despair in your eyes. You would already have won.

But life is utterly different from the mind’s arithmetic. The mind’s arithmetic is man-made, however tidy—humanly fabricated. Life’s arithmetic is the very opposite. And Jesus, Buddha, and Lao Tzu are right, because they have recognized life’s arithmetic. They say, “If you truly want to be great, become low.” They know this by becoming it. And we too perceive their glory; none appears more glorious than they. Emperors fade before them. The greatest empires look like dust at their feet. This too we see. Hence our perplexity increases. What to do?

Within, the mind suggests one arithmetic; life’s arithmetic is altogether different. To drop the mind’s arithmetic is sannyas. To grasp life’s arithmetic is sannyas. To awaken from the mind’s arithmetic is awareness. To recognize life’s arithmetic is Buddhahood. And life’s arithmetic is paradoxical. You too sometimes get a glimpse of it, because you too are linked with life. Whatever the mind says, you sometimes glimpse it in life. But since you cling so tightly to the mind’s arithmetic, you push aside those glimpses; you never contemplate them.

Have you ever noticed—when you bow before another, suddenly the other bows before you. You have surely tasted this. When you become truly small before someone, suddenly you find great reverence arising in the other’s heart for you. Whenever you have heard a whisper of your own glory, it has been through humility. When you give something to someone, a sense of inner wealth arises, boundless. And whenever you snatch something, have you noticed how impoverished you become within! You have felt this, but you never ponder it.

Give something to someone. The thing leaves your hand, wealth departs; yet something else—greater than all wealth—suddenly fills you. That is the joy of offering. That is why people take such delight in gifting something. To a friend, to the beloved, to a relative, you offer a gift. Understand the note you have heard while giving that gift. That is life’s note. In giving, you receive.

And when you clutch at a thing, then you lose it. The miser never has wealth—though it appears he has. Since he has not learned to give, he is denied that which comes only through giving. He knows clutching, but not the enjoyment of wealth. The only enjoyment of wealth is to give it. When you give, you become eligible for a supreme wealth. Share—and you will find you expand. Hoard—and you will find you shrivel.

It is like breathing: if you wish to take a deep breath in, you must breathe out just as deeply. The more forcefully you exhale, the more intensely new air fills your inner chambers. If, like a miser, you clutch the inner breath, not letting it go—thinking, “Breath is life, let me save it, hold it within”—remember, the breath you are holding is dead; the oxygen has departed, it is only carbon dioxide. It will bring death, not life. And the more you hold in, the less space remains for the new breath to enter.

This is exactly what you are doing. There are about six thousand alveolar pockets in the lungs. Even the best breathers reach only about two thousand pockets with oxygen; four thousand remain filled with poison. Your lungs never receive fully fresh air—you are such misers! This is the style of your whole life, hence it is hiding in all your tendencies. You are even afraid in breathing. You are afraid to release the inner breath. But the breath you clutch is poison; it needs to be thrown out.

Therefore yogis lay such emphasis on pranayama. What is pranayama? Two words: prana + ayama. Pranayama means: expand prana, enlarge its dimension, let it spread. Do not hold breath inside—throw it out. The more vigorously you empty it, the more a hollow is created within, space opens, thirst arises; every fiber asks. Instantly fresh air, clean air, after expelling the stale, fills you within. Life is coming in. Breath is prana. The more you can throw out, pour out, breath, the more fresh breath you gain.

And this is the sutra for all processes of life—pour out unconditionally. Whatever you have, give. Share it. Share love. Share heart. Share your understanding, your awareness. Whatever can be shared—share. Do not be stingy. Life will slip from your hands anyway. If you share it, you will attain the Great Life.

And this life will slip away—whether you share or not. At death you will see that whatever you tried to save is going. This life will go anyway, even if you keep guarding it. And it will go unused. In the hour of death you will see that what you guarded is leaving. If only you had used it, shared it, and gained that which never leaves.

Life is a chance to share, so that you may attain the Unlosable—so that the Eternal becomes yours. But you clutch the petty and are deprived of the Eternal. And the petty will be snatched anyway.

What a wonder—what must be snatched, why be miserly in giving it? What is going anyway—its departure certain—why not become the master and offer it? You will gain something for free. What was going would go—yet in the gesture of giving you become a hollow; and into that hollow flows that which never departs.

If you would attain the Amrit, then distribute the mortal. If you would attain the Eternal, then don’t clutch the momentary—let it go, and let it go with rejoicing. For if you give without celebration, even giving becomes futile. If you give unwillingly, you may give, yet that which comes through giving will not be received. Given half-heartedly is not truly given. The outer act is there, but no hollow is formed within.

Lao Tzu says: the first sutra is—become empty. The second sutra is: to become empty, become low like the ocean into which all rivers fall.

Have you considered the ocean? The greatest, and the lowest! This is the secret of greatness; this is the way to be great. And have you noticed? So many rivers pour into the ocean—yet there is no flood; so many clouds rise—yet the ocean does not dry. What is the secret? So many rivers flow in—yet no flood. The hollow is vast. You cannot bring a flood into it. Floods come only in teacups. The hollow is tiny, almost nothing—at once it overflows. Does the ocean ever flood? The hollow is so immense that pour in all the world’s rivers—still the ocean keeps drinking; no flood arises. The ocean is not excited.

The day your hollow too is infinite, then great bliss will shower, and you will not be aroused to excitement.

Now even a petty pleasure excites you, makes you mad. You are a teacup. Storms arise quickly in it. And if a drop spills, you are empty.

From the ocean, vast clouds keep lifting—yet nothing is noticed. He who does not notice while taking, will not notice while giving. He who remains calm in receiving, remains calm in offering. The ocean abides in itself; it remains as it is. No ups and downs; no flood comes; no hollow forms. The ocean is almost absorbed in its own nature. The day you become a hollow, your absorption will be such: neither will pleasure drive you mad, nor pain.

Now both madden you. And until pleasure and pain can unbalance you, know that you have not yet tasted that which is called Buddhahood; which Lao Tzu calls the realization of Tao. With that taste, all pleasures are insipid, all sorrows false; coming and going are illusions. You are linked to that which neither comes nor goes; which has no ebb and flow, which is ever one. We have called it Brahman.

One thing more, and then we will enter the sutra.

Lao Tzu’s most unique discovery is the principle of the feminine. Lao Tzu says: in the search for the truth of life, follow the feminine principle. First let us understand what this is.

Ordinarily you think that man is powerful. But you are in delusion. Now even biologists agree that woman is more powerful. It is only male ego, nourished for centuries, that has believed man to be powerful.

Consider: women live longer than men—on average by five years. If a man lives to seventy-five, a woman lives to eighty. If men are powerful, why do women live longer? Women fall ill less. And women have far more capacity to endure suffering. Man is disturbed by the smallest pain.

Imagine a man bearing pregnancy for nine months! I doubt a single man would survive nine months. Let your wife go out for one night, leaving the child with you—and you will know what a turmoil the child creates! You begin to feel like squeezing a neck—yours or the child’s!

Mulla Nasruddin was strolling by a garden with his baby in a little cart, and kept muttering, “Nasruddin, keep calm. Nasruddin, keep calm. It’s all right, Nasruddin.” An old woman overheard him. “What a sweet child,” she said. The child was shrieking, kicking, flailing. She came close and said to the child, “Son Nasruddin, calm down.” Nasruddin said, “His name is not Nasruddin—Nasruddin is my name. I am keeping myself calm somehow—otherwise I will either wring his neck or my own.”

A woman carries the womb for nine months, bears the pain of childbirth. Then raising a child is no small task. Men think women have nothing to do—because they run a shop! What are women doing! They are deluded. Running a shop is not difficult. A thousand customers are easy; one child is bigger mischief. Then she raises him; invests love and attachment. One day he leaves—falls in love with another woman. She bears that wound too.

Women’s endurance is many times that of men. Man’s endurance is next to nothing. But man counts only one kind of strength—muscular. Because he can lift a heavy stone, he imagines he is powerful. If lifting stones were the only measure of power, fine; but endurance is also a great power—the capacity to bear the pains of life.

Women stay youthful longer—if not burdened with ten or fifteen pregnancies. Men grow old sooner; women remain young and fresh longer.

At birth, even nature and Paramatma know: for every hundred girls, a hundred and fifteen boys are born—because by the age of fourteen, fifteen boys will have died, and the number will balance. More boys are born; fewer girls. By marriageable age, fifteen percent of the boys will be gone.

Girls speak earlier. Intelligence manifests earlier in girls. Girls are more alert, more calm. Even in universities, in competition, girls lead.

And so it should be. Because man is not indispensable; without man, the world can go on. Without woman, it cannot. Woman is indispensable. This is clear. Now, artificial insemination is possible; man can be dispensed with. But woman cannot be dispensed with.

Large experiments have been made: how essential is man to creation? The man’s work finishes in a moment during intercourse. What is a moment for man becomes a twenty-year design for the woman. A child is born; is raised; is married. The father is social, not natural; among animals there is no father, but there is the mother. In primitive human ages too there was no father—only the mother. Fatherhood is a social arrangement. Hence it is very difficult to keep a man bound to one woman; police, courts, laws—everything is needed so that a man remains with one woman. But a woman wishes to remain with one man; no law is needed. Because the father is unnatural, artificial; he is held by force.

Nasruddin’s son asked him, “I am reading a law-book. Why is there such a prohibition against two marriages? Why is it a crime?” Nasruddin said, “Son, you don’t know; those who cannot guard themselves, the law must guard. If the law did not guard, man would not stop at two; and then he would be in trouble.”

The father is social conditioning. The real bond is the child’s with the mother. The father’s work is very small—an injection can do it. But the mother’s work no arrangement can do.

Experiments were made: can the mother’s womb be replaced by a machine—can a mechanical womb raise a child? The child does grow—experiments on animals show this—but he grows up demented. He becomes mentally deranged at the outset. Because the mother’s womb is not a mere instrument; a deep shadow of love is within which the machine cannot give. A machine can give warmth, not love. Heat can come from electricity. But the warmth from the mother’s body has a texture of love which electricity cannot provide.

A scientist at Harvard experimented with monkeys. He made two monkey-mothers: one had all arrangements of electricity, milk through nipples, and was wrapped in a blanket; the other was made only of wire, with milk and heat arranged. The monkey babies preferred to drink from the mother wrapped in cloth—because there was a sensation of the mother’s body, the touch of skin, some semblance of motherliness.

Monkeys were raised differently: some with real mothers; some with the cloth-wrapped mechanical mother; some with the wire mother. The differences were basic. The first were sound. The second were physically healthy, but mentally somewhat disturbed. The third were physically healthy, but mentally wholly deranged.

The mother gives something more. The father only gives a germ—which an injection can give. The mother gives more than body; the energy of her life, her hidden prana, guard the child from all sides. This cannot be replaced by machines. Thus scientists say, man may be dispensed with one day; woman cannot. She is more original, more foundational.

Lao Tzu says: the feminine element is the root of existence. Man is a collaborator, not the base.

And what is the feminine element? First, understand: like a hollow, a womb. What is woman? A womb, a hollow. Receptivity, a deep capacity to receive. In the woman there is space—hence a child can grow in her. The possibility to take another life within.

Lao Tzu says: become feminine, so that you can take within. Paramatma will enter only when you become like a womb. Make space, dig a hollow, create a place. And you can hold Paramatma only when within you there is feminine love—surrender. Otherwise you will not be able to hold. For to hold Paramatma is the greatest pregnancy; there is no greater womb. From that, your own rebirth will happen—new, in new dimensions. You will be born out of yourself.

Feminine means: inner emptiness with receptivity. Woman receives; man gives. Become a receiver, like a hollow. Paramatma is forever the giver; His rain is ceaseless.

Man is aggressive. Rarely will a woman even say to a man, “I love you.” She waits; she will wait for the man to say, “I love you.” She will accept, or decline; she will not attack. She watches the path.

The seeker of truth should not be aggressive; otherwise he will not arrive. With a male stiffness, you cannot reach Paramatma. With humility, with waiting—like a beloved sitting at the door of her home awaiting the arrival of her lover, utterly longing, yet not aggressive.

A non-aggressive longing—that is bhakti. The restlessness is complete, but not the restlessness that rushes to attack.

A woman who becomes aggressive ceases to be attractive. If a woman pursues you and begins to propose love, you will be frightened; you will run. Because that woman is behaving like a man, not feminine. The sweetness of womanhood lies in waiting. She provokes you, but does not attack. She calls you, but does not shout. Her calling is deeply silent. She surrounds you from all sides, yet you do not even notice. Her chains are subtle, invisible. With the finest threads she binds you, yet the bondage cannot be seen. Man’s bonds are gross, visible. Woman’s bonds are invisible, inward, unworldly—not seen.

Move toward truth or Paramatma as a woman would.

Around Krishna a supreme tapestry of images was woven. Krishna means Paramatma. The word Krishna means “the one who attracts, who draws.” And the whole world is His beloved, the gopis. The vision is: if you would attain Paramatma, let Him be the male—and you become the female. Weave your fabric of love and prayer. Let it be full of total surrender, deep trust; but let nothing be colored by aggression.

The woman places herself low. People think wrongly that men made women slaves. No—the woman has the art of becoming a slave. You do not know how significant that art is. Lao Tzu is revealing it. No man makes a woman a slave. Wherever in the world a woman falls in love, she instantly makes herself a slave. Because being a slave is the deepest mastery. She understands the secret of life.

To be the master means stiffness. And the stiff can never be master; he will break. The woman places herself low—at your feet. And have you seen? The moment a woman places herself at your feet, she suddenly sits like a crown upon your head. She places herself at your feet, and reaches very deep, very high. You begin to think of her day and night. She leaves herself in your footsteps, becomes your shadow. Unbeknownst to you, the shadow begins to lead you; at her hint you move. The woman never says bluntly, “Do this,” yet she gets done what she wishes. She never declares, “This must be so,” yet it becomes so as she wants.

Lao Tzu is saying: her power is tremendous. And what is her power? That she is a slave. Her power is that she becomes a shadow. The mightiest men fall in love and become utterly powerless. Napoleon—before his beloved Josephine he is a simple child. He commands millions of soldiers. To the Alps he says, “My command is, we must cross; we shall cross.” No army had ever done it before. He crosses the Alps. On the battlefield he has no equal. But before Josephine, he becomes a little boy. Even amid fierce wars, every night, at any chance, he must write a letter to Josephine. Josephine is like a shadow. She never tries to control him; no impatience to drive him. Yet Napoleon is driven. What has happened?

Lao Tzu says: such is the beauty of feminine power. And that beauty is the beauty of existence itself. If you would understand existence, understand the disposition of the feminine. The woman still abides near existence; the man has lost himself in ideas far away.

Become low—and you will become high. Become a shadow—and you will be the guide. Erase yourself—do not keep even a trace—and then your victory will know no limit.

Now you are defeated, shattered. In your eyes is nothing but defeat, brokenness, the sense of being a have-not. You have lived long with male pride. If you have ears to hear me, now begin to live without pride. You have lived lives upon lives filled with masculine conceit.

Here is a delicious point. The followers of Mahavira maintain that until one comes into the male mode, one cannot be liberated. Stand opposite them, understand Lao Tzu: he says, until one comes into the female mode, one cannot be liberated.

Mahavira and Lao Tzu are opposing poles. And I tell you, ninety-nine out of a hundred can reach by Lao Tzu’s path; one out of a hundred by Mahavira’s. For Mahavira’s path is of struggle, not surrender; of conflict—war with nature. Rarely does one succeed there. But by Lao Tzu’s path, ninety-nine out of a hundred can arrive; for it is not struggle, it is surrender. It is not winning over Paramatma; it is losing before Paramatma. How can you defeat one who is ready to lose? How will you cancel the victory of one who never tried to win?

This is the difference between man and woman. When a man thinks of a woman, he thinks with the feeling of conquest—“How to win this woman?” When a woman thinks of a man from her depth, she thinks: “How shall I lose to this man? When will that great moment come when I am defeated by him?”

Lao Tzu says: the art of losing is the art of winning—the feminine mode. And I tell you: ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the doors open for you by Lao Tzu’s path. Swimming against the current, perhaps one rare person arrives—this too seems doubtful. Fight the river and you will break. Flow with the current—and all can reach, the weak as well as the strong. No obstruction—for flowing is the way.

Ramakrishna used to say: One way is rowing with oars—fighting the river; it brings exhaustion. Another is to wait for the wind to blow toward the other shore, and then raise the sail. No need of oars; use the wind. When the wind moves toward the other shore, unfurl the sail—the boat moves with the wind. Wait for the right moment—and surrender. Then you need not row.

By rowing, only a few have ever reached; they can be counted on the fingers. Hence Jainism never became very influential; its news did not travel far; millions could not walk that path. The few followers that are there, they too do not walk—they are Jains in name only. “Jain” comes from “Jina”—the conqueror, the one who has won.

Lao Tzu says: lose; become a have-not; become feminine—and you will arrive. To be feminine is: do not take up the oar in the river; open the sail.

Now let us understand Lao Tzu’s sutra.

“A great country should be like the river-mouth, the low-lying land,”

—like the place where the river falls into the sea—

“for it is the meeting-place of the world, and the world has the quality of the feminine. The woman conquers the man by silence, and by silence she attains the lower place.”

The woman places herself low, stands behind—and remains always in front; remains always above.

You must have heard the story. Akbar said to Birbal, “Are there men in my court who do not fear their wives?” Birbal said, “It is difficult to determine—who can enter their private chambers? But we will devise a trick. Some must be there.” The trick was made. All courtiers were called. Akbar said, “Honestly, without cheating—if you fear your wives, stand in this line.” All stood—except one. Akbar was amazed: so many fear their wives! He was even more amazed that at least one did not—and he had always thought this man a timid, henpecked fellow. Not at all a bold type. Akbar said, “Blessed is my luck—at least one man there is. You do not fear your wife?” The man said, “Do not misunderstand me. As I left home my wife said, ‘Wherever there is a crowd, don’t stand there.’ Everyone is standing here—so I cannot stand in the crowd.”

It is hard to find a man who does not obey his wife. There is nothing wrong in this; it is natural. Lao Tzu is explaining this very thing. If there is love, the man obeys the woman. Within you there is brain and heart; the brain is male, the heart is female. If you are loving, you follow the heart—not the brain. Similarly, when two persons fall in love, the woman is the heart, the man is the brain. Then too, if you have fallen in love, you follow the heart.

Yes, if there is no love—it is different. Where there is love, the woman always wins. If there is no river, there is no question; what shall fall? But if there is the river of love, the woman always wins—because she keeps herself low; your river must fall into her. There is no other way.

And the woman wins through silence—she does not speak. She does not say, yet her whole being says it. If a woman does not want to go somewhere and you want her to go, the waves from her whole being will begin to hint that she does not want to. She will not say it. If she says it, she is not precisely a woman. For why ask in words for that which is already happening without words? Why have it done by speaking when it can be done by silence? Speaking robs the juice from the thing. The woman says it through her whole being. She is more total.

Often it happens—and psychologists are puzzled by this—that there is a husband, a wife, and a small child. The husband wants to go to the club, or to the temple, to a cinema; the wife does not want to go. She will not say so; if there is love she will not say it. For love means: she is the shadow; wherever the husband goes, she goes. She will not say it. Yet her whole being radiates the wave of “No.” The child begins to refuse at once. Psychologists say the child becomes a medium. He starts coughing, says he is unwell, this and that—he creates a hindrance. Much research has been done: how does this happen? How does the child catch it? The child is simpler; he is still all heart. He is closer to the woman, not to the man. Hence whatever happens within the mother reaches the child first. The husband will take time to receive the waves; he is at some distance. The child declares at once that he is not well, or has fever, or does not want to go. And the mother has not said a word. But her gestures, her very way of being—the child catches it.

If the man loves deeply, he too will catch it. For a loving husband becomes childlike near his wife. The woman’s nature, deep down, is the nature of the mother; the man’s nature, deep down, is the nature of the son.

Thus Hindu rishis blessed that marriage is successful in which, in the end, the husband becomes the son. They blessed the newlywed: “May you have ten sons, and may the eleventh be your husband.”

The final success of love is where the wife becomes the mother, the husband the child. It means: the husband has come so close—as if he has entered the woman’s womb. Such intimacy that now her silence too is understood. It does not befit a woman to say “No” with her mouth; her waves say it, and the husband understands—that befits.

The woman will remain like a shadow—and will lead. She will be silent—and her silence is eloquent. Through silence she will convey. Where there is love, this inner dialogue is understood.

Lovers do not talk much. Husbands and wives talk—because there is not much love. Lovers mostly sit quietly—because silence is such a joy; why talk? Husbands and wives talk, lest a quarrel arise if they do not. So they keep some conversation going. The husband thinks out some office gossip; the wife brings something up. They fill the gap between them with chatter. Because there is emptiness there; without talk, the emptiness will be exposed. Without talk, the distance will be seen. Talk alone keeps them together.

But lovers sit silently, close to each other on the riverbank; no words. Why speak what happens without words? Why use words where silent communion suffices?

And this begins to happen gradually between Master and disciple. Words are needed only so long as you cannot understand without them. When you can understand without words, words are unnecessary. Then you will come quietly, sit, understand—and go. As we come nearer, speaking becomes like not speaking.

Even now, those who have come close—what I say is not of much use to them. The empty space between my two words is of more use. They have begun to read between the lines and hear between the words. The words are only an excuse.

But for the new ones, words are the bridge.

To connect what is far—words are needed. To connect what is near—silence is enough.

Lao Tzu says: a great country too should be like the woman, and place itself beneath the smaller countries. This is of immense significance. If only it could happen, wars would cease on earth. Only Lao Tzu’s word can end war; otherwise not. Because Lao Tzu says: a great country should place itself low. You are so great that to place yourself above is absurd. He who is great becomes humble.

Rahim has said: when the tree is laden with fruits, its branches bow down. The more filled, the greater, the more it bows. Its boughs touch the earth. Only fruitless trees stand stiff.

The small man remains stiff, afraid that if he bows, people will know he is small. What fear can the great have? He can bow; however much he bows, his greatness does not diminish—rather, it increases. He who harbors an inferiority complex is afraid.

People come to me. I watch them. Those who have some greatness can bow easily. Those who are petty, full of inferiority, remain stiff. For them, bowing is difficult. They fear, if they bow, others will know what they already know—that they are inferior.

He who can bow easily, without the least difficulty, for whom bowing is natural—know that he harbors no inferiority within, no inferiority complex.

The small fear bowing; the great seek occasions to bow. The petty is anxious lest some situation arises where he must bend. He who is not petty—what has he to fear? Hence the nobler one is, the more humble he is. The more petty, the more egotistical.

Lao Tzu says: if you are great—whether person or country—remain bowed. Become like the river-mouth, the low land. Because you are the confluence of the world. Only by bowing can you become a confluence. The land of confluence must be low—only then will rivers fall there. If you rise stiff, you cannot be a confluence. And confluence is the feminine quality of the world—there is the meeting.

In this country we have revered the confluence, the tirtha. Why? Because the confluence is humble. Many rivers have fallen there. The tirtha is a hollow. It is the feminine quality. Go to a tirtha and bow—be filled with the feminine quality—become empty. Then you will return filled.

But the opposite happens. People go to tirthas and return puffed up: “We are pilgrims. We have returned from the Hajj—now we are Hajis.” A new arrogance arises; their feet do not touch the ground.

Tirtha means confluence. Confluence means bowed land where rivers fall. Go there and see—hence pilgrimage is useful—that where the land bows, three rivers fall. In the same way, bow—and you will become the natural site for many rivers to fall. Nothing needs to be done. At the confluence, nothing is done—no rivers are invited; none are dragged there. These are not canals. They came on their own. Why did they come? What were they seeking? They were seeking a hollow to vanish into; a womb to be absorbed in; a vessel to be filled.

“The woman conquers the man by silence, and by silence she attains the lower place.”

She declares herself a servant—and becomes the mistress. She says “slave”—and becomes the queen. If you would attain the highest place in the heart of Paramatma, remain the very last.

“Therefore, if a great country places itself beneath a small country, it assimilates the small country.”

It will—this is the whole art of assimilating the Master: place yourself beneath the Master. Become a hollow at his feet; the Master’s river will pour into you—you will be filled. Whoever you wish to assimilate, become a hollow beneath him, take hold of his feet.

Lao Tzu says: if the great country places itself beneath the small, instantly it will drink the small. And this drinking will be out of love—not by war, not by the sword. It will be a confluence. It will be through the feminine quality.

Hence India has never attacked anyone; never wished to. The reason is clear: attack is absurd. This country is so vast—and it has assimilated many. Whoever came as an invader, whoever sat upon its throne, India drank him in—assimilated him. Its assimilation is very subtle. What Lao Tzu says is India’s history. It never attempted to spread even an inch beyond itself. Small tribes came—wandering clans, nomads, with no culture. Huns came, Yavans, Turks, Mughals—no great history stood behind them. They ruled here. They lived in the delusion that they were ruling. Where are they now? India has drunk them all. India placed itself beneath them; quietly assimilated them.

And now the West has begun to notice. The future will reveal this. These are subtle paths. The English ruled this land for long. That rule was momentary—came and went. But through them, India’s heart entered the West. The whole world is running toward India. This is another kind of victory—one that cannot be undone.

The West ruled India for two or three centuries. India cared little. Those very rulers became translators of the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Gita. Those very rulers came to the satsangs of India’s sadhus and sannyasins. Through Western rule, India spread its web of influence over the West.

A long time will be needed to see who won and who lost. India is impossible to defeat—it is like trying to make a river flow uphill. Today in every corner of the West there is India’s sannyasi. In every corner, India’s temples are rising. In every corner, people are meditating and praying.

But it is slow, subtle—feminine. You will not read it in newspapers. It is happening silently.

I sit here. I consider even those Masters who go West a little aggressive—why go even that much? Even there, a trace of the male has entered. I remain sitting quietly here. Whoever must come will come. If the hollow is true, how long can the rivers wander? They must come.

Become a hollow and sit. From far-off lands, from countries across the seas, rivers will keep flowing toward you.

Lao Tzu says: if a great country places itself beneath a small one, it will assimilate it. And if a small country is wise and places itself beneath a great one, it will assimilate the great one.

It is not a question of small or great; he who places himself low becomes great in the end.

“Thus some place themselves low in order to assimilate others; some are by nature low and assimilate others.”

But the sutra, the rule, is the same. Whether you do it consciously or unconsciously—he who is low, in the end, wins. In the middle there may be much noise; the river may rise in flood; many plans may be made by the river—but those are of the middle. In the end, the hollow assimilates the river.

“Then the great country too desires to shelter others, and the small country too desires to enter and be sheltered. Therefore, considering that both may obtain what they desire, the great country should place itself low.”

Because for the small one it will be difficult to be low; the obstacle is the same as for the small person—the inferiority-complex, the hurt of being small. The great has no such wound; he can place himself low.

This sutra applies equally to nations, to society, to the person—for the rule is one. If you would win, make losing your path. If you would attain, learn the art of letting go. If you would become Amrit, die of your own accord, efface yourself. If you would have all, renounce all—and you will be invincible. This I call jina-hood. He who can receive without fighting is a fool to fight.

Kabir has said: “If the work can be done by a needle, why lift the sword?” And the truth is—this work can be done without even lifting a needle. Why, then, lift the sword?

Make this the style of your life. Let it permeate your every pore, every breath, every heartbeat. Soon you will find yourself standing at the door of a great bliss—the bliss from which you have so far remained deprived. You will feel the moment of meeting has come. That which you have lost through your unawareness—thinking you were earning while you were losing—you will, for the first time, earn.

You yourself are the cause of your failure—because you are trying to succeed. You yourself will become the foundation of supreme success. Fail once, and see. Lose once, and see. Learn the woman’s art.

The feminine quality is the most powerful force in this world. None is greater.

Enough for today.