Tao Upanishad #102

Before entering Lao Tzu’s sutras, a few preliminary things must be understood.

First, what does Lao Tzu call a mystery?

There is no word more precious on the journey of religion than this: mystery. If the mystery is understood, all is understood. It is the deepest core. It is the most hidden treasure. What is the mystery?

Mystery is such an understanding that you cannot even call it understanding. Mystery is a knowing such that, though you know, you cannot become a knower, you cannot claim that you have known. You will know, but you will not be able to assert it. As they say: the mute tastes sugar, eats and smiles. Your whole being will speak, yet you will not be able to say, ‘I have known.’ Every pore of you will declare it, but no ego can be built upon it to say, ‘I have known.’

That knowledge in which the knower dissolves — that alone is mystery.

There are two kinds of knowledge. One is the knowledge by which the knower becomes stronger. Another is the knowledge by which the knower melts, slowly, slowly; ultimately evaporates. Knowledge remains, the knower is lost.

Amazed, amazed, O friend, says Kabir — and Kabir himself was lost in amazement.

Mystery is that knowledge which kills the knower. Mystery is that experience in which the knower and the known become one. No distance remains, no interval remains. Then who can say, ‘I have known’? To whom can it be said, ‘I have known’? Who will claim? About whom will he claim? The claimant is gone. Such knowledge is mystery.

Mystery is not a neat mathematical highway; not a well-paved, straight, orderly royal road. It is like a path that winds through mountains and gets caught in forest glades. You can walk upon it, but only alone; the crowd can never be there. You can know it, but only in your ultimate aloneness. No other witness will be there. So even if you declare, ‘I have known,’ you will find no witnesses. For whenever you know, you will know alone; others will not be there. Hence mystery is knowledge that is utterly subjective, inner; not objective, not of the world of things. This is the difference between religion and science.

Science too seeks truth, but its way of seeking is objective; it searches outside, in the other, in the object. Therefore science becomes universal. Once discovered, it becomes clear to all — not only to the discoverer, but also to those who never participated in the discovery. Edison or Einstein toil for years and discover something; the whole world comes to know. Each one need not discover it anew. One has found, all have received. Then the student can learn it in school and know it.

In science one searches, but the knowledge becomes everyone’s. In religion one searches, and the knowledge remains only his; it cannot become another’s. Therefore no witnesses can be gathered. Even if you say it, no one will believe. People will laugh. They will think you mad. For that which has no witnesses, which you cannot display before another’s eyes — who will grant it validity?

You say, ‘I have found God.’ People will say, ‘Show us — where is God? If you have found him, show him to us too.’ Then you will fall into difficulty. You say, ‘I have known the Atman.’ People will say, ‘Give us a glimpse as well.’ Again you are in trouble. For the glimpse you have attained is utterly personal. What you have known you cannot cause another to know. You cannot pass your knowledge on, cannot transfer it. It is not transferable. It is born within you; you are filled by it to the brim. Every fiber of you begins to resonate with it; each heartbeat carries its song. Standing, sitting — it is there; walking, moving — it is there; it becomes the whole of your life. It surrounds you like an incomparable atmosphere. But you cannot make anyone else a participant in it. Even the closest, the dearest, remains outside, unable to enter the inner chamber of your heart.

Therefore religion is discovered each time, and each time lost. Buddha discovers it — it is lost. Lao Tzu discovers it — it is lost. A thousand times discovered, again and again it is lost. And whenever you are to discover it, you must discover it afresh. Therefore no science of religion is possible; it cannot be taught in schools. No scripture can contain it. No other can give it to you. This is its mystery. The treasure is so mysterious that each one finds it only in his own solitude. It is a taste of the innermost. It is a path of aloneness.

Hence Mahavira called that ultimate mystery kevalya. Mahavira chose a very unique word. Other words pale beside it. Others too have chosen words, but Mahavira’s is uniquely precise. Kevalya means: total, absolute aloneness. Kevalya means: utterly alone; only you, and no one else. Only your consciousness, and nothing else. That knowledge is kevalya. It is mysterious. It is not like broad highways where a crowd can move; it is a very fine, subtle path.

Jesus said, if you would walk my way, the path is narrow — narrow is the gate.

Kabir said, love’s lane is exceedingly narrow; there is not room for two.

There even two cannot pass; how then three? You will go alone — naked, without garments, free of constructs. Not even a single thought can you carry with you, how then another person? You cannot carry your scriptures. You cannot carry even your knowledge.

This is why the wise say: become ignorant like a small child. For even your knowledge cannot go along. Whatever rubbish you have hoarded in the world, none of it can you take there. All must be left outside the temple. Only naked consciousness will go, utterly alone. Only your awareness will go, and nothing else. Returning, you will have become like a mute. You will wish to speak, but the words will not be found. You will wish to indicate, but the hand will not rise. Therefore it is called a mystery: it is known, yet cannot be told.

Scientists say: if something is known, what difficulty is there in saying it? Why not say it? Once it is known, just say it! A very great Western thinker, immensely gifted — Ludwig Wittgenstein — said: that which you cannot say, then do not even say that it cannot be said; be absolutely silent. Why do you add even this much, that it cannot be said? If you can say this much, say everything else too.

Wittgenstein also is right: why involve others in trouble? You are yourself in trouble and you involve others as well. If you cannot say it, then be silent. That which cannot be said should not be said. Do not say what cannot be said. And yet, you do say at least this much, that it cannot be said — and then you fall silent.

This is precisely what ‘mystery’ means. It cannot be said; and yet without saying it, one cannot endure. To say it is death; not to say it is death. To say it is to fall into entanglement; not to say it is also entanglement. A riddle that cannot be solved — and yet cannot be left unsolved. And the wonder is that somewhere deep within, it does get solved. But when you try to solve it outside, you find it impossible.

Mystery means also: you will attain, but you will not be able to know. You will become one with truth, you will become truth — but you will not know it. Because you are a part of it.

A surge rises upon the ocean’s shore, a wave lifts itself. That wave is the ocean — but it cannot know the ocean. It rises from the ocean, it will fall back into the ocean, be absorbed; it is the ocean itself, there is not a hair’s breadth of distance — and yet the wave cannot know the ocean. Because the ocean is vast, the wave very small.

You are in the Paramatman. But you are like a wave, and the Paramatman is like the ocean. You are not even a mote distant from it. There is not a speck of separation. There is no way to be away. You are non-different. And yet you cannot know. You can live the Paramatman — you cannot know him. For there is no inconvenience in living; there is an inconvenience in knowing. Because the very nature of knowing is that you can only know what is separate from you, different from you. To know, a little distance is needed, a gap is needed, a small interval is needed; otherwise perspective cannot arise. Perspective is needed.

The greatest difficulty in knowing the Paramatman is precisely that between him and you there is not even an inch of distance. From where will you stand and look at him? Who will look from afar? It is not possible to move away. You are joined to him. You are one. If distance existed, we could cross it. We have invented jets; we would invent even greater super-jets; if distance existed, we would cross it. We reached the moon; one day we would have reached the Paramatman too.

When the Soviet spacecraft first reached near Mars and orbited it, the astronauts sent a communication of great significance. They said: up to here we have found no sign of God; we have not found God yet. We have come so far and still no God. Therefore surely there is no God.

If the Paramatman were far, we would surely reach him. To find God, what need is there to go to Mars! Buddha found him sitting under a small tree near Gaya. Lao Tzu found him sitting in his village. What need is there to go to the moon, to Mars, to the stars? He is not far at all. If you go anywhere, you go astray. If you remain within yourself, you find. If you settle within yourself, he is found. Just a little movement here or there, a slight shifting — and you are in difficulty.

You have lost him by searching. Let the search stop — and you find him this very moment. The Paramatman is not to be searched for; you have to bring yourself to rest. The running must fall to zero. Running is needed for that which is far. For that which is near, what is the point of running? By running you will simply go farther. Stop. Be still. He is already found. He is present. He has always been throbbing within you. Hence, mystery!

It breaks the whole mathematics of life. Mathematics says: that which is not found, run! search! This is the very opposite of mathematics — stop, be still, go nowhere. The treasure is hidden at home. Therefore, treasure. He stands where you stand. He sits where you sit. What you are — that is he. Mystery for this reason too!

A logical statement has precise lines, definite definitions. A poetic statement has hazy lines; the definition is not explicit. It seems something is being said, but the more you ponder, the more the grasp slips away.

Saint Augustine said: people ask me, what is God? and my state becomes like when people sometimes ask: what is time? When no one asks me, then I know perfectly well what time is. As soon as someone asks, I am in trouble.

You too know what time is. You say: I have to get up at six in the morning. What do you mean? You say: be there at eight. What do you mean? You say: such a man died yesterday evening. What are you saying? You say: thirty years of life have gone by. What is your meaning? You use time twenty-four hours a day. But if someone asks what time is, no one has given an answer so far. Great scientists have knocked their heads trying to frame a definition of time. No definition will form. You live in time, you sit and stand in time.

Seeing that time cannot be defined, and the Atman cannot be defined either, Mahavira named the Atman ‘time’. Therefore Jains call their meditation samayik. Samayik means: entry into time, entry into the Atman. Mahavira said: the very nature of the Self is like time.

You do not know what it is — and yet you live with it so delightfully. You use time as well. You become young, you become old; you come, you go; you use time exactly. But no definition will come. The moment you try to define, time scatters — as quicksilver slips from the fist.

Logic’s definitions are clear lines; divisions are sharp. Mystery means that the ultimate truth is not like mathematics and logic — it is poetic, hazy. It is not like the bright noon when everything is clearly visible and separate. It is like the morning — a maiden morning steeped in mist, where nothing is sharp. A winter dawn, everything smoky, every line blurred, one thing merging into another, melting, dissolving. All together; nothing fragmented — all indivisible. It is not like day; it is like dark night. A new moon night. No moon — only the twinkling of stars. Just enough light that the darkness becomes clear, but does not vanish. Just enough light that the presence of darkness is known — and its depth felt.

Buddha attained enlightenment on a full-moon night. Who knows whether it happened thus, or whether this is only poetry. On a full-moon night the moon does appear, but the greatest quality of moonlight is that it makes things hazy. In the night of the full moon there is light, but lines are not distinct. There is a sea of light, but it is smoky, mysterious. The moon gives things a mystery.

Therefore poets love it, and lovers love it. The moon gives a beauty that disappears in the harsh noon. See the same tree at night in moonlight, the same flower in moonlight; the same face in moonlight and the same face at noon — there is a difference of earth and sky. The moon hides much, reveals much. Its combination is different.

Buddha attained on a full-moon night; the whole sky was filled with mystery. Mahavira attained on a moonless night; the whole existence was filled only with the twinkling of stars. And I am amazed that up to now no one has attained enlightenment in the bright noon; no one has reached nirvana at that time. Whenever it has happened, it has happened at night. It cannot be accidental; there is some deep relationship with the night. In the night there is something that is not present in the day. In the night there is a song that the day does not have. The day is too clear-cut. And the ultimate mystery is not so clear-cut. In the day things are distinct, separate. The truth is non-separate, non-different. One thing merges into another. In the density of night there is a quality more congenial and close to nirvana, to ultimate liberation.

Remember, mystery means: it is poetry. Drink a poem, taste a poem; do not try to understand it fully. Someone asked Picasso: what do your paintings mean? Picasso said: why do you not ask the moon and stars, ‘what do you mean’? Why do you not ask flowers and trees, ‘what do you mean’? Birds and animals — why not ask them, ‘what do you mean’? Why ask me?

In my childhood I bought a camera from a junk shop. The man gave it for five rupees. Can you get any camera for five rupees? It was an empty box. Someone must have thrown it away into scrap. But I liked the pictures it produced. The pictures that came out were very mysterious. It was difficult to figure out exactly what was what. Take a tree, it looked like a human face; a river, a mountain — nothing could be made out for certain. Out of twelve exposures hardly eight would print; even out of those four, it was hard to be sure. Only I knew what it was, because I had taken it. No one else could recognize.

My grandmother was very annoyed at my camera. Whenever she saw me with it, she would say: throw away that piece of clay! Has anything ever come from it? Why carry it around? In my village there was a small-time photographer. He too would knock his head when I took my films to be developed. He would say: why do you make me work, why waste money? I just cannot understand what this is!

The lens was damaged. But things became very mysterious. One could not be certain what was what. A haze would descend. Take a man’s picture — it seemed like a tree. Take a tree — it looked like a man. As sometimes when you watch clouds in the sky, they form and dissolve and you keep projecting shapes; those shapes you have to imagine.

Paramatman means: the Vast assembled there. The moon and stars are being born in one corner; in another corner, they are dissolving. On one side, earths are forming; on another, they are being destroyed. Suns are born in one place; in another, they set. Light is on one side, darkness on another. All is together.

We cannot bear that togetherness, so we have made small clean corners in life. We have swept our little courtyards; within them we live. Our intellect is our courtyard. Outside it spreads the Vast.

Once, when I went out of the village, the people at home threw the camera away somewhere, and threw away all my pictures as well. For they refused to accept that those were pictures, or that it was a camera at all.

When you move toward the Paramatman, these eyes of yours — trained to see only neat and tidy — will not be of use. You will need slightly hazy eyes, filled with moonlight or the twinkling of a moonless night. The amount of light you have become accustomed to is not appropriate. That light fragments things.

We are sitting here. If evening falls, the sun sets, darkness slowly descends, and the space between you begins to fill with darkness — a bridge forms. Then deeper darkness comes, and your separate distinctions all vanish. Who is poor, who is rich; who is learned, who is ignorant; who is sinner, who is saint — all is gone. Darkness has swallowed all. Then what remains is one consciousness, vibrating beyond all differences, where all waves have subsided and only the ocean remains — that is mystery.

You can sing the mystery, you cannot say it. Therefore the saints sang. You can dance the mystery, you cannot say it. Therefore Meera and Chaitanya danced. The mystery cannot be said; it can be indicated in silence. Therefore many wise ones sat silent, indicated through silence. The whole matter points one way: the mystery is so vast, so boundless, so infinite-without-beginning, that our words, our definitions, our concepts, our categories — all are futile. You can live truth; you cannot say it.

Even in the ultimate sense, understand mystery.

Science divides the world — the reality of the world — into two parts. One it calls the known — what has been known. The other it calls the unknown — what will be known. The known is what is already known. The unknown is what we will know tomorrow. Religion says: you have left out a third category — the unknowable, that which you will never know.

The known is our past; the unknown will become known in the future. If science is right, a moment will arrive when nothing remains to be known. All will be past, all will be known. Then only one category will remain: the known. The unknown will have vanished.

Religion says: that will never be. Something will always remain to be known — however much you know. And there is also something that you will never be able to know. Not because your capacity is small — if capacity is small, it can be increased. If instruments are few, they can be multiplied. Science grows daily. No — that is not the issue. There is something in existence whose very nature is unknowability. Therefore your instruments, laboratories, your intellect, talent, mathematical development — none of that has any relevance. Its very being is thus. As fire cannot be cold; if cold, it is not fire. The sun cannot be without light; if without light, it is not the sun. It is its nature.

Lao Tzu says: the ultimate, the deepest truth of life has unknowability as its nature. Therefore whatever you do, you will not know it. It will always remain on the far horizon as the unknowable. If you would relate to it, the relationship cannot be of knowledge. That relationship is not its way. Only love relates to it; not knowing, not the intellect. Only the heart leads to it.

The heart has no concern with knowing. The heart does not think of knowing or not knowing. The heart rejoices in it, blossoms in it, floats, swims, dances in it — it has no concern with knowing. The heart says: what is the use of knowing? Being is the real thing. What will you do by knowing? When the path of being is open, only fools will try to know.

When you are thirsty, do you want to know water or to drink it? What will happen by knowing that water is H-two-O, that it contains so many oxygen atoms, so many of hydrogen? What will happen? Even if you memorize the formula H-two-O, your thirst will not be quenched; your throat will be choked. You need water, not knowledge. You need the coolness of water at the throat, not information about water.

The intellect is busy knowing; the heart wants to live.

Mystery means: that which can never be known, but can be lived. If you try to know, you will become distant. For its very nature does not come within knowing. If you try to live it, you will drown in it; you will become one with it. That alone is the only knowing.

Love is the only knowing of the Paramatman. And meditation is the only knowledge of the Paramatman. And Samadhi is the only scripture of the Paramatman. If you try anything lower than this, anything different from this, you will only fall into entanglements and go astray.

This is the mystery-filled Tao.

Now let us try to understand.

‘Tao is the universe’s mystery-filled core. Tao is the mysterious secret of the universe.’

It is a mystery, a hidden mystery. Unveil it as much as you like — you will not lift its veil. Because the veil is a part of its nature. If the veil had been thrown over it from the outside, it could be removed. The veil is its way of being; its style of life. One kind of veil is of cloth; you can lift it. Because it has been placed from outside. There is another veil — of modesty; that you cannot lift. How will you lift it? You can make a woman naked and yet the veil of modesty remains. In fact it becomes more intense. Clothes can be removed. And if you have mistaken clothes for the veil and imagined that by removing them you will understand the secret of the woman, you are mistaken. The body will be seen; the consciousness will remain unknown.

Science is doing just that — removing veils, stripping off garments. Through that, the body of the Divine — matter — becomes known, but no news of the Divine arises. In the laboratory, no footfall of his is heard. Therefore the poor scientist says: we do not find him anywhere. We search so much, we do not find. And how shall we believe that you, sitting under a tree, have found? It arouses suspicion. We labor so much and do not find.

His situation is like some goons attacking a beautiful woman passing on the road, tearing off her clothes, raping her. Even then they remain only on the outside; they do not know the woman’s secret. For that is not the way to know the heart.

Science is a kind of rape of nature — compulsion, violence, aggression.

Then there is the woman’s lover. Suppose the woman is Laila, and the lover Majnun. And Majnun sings songs of her. And these goons say: we have known everything about her, stop your nonsense. There is nothing in her. We have seen her naked. Not only seen — we have used her. Stop this rubbish. These songs you sing, we have never found anything like that in her.

They too are right, and yet wrong. For the heart of the woman did not open; it opens only in love. The veil of her modesty dissolves only when you drown so totally in her that she no longer feels the presence of an other. Only then the veil that lies upon her soul lifts. But then you are no longer there. Only when you are gone can she reveal herself fully.

Paramatman is such a bride, whose veil is inner.

Lao Tzu says: this is Tao’s mysterious heart. If you would recognize this secret, you can find it in three places: in the good man’s treasure, in the wicked man’s refuge, and in the saint’s nature. In this sutra the saint’s nature is not discussed, for Lao Tzu has spoken of it in depth earlier.

It is the good man’s treasure. Treasure means: the good man has known it only from the outside; it has not yet become his nature. He has filled his vault with merits and good deeds; charity, compassion — he has filled his locker with these. It is the good man’s treasure.

But even the good man is not yet fully acquainted; there is still distance. Treasure can be looted. Thieves and bandits can take it away. And the good man is always afraid of thieves and bandits. He fears the devil a lot. He fears to pass through places where his treasure may be harmed.

Vivekananda wrote: I did not know what I was doing then, but I would never pass through those lanes in Calcutta where the courtesans lived. I realized much later it was my fear.

The good man fears that he may pass near a prostitute. For goodness is still treasure, it can be snatched. The prostitute can attack.

The good man takes religion as wealth. He takes religion as doing. He thinks: religious acts! Some good men come to me and ask: what should we do so that we become religious? Their emphasis is on doing. They do not ask: what should we be? They ask: what to do, not what to be. That is the difference. The good man asks: what should I do? He thinks it is a matter of doing. Do certain acts, you will become religious.

The saint asks: what should I become? What is there to do! Doing flows out of being. If I have become, doing will be right by itself.

But the reverse is not true. Even if you make all your acts religious, it is not necessary that you become religious. It may all be hypocrisy on the surface. Acts do not change the soul; the soul changes acts. The outer does not change the inner; the inner changes the outer. Conduct does not transform the core; the core transforms conduct. If you change conduct without changing the inner, it will be surface decoration, adornment. It will be lipstick on the lips, not the redness of blood from within. The world will worship you, for the world worships treasures. Your wealth will be visible. You will seem to possess great riches. But still, the last hour has not arrived.

Lao Tzu says: the mystery is the good man’s treasure. The good makes the mystery into treasure. It is the wicked man’s refuge. And the same is the shelter for the wicked.

Consider this. The good is always puffed up: I did this, I did that. So many charities, so many monks fed, so many dharmashalas built, so many temples and mosques raised. He counts his doings, keeps accounts, writes in ledgers.

These same good men have fabricated stories that up there in heaven too, at the gates, in the ledger books, everything is being recorded. What you have done is being inscribed. For every single deed you will settle accounts; in the end you will have to answer. Therefore do not do evil. Not because there is any intrinsic evil in evil — do not do evil because you will have to answer for it. If there were no answerability, then there is no problem in evil.

The good man is not against evil — he is afraid of it. He is not on the side of good — but good protects his ego. So he hoards good. Good will save here and hereafter too.

For the wicked it is a refuge, a shelter. The bad man is always thinking: I must do good. The thief thinks: I must drop theft. The lustful thinks: I must take a vow of brahmacharya. The liar thinks: I must speak truth. I must practice — though tomorrow. Today is already gone; steal once more today, from tomorrow take the vow of non-stealing. It is the wicked man’s refuge. By such tricks he remains wicked; he keeps postponing the good to tomorrow. It becomes his shelter. Supported by it he stays bad.

It is a curious thing — people become bad by leaning on the name of good. Being bad is so bad that without the support of some good you cannot even be bad; you search in some good for a way to be bad. You say: if I tell a lie, I tell it to save that man; otherwise he will be killed. You say: I tell a lie to feed my children; otherwise they will die. Even to tell lies you take shelter either in love, or charity, or truth. You take shelter. Then you can even rejoice in your lie. Then there is no fear — you are telling a lie for the sake of truth. You are doing evil for the sake of good.

Stalin killed millions, yet not a prick of conscience touched him. For these are bad people, and he is destroying them for society’s future. Mao shot hundreds of thousands — too many to count — yet no pang in Mao’s heart, no disturbance of sleep. For to bring socialism, to realize a future utopia, an ideal, for a great work — this must be done. This sacrifice is necessary.

You can recognize this from small to great. The Hindu priest for centuries has offered animals in sacrifice. There are stories that even human beings were sacrificed. Ashwamedha sacrifices took place in which horses were offered; Narmedha sacrifices too. But the Brahmin, the priest, never felt pain. For the offering is to God. God is the shelter.

Even today in Kali’s temple in Calcutta, hundreds of animals are sacrificed. But the priest feels no hurt, because it is being offered at the feet of God.

Tao thus is used as a refuge. You are cutting animals, committing violence — the sin is plain and simple. But it is happening under the guise of virtue; it is done for prayer, as part of worship.

The greatest scoundrels in the world also turn their crookedness into some piece of prayer and worship. Then the pang is gone. Then sin can be done with an open heart.

The good man manufactures ego out of his deeds, and the wicked passes through processes of untruth in the name of truth. He practices dishonesty, but takes the excuse of honesty. He deceives himself.

‘The good man’s treasure and the wicked man’s refuge.’

In yet another sense this is true. Truth is one — one and the same — you can make it your treasure, or you can make it your refuge. It depends on you. And let me add a third thing not in this sutra but consonant with Lao Tzu’s fundamental voice: the saint’s nature. For the saint it is neither deed nor refuge. The saint recognizes it as his very nature. And when it becomes nature, then no one can rob you. And when it becomes nature, fear ends. Now it can never be taken away. The saint becomes assured. Therefore you find the saint so peaceful — he has received the assurance: nothing can be snatched from him now. And what he has found has no end. There is no way to return. He has become one with the goal.

Do not stop until then. Do not console yourself with treasure. It is not enough. It is good — not enough. If you can do nothing else, it is fine — but it is not the end. It can be a path, not the goal. You have to go beyond it. If you make it a halting place, it will do — but do not make it the final rest. It is not home; it can be an inn on the way. Do not remain there forever. Rest for a night and move on.

‘And the wicked man’s refuge.’

If you make Tao a refuge, if you make God a refuge, then let it be as soon as possible — lest making it a refuge becomes only a way to postpone.

People come to me and always say: we will do it tomorrow, we will take sannyas tomorrow. Tomorrows pass by. Whenever they come, they say again: tomorrow we will take it. Some have been coming for five years. Whenever they come, they say: I am getting ready; just a few days more. They have passed five years; they will pass fifty. They do not see their own deception.

Whatever is to be done, do it — do it now. What guarantee is there of tomorrow? Does tomorrow ever come? Has tomorrow ever come? Have you ever heard that tomorrow arrived? Do not postpone to that which never comes. If you must postpone, then say it clearly: this is not for me to do. Then at least the matter is clear. But do not deceive by postponing. For postponement has a device hidden in it: you also keep convincing yourself that it has to be done — tomorrow. Therefore the ego remains inflated: it must certainly be done, it is only a matter of time. Your position never becomes clear as to where you stand.

Religion is the wicked man’s refuge. Do not make it a refuge; beware. Make it your treasure. And even the treasure do not take as sufficient. Carry the journey to nature. Until it becomes nature, ways of going astray remain. Treasure can be lost. In refuge, you have not received it at all — it is already lost.

‘Fine words can be sold in the marketplace; noble character can be given as a gift.’

But it will all remain on the surface. Thus have you become learned — you have purchased fine words in the bazaar. But Lao Tzu says: if you must buy something, then buy fine words — for in the bazaar there are far worse things being sold. Even fine words are ultimately junk, but at least they carry a faint glimmer of your thirst. If you must buy, then instead of something else, buy conduct; though that conduct will not be very deep. But at least it will be something. If you must build treasure, do not build it of this world’s coins; when there is the possibility of building treasure from the other world’s coin, build that. If you must hoard wealth, hoard merit.

Lao Tzu is not saying: stop there.

‘Fine words can be sold in the marketplace.’

They are being sold. You can buy the Bible. You can buy the Gita. You can buy the Vedas. All can be bought. The words of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ — all are being sold in the marketplace. If you must buy anything, buy words. Sometimes it happens that in some moment a word settles so deeply within you that a revolution can happen through it. For each authentic word is explosive. Merely collecting words will not do anything — but in some delicate moment, a word may settle very deep; at some moment when the doors of your mind are open.

Therefore Hindus have a device: they say, read the Gita daily, make it a recitation. Westerners are amazed: what will happen by reading daily? Once you have read a book, the matter is finished. What is there to read every day? If you did not understand, read twice, read thrice. But every day?

The Hindu’s reason is this: read daily because you have no inkling of your own mind. Sometimes the window opens — by coincidence. One night you slept deep, because you worked hard the day before. One night your mind remained quiet, dreams did not crowd, because the previous day there were not many desires racing. In the morning you read the Gita. The words will go very deep. Some day you are full of anger, desires surround the mind, agitated, restless, uneasy. You read the Gita — the words will not go within. Keep reading. Someday the coincidence will occur. Someday it will happen that you read the Gita at just the right moment. Keep reading daily.

I keep speaking daily. The reason is only this — you are not reliable. Otherwise I could say it all in one day and be done. What I say daily can be said in a single day. What I am saying can be written on a postcard. There is no need to say so much. You are not reliable. I could write it on a postcard — but you might not be present there. I could say it in one day, finish it in five sentences — but you? The question is you. Therefore I keep saying it daily. Someday the tuning will happen. Someday I will catch you at home. Someday it will happen that you are at home within and I knock. So I will go on knocking. Someday the coincidence will fit. In that very moment the tuning happens. In that instant darkness breaks, light spreads. In that juncture you see. Once you have seen, a connection is made. Then another journey begins in your life.

Therefore satsang has such significance. In satsang you hear only words, yet what is the value? The value is that by a coincidence there may come such a moment of happiness, of peace, of blossoming in you that the tuning fits. Once it fits, it will fit again and again. For what has happened once has the possibility to happen again. And what you have tasted once — you will long to taste again and again. Slowly you will understand why it happened in that moment. Then you will begin to preserve those very causes by which it happened then. That alone is sadhana.

If some day you slept deeply, and in the morning you heard me and a resonance reached your heart, it means: deep sleep is necessary daily; then live in such a way that deep sleep becomes possible. You discover that if in the day you work rightly with the body, deep sleep comes at night. Then it means: keep working rightly with the body; do not avoid it. You discover that for two days you did not become angry; therefore there was a calm aura in your mind; you could listen. Or you discover that for a week you did not plunge into lust; therefore there was an energy within you, a strength; because of that strength the tuning fitted. Then you will begin to arrange your life accordingly. A vision has entered your life. No Patanjali scripture can give you such knowledge; you will recognize it from the taste of your own life — what to do. You will go on increasing your recognition of how it happened. In your life the seeker will be born.

Become a seeker; the siddha is not far. The distance between a non-seeker and a seeker is vast; the distance between a seeker and a siddha is not vast. The one who has started walking will reach. The one who has not started — how will he walk? That is the difficulty. The gap between the seated and the walking is vast. The gap between the walking and the arrived is not vast. The one who has started will certainly arrive.

Mahavira used to say: once you have begun, you have already completed half. Half the journey is over the moment the first step is taken.

But that first step takes much time.

Lao Tzu says: ‘Fine words can be sold in the marketplace; noble character can be offered as a gift.’

This may seem difficult — that noble character can be given as a gift. Certainly. We are always giving something or other. We do offer the ignoble as a gift at least. You sit at home gloomy; your child sees you gloomy — you are giving a gift. You are teaching him to sit gloomy. You are radiant; you are joyful. Your child sits near you; he is drinking your radiance. You are gifting him noble character.

Remember, children do not care for your words; they care for what you are. They do not pay much attention to what you say. For they know there is a great gap between what you say and what you are. You say one thing, you do another. They watch you. They drink you. If the child goes astray, know that you have given him ignoble character. You are responsible. Do not bang your head: how did a wicked one take birth in our house! It is not without cause. He could be born only in your house — that is why he was born there. He is your flower. You have watered and tended him. This is what you have given him. Now when the fruit begins to appear, you are frightened. Do not deceive before the child, otherwise he will drink the deception.

He keeps watching. Children are great observers. Because they do not think much yet, they observe. You cannot observe because your energy is spent on thinking; theirs is wholly observing. They see that the mother and father were quarreling, fighting; a guest arrives and they both begin to smile and behave as though there is no love like theirs anywhere. The child is watching. He sees deception going on. A moment ago they were ready to throttle each other, now they smile. Hypocrisy is going on. The child is watching. He is drinking. You are gifting.

Sitting, standing, knowingly or unknowingly, whomever you meet, you are gifting them something. All life is a sharing. We are distributing. Whomever you meet, he gives you something; you give him something. An exchange of life-energy is going on.

Therefore keep away from those of whom something wrong can be caught, and be close to those from whom something auspicious can be received. Protect yourself. For you are not yet capable enough that someone offers the wrong and you do not take it. You have not the strength to say: no, I am already filled to the brim, please. You do not have that strength. If someone gives, you will take. You have become so naturally easy with collecting garbage that you do not know how to refuse. Your doors are open — anyone can throw garbage.

On the road someone meets you, begins to tell you some rumor. You listen with eager ears. Without thinking what the consequence will be of taking this rumor within. Why are you listening? Why not say to him: forgive me, I have no use for this; do not waste your time, and why throw garbage into my ears? If someone dumps a basket of rubbish in your home, you are ready to fight. But people keep throwing rubbish into your soul; you do not even refuse.

What you are listening to will have consequences. For if you listen daily — such-and-such man eloped with another’s wife, such-and-such man stole, such-and-such man black-marketed, such-and-such smuggles, such-and-such earned so much — these are seeds. The aggregate result of all these will be that what you have sown will begin to appear in your conduct. All these are attractions, because you see the smuggler has built a big house.

A priest came to a village and severely condemned alcohol. To condemn he said: look, who has the biggest building in the village? The one who sells liquor! Your blood is plastered into those bricks. Who has the biggest car? The one who sells liquor! You are being ruined; his wealth is being made. So he described.

Mulla Nasruddin was also listening. Afterwards he went to offer thanks. He said: you have changed my life, thank you. I never heard such a sermon, my soul is transformed. Now I am a different man. The priest was delighted. He said: it is a great joy; have you decided not to drink? Nasruddin said: no, I have decided to open a liquor shop. I have taken the decision. Your talk made such an impact.

What you listen to are impressions. They are samskaras. We keep giving to each other.

Lao Tzu says: ‘Noble character can be given as a gift.’

If you must give, give character.

‘Even though there may be bad people, still, why reject them?’

There is no need to reject. They too can be gifted character. The bad can be made good.

‘Therefore, at an emperor’s coronation, at the appointment of ministers, instead of sending pearls, jewels, and teams of four horses, it is better to send the gift of Tao.’

Lao Tzu is saying: only one thing is truly worthy to give — religion. Only one thing is worthy to share — religion. Give as much as you can of it.

But there is a great difficulty. You can only give what you have. How will you give character if you do not have it? Even a man of bad character wants his son to be of good character. But how will he give it? A thief too does not want his children to be thieves. A cheat wants his children to be honest. But how? You can give only what you possess.

If you want to gift character to others, then you must create it within. And if you want to lead people toward nature, you must be established in nature yourself. You can give only what you have. And if people do not listen to you, if you give something and something else reaches them, do not be angry with them. Do not say: people are bad. Consider yourself. What you are trying to give — your gesture — is hollow. Inside there is nothing. You are pouring from empty hands into others’ hands. There is nothing in your hands.

So many gurus, so many mosques and temples, so many churches and gurudwaras — the whole earth is crowded. Character is being given everywhere. And character is not reaching anyone. Knowledge is being distributed everywhere. And knowledge is not falling into anyone’s lap. So much rain of knowledge is falling everywhere — and no one is becoming wise. What is the matter?

Perhaps those who give do not have what they wish to give. Their gesture is hollow and impotent. They try their best to give, but there is nothing to give. They are only making empty gestures. Nothing will land in anyone’s hands. It cannot.

Remember this. It will become revolution in your life.

Lao Tzu is saying: if you must give a gift, give words that carry a flavor of nectar; give conduct in which the wealth of Tao’s treasure is present; or give a taste of that nature which the saints have known and lived.

‘In what regard did the ancients value this Tao? Did they not say: seek out offenders and forgive them? Therefore Tao is the treasure of the world.’

People are bad — forgive them. Their being bad makes no difference. If they meet many who forgive, their badness will end. People are bad because no one is ready to forgive them. People are bad because all around there are those who are eager to make their badness worse. People are bad because the so-called good want to see them as bad and want to keep them bad — otherwise their own goodness will be exposed as hollow. People are bad because the whole society gifts them with badness. No one wants to forgive them.

Jesus told a story. A man asked him: I have committed many sins, and I cannot trust that God will forgive me.

And the whole process of Jesus is forgiveness. Just as Mahavira’s whole process is non-violence, and Buddha’s whole process is compassion, Jesus’ whole process is forgiveness.

Jesus said: do not worry about God; those who have offended you, you forgive them; I will take care of the rest, I will stand witness. And when God raises the matter of your sins, I will witness that this man forgave with his whole heart. And he who has forgiven becomes worthy of being forgiven.

And Jesus told him a story. He said: an emperor had lent many crores to his minister. The minister squandered it all and did not return a single penny. Finally the emperor called him and said: enough; will you return the money? On top of it you keep asking for more — you do not return, you keep asking. The man fell at the emperor’s feet and said: forgive me. All is squandered, I have nothing to return; I am a beggar of your grace. The emperor felt pity. He was an old servant. A mistake had happened. The emperor said: all right, I forgive you. Forget it as though I never lent you anything. Remove the burden from your mind.

From that very money of the emperor which the minister had gotten, he too had lent to many people. He was a harsh man. The very next day it happened that one of his servants, to whom he had lent a few hundred rupees, he had flogged with whips, because the servant could not repay. The emperor heard of it. He called the minister and said: you are not worthy of forgiveness. When I have forgiven you, you cannot forgive? And it is the same money for which I forgave you; and you had a servant whipped!

Jesus says: the emperor had that man flogged and said: the forgiveness is withdrawn.

Existence forgives you so much. You repeat the same mistake again and again — yet your life is not taken away. You cause the same trouble again and again — yet existence goes on forgiving you. If from this you cannot learn at least this much — that you too forgive others — then you have learned nothing. And if you forgive others, you will find that whomever you forgive, you open a path for his improvement. The more you punish the bad, the more bad they become. The more you punish, the more expert they become in evil. The more you punish, the more rigidly they become bad. For they will wish to avenge your punishment too.

When you slap a child, or an offender, many things are happening. A child told a lie, you slapped him. He became angry; you caned him. And you want the child to learn from this and not lie. But he will learn many things. One is that lies bring punishment. But lies also have many advantages. If a lie succeeds, you get rewards too. If a lie is not detected, you get benefits. And there is a fun in lying: you deceive the other; you are clever. There is an ego in lying — you deceived your father. Father plays the wise man and could not catch it. So the child learns: lie, but lie in such a way that you are not caught easily.

And he learns also that however much the father says ‘do not lie’, the father lies himself. The father himself tells the son: if someone comes, say I am not at home, I have gone out.

The father says: do not be angry, do not beat those younger than you. And the father beats the son. And the son wonders: what kind of account is this? I am told not to beat my younger brother; and father is so much bigger than me, I am so small, and I am being beaten. Then the child understands: the small can be beaten — provided you have unchecked power. Father beats me — there is no one above him, therefore he beats. The day there is no one above me, I too will beat. Therefore my whole effort will be to get above all, that no one remains above me. The crime is not in beating, not in caning, not in anger; there is no crime in being above. If you are below, you are a criminal. This the child is learning. This the offender is learning.

Lao Tzu says: forgive. Gift them with nectar-words. And give them the charity of character. And if possible, give them a slight glimpse and taste of the nature that is with you.

If you understand that you must share, must give, must make an offering — you will set about changing yourself. Because only what is within you can be given. This is my own understanding, and I tell you because it will be of use to you.

Many sannyasins come to me and ask: we are not complete yet — how can we try to change others! We have not fully known — how can we make others know!

I tell them: go and make others know; go and tell others; go and care to change others. For in the very caring to change them you will find that you have begun to arrange with greater intensity to change yourself. Whenever you set out to improve another, it becomes clear to you that before improving him you must improve yourself. If you do not set out to improve another, even the feel of the need to improve yourself does not arise.

If each person sets out to improve even one bad person, whether that bad person changes or not — in the end the improver will find that in the effort to improve another, he himself has improved. A small child can change the whole family. The father finds it difficult — how to smoke a cigarette in the presence of this child? If the father loves the child, he will throw away the cigarette. If he loves the child, he will stop lying. If you are filled with the feel of transforming even one person’s life, it will become inevitable that you change yourself — otherwise how will you change him? Trying to change others is a beautiful alchemy for changing oneself. The effort to change another is the greatest sadhana for oneself.

Therefore do not worry about when you will be complete, when your transformation will be complete. Whatever little you have, begin to share that. If you have nothing, then the nectar-words you have heard from me — tell those to people. If you have gathered a small treasure of conduct, distribute from it. If you have received a glimpse of nature, make others participants in it. You will find: the more you share, the more it grows. And the more you set about changing others, the more your inner revolution goes on happening. You change indirectly.

No one in the world finds it easy to change himself directly. All your identity is through the other. People call you beautiful — then you think yourself beautiful. People call you good — then you think yourself good. To recognize yourself you need another’s mirror. Alone you will not understand who you are and what you are.

In the West a great Jewish thinker appeared — Martin Buber. He says: your whole revolution will bear fruit in your relationships. Krishnamurti also emphasizes inter-relationship. He says: the more you understand your relationships — husband-wife, mother-son, son-father, friend-friend — and the more you fill them with love, and the more you long for the auspicious to descend into the other’s life, long that showers of benediction fall into his life — you will suddenly find that while you were showering flowers for others, without your noticing, the sky opened and flowers have begun to shower in your own courtyard.

Enough for today.