Tao Upanishad #103

Non-doing is Lao Tzu’s fundamental note.
It needs to be understood very deeply. The difficulty becomes greater still because we often mistake non-doing for indolence. The word is negative, but the state is not a negation. The word is a ‘no’, the state is supremely affirmative.
Non-doing does not mean laziness, nor does it mean incompetence. Non-doing means: energy is full, power is overflowing; there is no expenditure. Within, energy is utterly abundant, but its rush toward the directions of desire has been stopped. In laziness there is a lack of energy. In the morning you lie in bed; you cannot find the strength to get up. There is a lack, something is missing; you cannot even feel your power. You turn over and doze again. Do not call this non-doing. This is mere inability. You want to do, but the strength is not there.
Non-doing is exactly the opposite. You do not want to do; the strength is immense. The wanting has gone, not the power. The lazy person has the want, not the strength. The knower has lost the want; as the want drops, tremendous power is freed. The power that used to be wasted in wanting has nowhere left to leak. All the pores have been sealed. All the doors, closed.
So sometimes you will see a similarity between a knower and a lazy person; the knower does nothing, the lazy person does nothing. But the causes are utterly different.
Understand it rightly, or else by reading Lao Tzu many people become lazy instead of becoming non-doers.
My own sannyasins come to me and say, “You yourself explain that one should be in non-doing. Then you yourself say: meditate, work. So you teach contradictory things.”
I am not teaching you to be lazy. You would like to be lazy. Who would not? I am saying, drop wanting. Wanting you cling to with great care; you do not drop it, even after hearing me. But non-doing looks appealing to the mind. “Wonderful! Nothing to be done; not even meditation.”
To come to meditation at six in the morning—you have to get up. So sannyasins come and say, “On the one hand you say be natural, and in the morning there is no desire to get up. You also say be non-doing, so when we are non-doing we remain in bed; and then you say, ‘Come to meditate.’”
Do not mistake this for non-doing. This is pure laziness. Laziness is poison; non-doing is nectar. The distance between them is vast—like earth and sky. And the mind is very cunning. It always mixes the right with the wrong. It is a clever artist. It whispers to you, “Fine. If the supreme knowers have said do nothing, why are you still doing?”
The supreme knowers have said: let the craving to do drop; not the capacity to do. They ask you to drop the craving so that energy may be saved.
One man lies in bed, doing nothing.
Have you seen the runner at the starting line? The race is about to begin. The whistle will blow, the signal will come; it has not begun yet. He stands with his toes touching the line. He is doing nothing yet. Will you call him lazy? He is charged with energy. The instant the whistle blows, he will explode. He is ready; every hair is ready; every breath is alert. Because each split second counts. Miss one fraction and defeat is certain. He does nothing in that moment; he stands like a statue, like stone. But you cannot call him lazy. He is in non-doing right now. No act yet. Energy is gathered. Energy is condensing within. He has become a pillar of energy.
Yet this competitor is nothing compared to the one who would race toward Paramatma. For that journey infinite energy is needed. This race is small—over in a mile, a half mile. The race toward Paramatma is vast. There is no greater race; no greater goal.
Lao Tzu says, be in non-doing, so that energy is saved. Non-doing is restraint. Do not waste it. Do not run here and there without cause. Drop whatever running can be dropped. Drop whatever desires can be dropped. Settle on the minimum essential so that all your energy flows in a single direction, becomes a single stream. Non-doing means: the energy is withdrawn from this world, and the journey toward that world has begun.
Laziness means: neither of this world nor of that. There is not even energy enough to move into this world; what to say of the other! Laziness is impotence, a lack. Laziness is negative.
Non-doing is a deeply positive condition. Power is total; no craving remains. No race in this world is attractive now; no door beckons; nowhere to go. Everything is being gathered. And when in this world every door is closed, every pore is sealed, and your pot is being filled with power—then the power in your pot rises. A moment comes when the mounting energy itself carries you beyond this world. Properly understood, that is the awakening of kundalini.
People come to me utterly dead. They say, “We went to such-and-such baba and he awakened our kundalini.” Looking at their faces you would say, you ought to be in a hospital. How could your kundalini awaken? You have fantasized. You have been deceived by an illusion.
Kundalini awakening is no easy event. It is the result of such fullness of energy that there are no leaks below; energy gathers. Where will it go? It rises upward and a moment comes when energy begins to overflow from the mouth of the pot. Your skull is that mouth through which the overflow happens. Hence we have called it the opening of the sahasradal—the thousand-petaled lotus; like petals of a flower opening.
A flower is the tree’s overflow. Energy has reached to the summit; now there is nowhere further to go. The ultimate moment has come. At the peak the energy scatters as petals. From there fragrance spreads into all the worlds.
A weak tree, with no energy, cannot flower. Yes, you can go to the market and buy a flower and tie it to the tree. But that flower has nothing to do with the tree. Just so, the energies that ‘rise’ at the hands of the so-called babas, the ‘kundalini awakenings’, are flowers imposed from outside.
Your energy will awaken only when you become utterly non-doing in this world; when you do not waste even a grain here. There is nothing here worth spending for. There is nothing here worth gaining. What shopping are you busy with? You are only losing. Here is a desert that will drink your energy away.
Seal all the leaks. Close all the pores, says Lao Tzu. Close all the doors, so that energy becomes organized. The organization of energy, and a growing accumulation, at a certain point turns into a qualitative change. Quantitative change, at a point, becomes qualitative. There is a limit of quantity where the quality itself changes. Like heating water—the water remains water up to ninety-nine degrees; at one hundred it becomes steam. What is happening? What revolution occurs by adding just one more degree? Only a difference of quantity: from ninety-nine to one hundred. But the quality is transformed; the very nature changes. Water has one quality: it flows downward. Steam has another: it rises upward. Water moves toward pits; steam goes into the sky. Water is downward bound; steam rises. The whole nature has changed. Water is visible; steam, in a short while, becomes invisible.
Reduce the quantity downward—somewhere near zero degrees the water becomes ice. Again a qualitative change. You merely lowered the heat; yet the quality changed. Water flowed; ice stays. Water was fluid; ice is like stone. With water you could not break a head; with ice you can kill. Ice has congealed, become inert; it has lost mobility. What is the difference? Only the difference of quantity.
All transformations in existence are transformations of quantity. When your energy reaches a certain quantum—your energy too has its hundred degrees—instantly you enter another realm; you become steam. We have divided existence in three: in the middle is the world of man, the consciousness of man—like water: fluid. Above is the divine realm—like steam: invisible, ascending. Below man are the lower forms; trees, stones, mountains. They are like ice—congealed. These are three forms of consciousness. Their entire difference is the difference of energy’s quantity.
By laziness you become ice. By non-doing you become steam. In both cases you will no longer remain water. Hence there is a kind of similarity. But that similarity is only apparent; inside the difference is vast.
A saint can look lazy; nothing seems to be happening around him. What was Ramana Maharshi doing on Arunachala? Hence to many, Gandhi appears more of a saint than Ramana. Ramana is sitting. Have you seen his pictures? Always on his cot. Not even sitting much—mostly reclining. Four or six pillows propped up. Is this a saint? Get up, do something. Serve someone. The world needs you; do some work. The nation is enslaved; liberate it. People are poor; make them rich. What are you doing sitting here?
Ramana kept sitting on Arunachala. Common eyes cannot understand this. This is not laziness. This is non-doing. Not a shred of Ramana’s energy is being thrown here and there; all is gathered, all is integrated. And those who can see will see that the journey above is on. And there is no greater service to the world than that.
If your journey upward begins, you become a great benefaction to the world. You become a spring of another realm. Through you the world is re-linked to Paramatma. Through you, through your bridge, matter and Paramatma are joined. Through you many will be able to reach Paramatma.
And only one who reaches Paramatma is truly enriched. Before that, who is rich? All are beggars. Only one who reaches Paramatma becomes healthy. Before that, who is healthy? All are sick, burdened by afflictions. Poverty-wealth, illness-health, success-failure—all are things seen in dream. Truth begins only on the day when energy becomes so measureless that the mouth of the pot opens like the petals of a flower and energy begins to shower through you; when it flows beyond you. Transcendence!
In non-doing there is transcendence. In laziness there is only petrifaction; you become like a stone. Therefore look closely at the lazy and the non-doer. Around the lazy you will find a stupor, a fainting, a heaviness. Sit near him and you will begin to feel sleepy. Sit near him and you will feel a deep boredom filling the mind; you begin to sink downward. You become heavy like a rock. Gravity thickens.
Sit near one who is in non-doing and you will feel wings growing; you soar into some sky—as if the earth has lost its gravity. There is no weight in you; you are light. That is satsang—from where you return light, unburdened. Avoid the place from where you come back heavy. There, in the name of satsang the opposite must be happening. Satsang will make you light, weightless, so that you can fly. And Paramatma means the ultimate horizon of the sky. You cannot reach there until you become absolutely weightless.
Non-doing is a wondrous flower. Non-doing is like a flower. Laziness is like roots—ugly, buried in the soil, asleep. Non-doing is flower-like—blossoming in the sky, diffusing fragrance, sharing. From there the tree is pouring itself, giving. Nothing to gain; there is too much, so it gives. This is the first point.
Second, try to understand the nature of non-doing. So far I have only said what non-doing is not; it is not laziness, not incompetence. Then what is non-doing?
Non-doing is the restraint of energy. A knower will not even make a gesture without cause. If he moves, it is out of necessity; if he walks, it is out of necessity. A knower does not take even one step in vain. His life is minimal.
You take thousands of steps in vain. You move in vain. You do thousands of useless acts. You live in the futile. You think thousands of useless thoughts. Have you ever noticed, of all the thoughts you think, how many could be cut away, how many are needless?
Become a little alert and you will find ninety-nine percent of your thoughts are useless. Had you not thought them, you would have lost nothing; but in thinking you have lost much. Because each thought consumes energy. For each single thought a price is paid. Do not think you dream for free. Nothing is free here. Nothing can be free; for whatever is, a price is being paid. You think—and your energy is drained. That is a leak. You chatter uselessly—and energy is drained. You listen to trivia—and energy is drained. You look uselessly—and energy is drained. Even if you wave a hand, it is not for free; that much energy is gone, that much life expended.
This is the meaning of restraint. Restraint means: live with the indispensable—and cut away what can be cut. Restraint is like this: someone goes to the post office to send a telegram; he sees how many words can be cut. He cuts again and again. He brings it within nine or ten words. The same man, if he writes a letter, fills four pages. And have you noticed—what four pages cannot say, the telegram says.
The knower does less, but far more happens through him. He is telegraphic. He does the minimum, but the maximum issues from it. Because the futile has been cut; the essential preserved. The language of the knower is telegraphic. In ten words, only what is utterly necessary manifests from his life.
Make your life telegraphic. Remove whatever you find to be useless. Only then will your statue be polished. Only then will the radiant soul be born in you. You will be a man of soul. Only then will you find you are powerful. Otherwise you will always remain weak.
You are not weak because you were created weak; you are weak because you squander your energy through useless leaks. And you know this well enough. Often it occurs to you too. Only the old habit persists; you go on doing the same things.
A man was sitting before Buddha, and as he sat he was moving his big toe. Buddha asked, “Brother, what are you doing?” He interrupted his discourse to ask, “What are you doing? Why is that toe moving?”
The man became a little nervous. And as soon as Buddha asked, the toe stopped. Because it had been moving in unconsciousness; when awareness came, it stopped. There was no reason to move that toe. The man said, “You are strange! Give your discourse; what have you to do with my toe? And what importance could a toe have?”
Buddha said, “If you do not even know that your toe is moving and why it is moving, then I am speaking in vain. What will you understand? One who does not have the intelligence even to not move a toe without cause—what will he understand? And then, why did you stop when I spoke? Unless you explain clearly, I will not proceed. Why did the toe stop?” The man said, “You are strange! I did not even know it was moving; you spoke, only then I knew.” Buddha said, “Good! It is indeed strange. Your toe—and we have to tell you for you to know it!”
If you live in such stupor and then you weep that nothing is attained—what else can happen? You yourself will waste and not even know how you wasted. And still a man believes he is awake, in his senses.
Look carefully. A thousand toes are moving in you—without cause. As you understand, those toes will stop. Slowly a silent energy will condense. You will become a cloud heavy with rain, ready to shower.
There is a vast potential. But potential will bear fruit only when you close the doors, seal the leaks. And the leaks and doors are sealed only by awareness. Look a little awake at what you are doing. And whenever you find the useless, go with care and drop it.
Someone asked the famous sculptor Rodin. Rodin had just made a very beautiful statue. A friend came to see it. He asked, “You do wonders! What do you do? What is your secret? How does such a living figure emerge from a rough stone?”
Rodin said, “I do nothing. I only remove from the stone whatever is unnecessary. The statue was already hidden there. Stone is a little naive, it clings to the unnecessary. Wherever I find the useless stone, I wield the chisel and remove it. Slowly the statue reveals itself.”
When a sculptor goes to the hills to select stone, he looks to see in which stone a statue is hidden. Which stone will reveal the form? You would see all stones alike. The sculptor sees the hidden form.
When you come to me, I too see what statue is hidden in you; what is useless in you, which, if shaved off a little, will make your essence available. Infinite energy is concealed in you. You are an uncarved stone, but you hide the image of Paramatma.
The first meaning of non-doing is: do not do the unnecessary. Out of a hundred, ninety percent of your acts will depart on their own. Ten percent will remain. Those are the inevitabilities of life: when you are thirsty you will drink water; when sleep comes you will go to bed; when hungry you will take food and digest it; in the morning you will walk a little; you will bathe. Such things of need will remain. Then a pillar of energy will be erected within. Upon that pillar of energy you will ascend to Paramatma. Not you—the energy will ascend. Without energy how will you go? Energy itself will become the path.
Non-doing means the restraint of energy.
Now let us try to understand Lao Tzu.
“Cultivate non-doing. Accomplish do-nothing. Attend to no-affairs. And taste the tasteless.”
Cultivate non-doing. How will you cultivate it? Can one cultivate non-doing? For cultivation is an act. Here language shows its helplessness. Hence Lao Tzu says at the start that what I want to say I cannot say; and what I say will not be the truth. Truth cannot be said. This is the difficulty. Lao Tzu knows it well. For cultivation is action. “Cultivate non-doing”—this is a contradictory statement. How will you cultivate non-doing? Non-doing cannot be cultivated. And yet one must say so. Because you know nothing else. You understand only the language of doing.
Therefore I too have to say, meditate. But can meditation be done? I have to say, love. Can love be done? And that which is done will not be love. Love happens; how will you do it? Meditation is not an act, it is a state. You can be in meditation; you cannot do meditation. Who will do it? How will you do it? You can be in love; how will you do love? You can be in prayer; but how will you do prayer? By your noise-making, prayer does not happen. Bowing your head a thousand times in a temple, prayer does not happen. Folding hands and raising eyes to the sky, prayer does not happen. These are gestures, externals. Prayer is a very different matter. Prayer is your way of being. Even if you do not make gestures, prayer goes on. Prayer is a state.
Therefore, one who understands prayer stops going to the temple. Why go? One who understands meditation, he no longer does meditation. Because where is the question of doing?
But right now, where you are, one has to speak your language. I must say, meditate—knowing very well that meditation has nothing to do with doing. But you will not understand if I tell you from the beginning, do not do meditation. For even then I have to use the verb of doing—whether I say do, or do not do.
“Cultivate non-doing” means: understand non-doing, live it; care for it. By trying to understand life as it is, you will slowly find that non-doing ‘happens’. Because you drop the unnecessary. The essential is not to be done; only drop the futile. You are not to make the statue; you are to remove the unnecessary slabs.
Recognize the futility of doing. You are rushing headlong. Have you ever stood still and asked, why am I running; why am I racing; where do I want to go? And if you are not reaching anywhere, why do you weep? Every morning you start the same circle. The same shop, the same market, the same acts. But have you asked where you want to arrive through all this? What will you gain? If the shop runs well even for seventy years, what will you gain?
One who watches doing rightly, who understands with awareness, recognizes each of his actions; he inspects every act from all sides; he asks, is this necessary? He thinks, he inquires; he throws the light of awareness on the act: should I do it? I have done it so many times—what did I gain? If I do it again, what will I gain? And if I have done it so many times and nothing was gained and still I go on doing it—then there must be some reason hidden behind it of which I am unaware. For I am certainly not doing it for gain—nothing is gained. Then some cause must be hidden in the unconscious womb; some roots in the darkness within by which this act goes on occurring.
People come to me and say, “We want to stop smoking.” I say to them, do not worry about stopping; first understand why you smoke. And when you have not understood by smoking and smoking why you smoke—how will you stop? Why do you want to stop? They say, “We read in the newspaper that it causes cancer.”
You want to stop for outer reasons: the wife nags—“Don’t smoke; your mouth smells; the children will see you and they will begin.” But these are surface reasons. Why did you start smoking? You did not begin because it does not cause cancer, so how will fear of cancer help you stop?
The American parliament passed a law that every cigarette packet must carry the warning: “This is hazardous to health.” It is printed. On every packet sold in America it is written that it is hazardous to health. The sales have not changed. For people were not smoking for health. Manufacturers were worried at first that printing in such bold letters would harm sales—people will take out the packet again and again, read again and again that it is hazardous, and sales will fall.
But not the slightest change occurred. Not a grain of effect. Sales continued as before. People must have read it once or twice; now they do not read at all. It has become blurred. Reading it again and again they forgot.
If someone had begun smoking for health, he would stop on knowing it harms health. If someone began because the wife liked it, he would stop if she disliked it. But these were not the causes. So the reasons by which you want to stop are false; and the reason for which you smoke you have never looked into.
No need to ask the newspaper, nor the wife. Go within. Recognize the urge for the cigarette: how it arises? why it arises? when it arises? What happens within when suddenly you want to smoke? When does the hand go to the pocket, the packet comes out, the match is struck and you begin to draw smoke in and out? Understand the whole state of mind.
And everyone will have different states. Not everyone smokes for the same reason. For each there will be a different cause. Someone smokes because he was weaned too early from the mother’s breast. He still wants to suck a little longer, but the mother weaned him early. Among tribals the child suckles for seven or eight years, even nine. That seems natural. No civilized society will allow a nine-year-old to suckle. It looks indecent. At two and a half, three years, even earlier, the attempt to wean begins. In very civilized societies, like America, the mother does not even like to feed at the breast. The child is fed by bottle from the beginning.
Those whom the mother weaned early carry in the unconscious a craving that something warm, milky, should keep entering within. If you drink milk all day that would be harmful. The cigarette is convenient; you can smoke whenever. Carrying a milk bottle looks absurd. And if you suck a bottle people will think you are mad. The cigarette does the whole job. You can carry it in your pocket. No one thinks you are mad—because all are mad in that way; all smoke. And it is no food to fill the belly; it is only a semblance of milk. The warmth of the smoke, the heat, and the semblance of the breast—when you put the cigarette in the mouth it feels like a nipple. Then the warm smoke goes in like milk. Fifty out of a hundred smoke as a substitute for the breast.
Humankind seems to be mad about a woman’s breasts. Have you ever seen a male animal testing, examining the udders of the female? Carrying pictures around? Keeping Playboys? And meditating upon them when alone? But the male of the human race is greatly fascinated by breasts. Painters paint them; film-makers film them; poets write poems; storytellers weave tales; sculptors carve them. As if there is a mania. Everywhere breasts are thrust to the fore. Whether a goddess sits in a temple or a prostitute in a brothel—breasts protrude. The devotee’s eyes are there; the lover’s eyes are there; the passer-by glances there. What madness is this? If someone descended from another planet, he would be amazed—why this breast-mania?
Among tribals there is no mania. Because the child suckles for nine years; he is fulfilled and drops it. Therefore among tribals no one worries about breasts. Women move with breasts uncovered; no one stands and gawks. There is no need for striptease. There is no purpose. When primitive tribes were first studied scientifically, researchers were amazed. Ask the women, what is this? They said, “It is the breast for feeding children.” You place your hand upon a breast and ask, and they feel no embarrassment, no unease—just as if you touched any other part of the body. In civilized societies there is great unease.
Fifty percent smoke for the breast’s substitute. If you tell them to stop because it harms health, there is no connection with their cause.
Some smoke for other reasons. Children begin because the cigarette is a symbol of being grown-up. Grown-ups smoke, strutting about. Look at the swagger when a man smokes—as if he is performing some great act. See his gestures, the way he taps the cigarette on the case. See the face—what dignity comes upon it. Suddenly an aura surrounds him. He clenches it in his lips; watch the ritual. Then he takes out the match or lighter. See with what style he lights it. See with what flourish he draws smoke in and out. Suddenly he is no longer meek.
Little boys observe. They feel the cigarette is symbolic—of being grown-up, powerful. Because only grown-ups smoke; children are not allowed. People say, “You are still small; grow up, then smoke.” Everywhere there is prohibition. So little boys begin to smoke to feel big.
Some smoke because they carry an inferiority inside. Whenever they feel inferior, they smoke to cover it; they feel big. So cheaply they become big! If a cigarette gives so much bigness, what is the harm?
Some smoke because to be empty is difficult; some occupation is needed, otherwise anxiety arises. If you remain alone at home you become restless—go to the club, to the temple, to a satsang, do something. Sitting idle! The mind does not want to remain empty. Because if the mind is empty, it dissolves. It needs occupation. If there is nothing to do, at least you can smoke in every situation. The cigarette is a companion—a cheap companion. Portable in the pocket. Even if you are alone in a room, no need to go to a club—just take the cigarette out and light it. Relief! An occupation arrives; work begins.
For some, smoking is a kind of occupation. There are many other causes. Each person must find his own cause. Once a man finds his own cause, liberation is the easiest thing. But with borrowed reasons no one is liberated; by others’ telling no one is freed. Even a small thing is quite complex; for your whole autobiography is hidden in it.
To cultivate non-doing will mean: look into your doing. Whatever you are doing, watch it, recognize it. Go deep into your acts—why are you doing them? And do not accept others’ answers in haste. That is your error. Advisers stand ready everywhere—“We will tell you why you do it.” But each person is so unique that no general formula works. You are doing it for your own reasons. Your autobiography is yours alone. Just as your thumbprint is yours alone, so is your story yours alone.
And only when you descend into your personal acts with your own personal awareness will you understand their futility. And once futility is seen, the act drops. There is no way to keep carrying it. This is the cultivation of non-doing.
Slowly, slowly, the futile acts drop; the essential remains. There is no quarrel with the essential. The absolutely necessary will remain. The absolutely necessary is necessary. Do not break it, do not remove it. Let only the gratuitous end. You will be purified; you will be stainless; your energy will begin to gather.
This is the cultivation of non-doing: watching acts and recognizing their futility. From the recognition of futility, the dropping is the fruition. Slowly, chiseling away, your statue shines forth. Then you sit; and even sitting you are delighted—no cigarette is needed. Because now you have tasted the flavor of emptiness. You need no occupation; you are happy even alone. If someone comes, you are happy; if no one comes, you are happy. Your joy no longer depends on anyone. If someone comes, you share your joy; if no one comes, you remain intoxicated in your own joy. Your ecstasy now arises from within. It is not through anyone—no club, no friends, no dance-hall, no running here and there. You have found the temple of your life; it is within. As you become non-doing, the inner temple begins to rise. Its spire climbs higher and higher.
The minarets Muslims built beside their mosques are symbols of that ascending spire. As one becomes silent within, the spires rise skyward. With that rising, the whole energy of your life takes on a new meaning—new dimensions, new colors, new shades of color; new music, new gestures of music. A new poetry dawns. Those who have known non-doing have known all. Those who ran and were destroyed in the web of doing died without knowing.
“Attend to no-affairs.”
And when your non-doing is cultivated—first cultivate non-doing—then attend to that state of non-doing. First attend to acts so that the futile acts drop and non-doing remains. Now attend to non-doing itself. Because, if you attend to non-doing, you will find…
By attending to acts, the doer dissolves. Slowly all acts quiet; non-doing dawns; the sense of the doer—‘I am the doer’—disappears. When there is nothing to do, where is the doer? You are, but not the doer; you become the witness. Then attend to non-doing, and you will go beyond even the witness. Only you will remain. There will be no word left to say what you are—doer or witness.
So there are three states: the doer; the non-doer, which means the witness; and a third beyond both—transcendence.
By watching acts you become a witness. By watching non-act, you go beyond even the witness. There, no word is adequate. You cannot say who you are.
Bodhidharma was asked by the Emperor of China, “Who are you?” Bodhidharma said, “I do not know.” The emperor said to his courtiers, “We thought religion was concerned with self-knowledge. What kind of knower is this Bodhidharma, who says, ‘I do not know.’”
You too will think the same. But Bodhidharma is a greater knower than your knowers. He has gone one step further.
The ignorant too does not know who he is. The supreme knower too does not know who he is. The ignorant does not know because he lacks awareness. The supreme knower does not know because only awareness remains—only light remains. Nothing is seen in that light—no object; only luminosity. Infinite light—and nothing seen, so to whom can one say, ‘Who am I?’
There is an ignorance of the ignorant: nothing is seen because of darkness. And there is a supreme ignorance of the knower: nothing is seen because only light is—no object remains.
Bodhidharma said a most wondrous thing; perhaps no other knower has said it with such courage: “I do not know.” The emperor could not understand, because this is beyond language. Even among Bodhidharma’s disciples few understood. They too felt, what kind of answer is this? The knower should say, yes, I know who I am. The knower says, “I too do not know who I am!”
He said it because, when neither doer nor witness remains, what answer is left?
“Attend to no-affairs.”
Then the third sutra: “Taste the tasteless.”
Only then will you taste the tasteless. Until now you have tasted the flavor of doing. Doing has two flavors: pleasure and pain. If the act succeeds, there is pleasure. If it fails, there is pain. If you cultivate non-doing, you will taste peace. There will be neither pleasure nor pain; only supreme silence. The flute of rest will sound; only unbroken ease will be felt. A repose, a halt—everything has stopped; all doing has fallen. The doer has fallen; you only watch. There pleasure-pain cannot enter. There is a deep silence and peace. But Lao Tzu does not call even this the ‘tasteless taste’. He says, the experiencer is still left, the witnessing enjoyer is still there. A little distance remains. Experience is still happening.
Then there is a tasteless taste. When even the witness is gone, when no one is left to taste, then there is a taste—we have called it bliss.
Lao Tzu says, “Taste the tasteless.”
These three sutras are of great worth: “Cultivate non-doing. Attend to no-affairs. Taste the tasteless.”
“Whether big or small, much or little, return hatred with virtue.”
If you would cultivate non-doing you must remember this. If someone insults you, say thank you; if someone hates you, answer with virtue. Whether the hatred be little or great, insult or contempt—do not answer the bad with the bad. Otherwise you will be dragged into doing.
When someone abuses you, your mind will say, pick up a stone—break his head!
That man has become your master. He uttered a slight abuse and pulled you into doing. If you go on being pulled into doing by others, when will you arrive at non-doing? How? So do not think that the wise have said, “If others abuse you, bless them,” in order that you may be kind to others. No, they have said it so that you are kind to yourself; that you remain your own master. If anyone on the road utters something, even laughs, a wave rises in your lake and ripples spread, and doing begins. How will you become non-doing? Impossible. Where will you escape? Go to the jungle—crows will sit above and drop their droppings. Anger will arise; you will pick up a stone—“This crow has spoiled my meditation.”
There is no way to escape by running. There is only one simple way—when someone throws hatred at you, give love. Love means: we are not willing to descend into doing, because love is not an act. Give a blessing and move on your way. By blessing, you are saying, “You tried—thank you. But I am not prepared. I am not interested in the tangle. May God bless you!” Bless him—because if you do not, the mind will want to do him harm, and if you do not bless him, a restlessness will remain to do something. If you must do something, settle it by blessing.
Understand this too: whenever someone abuses you, hates you, insults you, and you too hate and insult, an endless chain is born. That is the web of karma. He will answer your abuse with abuse, for he is no knower; he is as ignorant as you. If he were a knower, why would he have abused in the first place? Where will it stop? You abuse; he abuses worse. You search for an even worse abuse. Where is the end? You harm him; he harms you. An endless chain begins. Where is the termination?
Only by someone giving a blessing will it end. Why give this opportunity to the other? Step out by blessing. If you can step out now, why delay? Whenever someone hates you, if you can answer with love, a great revolutionary event happens. You do not enter the chain; your karma does not expand; and you give the other man a chance, you open a door—for understanding. He too gets time. Because when you do not abuse, he was expecting abuse; and when his own echo returns to him and instead of abuse your blessing returns, he becomes very restless. He will not sleep easily now. His abuse will haunt him. His hatred returns upon himself. He will have to do something. If you answered hatred with hatred, there was no restlessness; it was simple arithmetic. “I abused; he abused.” But you abused and he showered flowers—now you are in difficulty. Until you learn the art of showering flowers you will remain uneasy.
There is only one way to change the world: do the most unlikely thing. The unlikely thing is—answer hatred with love, abuse with blessing; if someone pierces you with a thorn, gift him a flower. Thus you step out, and you give him an opportunity to step out.
“Whether great or small, much or little—return hatred with virtue.”
Only then will non-doing be cultivated.
“Tackle the hard when it is easy. Tackle the great when it is small. The hard problems of the world are solved while they are still easy. The great problems are solved while they are still small.”
Understand this arithmetic. It is for your daily life. You try to solve, but you are a little late; you miss the timing. To deal with a seed is easy—there is nothing to do. Just throw it away. But you sow the seed; you water it; you work for it; you tend it. The sapling grows. Now not only is it growing, your investment is growing too. You have put in so much time; you watered it; gave so much life; so much labor. Now it has become a big tree. You have waited thirty years. Now it bears fruit—and the fruit is bitter. Now it seems difficult to throw it away. You taste and retaste the bitter fruit and try to convince yourself it is sweet—because thirty years would be wasted if it is bitter. For thirty years you were a fool. And if you want to cut down the tree now, it will be very hard. Its roots have spread far; it has become vast.
And that is an outer tree. What to say of the inner trees? Their roots spread into your nerves; they hold your heart; they reach your brain. The inner trees turn you into their soil and bind you from all sides.
Understand! Anger has many stages. It can be dealt with in time. There is a line, a deadline; beyond it, it becomes difficult. Then there is a boundary beyond which it becomes impossible—almost impossible.
The first stage is this: the very intelligent will remedy before anger arrives. He will make a pre-emptive cure, says Lao Tzu. Tomorrow anger will come; he will remedy today. No one has abused you yet. But someone will; someone will push you. Life is conflict, deep conflict; there is competition. A day without anger is hardly possible. The very intelligent begins to prepare when even the seed is not there. He digs the well before the house catches fire. When the house is on fire, what is the point of digging a well? You will dig, the house will burn. The well will not even be dug; the house will be ashes.
Prevention means: the conflict of life will be there tomorrow—plant peace within today. That is the antidote. Be as peaceful as you can. No one has abused you; be peaceful. Because when someone abuses, to be peaceful will be difficult. You cannot be peaceful without abuse; how will you remember peace in abuse? So sit in meditation. Remain at ease. Be peaceful without cause. Sit and close all the doors and pores. Experience a profound silence within. Taste it. Relax the whole body. Say to the mind, do what you will, I am sitting silently. Do not identify with the mind—neither for nor against. Let it go, as if it belongs to someone else. Be absorbed in indifference. Plant peace. This is the ground. Tomorrow, when anger comes, if peace is prepared, the arrow of anger will fall into the waters of peace and be extinguished. It will not be difficult for you. You have prevented it beforehand.
You do the opposite. You prepare gunpowder. You keep it dry so that at the slightest spark there will be an explosion. Hence you have often experienced that the event was very small but the explosion was huge. The matter was not so big. Later you say, “For such a small thing, such a big explosion!” For small matters murders happen. For a small joke, murder happens. You laugh and a terrible enmity begins whose result becomes disastrous.
All of the Mahabharata happened over a small joke—Draupadi laughed. The Kauravas were Dhritarashtra’s sons; he was blind. The Pandavas had built a palace with great craftsmanship. Walls of glass made to look like doors; doors made to look like walls. Great engineering skill. The Kauravas were invited to see it. They came. Duryodhana bumped—thinking it was a door, he walked into a wall. Draupadi laughed and said, “They are the sons of a blind man—blind indeed!” The entire Mahabharata is suspended on this line. Later Draupadi’s garments were stripped not without cause; this jest is the root behind it. Later the Pandavas were persecuted, not without cause; this small seed grew. Then a thousand streams joined; what began as a small spring became a mighty Ganga.
Lao Tzu says: either do pre-emptive remedy—the highest skill is preemption. If that is not possible, then the moment someone abuses you, become alert. The seed is being sown.
But you begin to think about the abuse. You begin to retaliate in your mind; to plan revenge. You think, “We are only thinking; we aren’t going to kill him.” But you have begun to tend the seed; you are watering it. Throw it away now!
Then thoughts thicken. Smoke of anger begins to rise within. When the smoke of anger first rises, it is like a thin, fine line. So fine that if you look at that moment you will not even recognize whether it is anger or compassion. Only a faint line of energy seems to rise; a small cloud arises from the unconscious. The form is not yet clear. It is not certain what it is—love, anger, hatred? Only a restlessness is rising within, an excitation, an energy movement.
Be cautious now. The sprout is just emerging; it is not certain what kind of tree it will be. Be ready now. Throw it away now. Every excitation is poisonous. Throw the excitation. Relax now. Become meditative now.
No—you support it. You savor it within. Slowly the cloud of anger assumes a clear form; the figure sharpens. It says, “Kill him! He laughed—he insulted me. Who does he think he is?” Now you are murdering within; you have unsheathed inner swords. Unsheathing inner swords is the rehearsal for unsheathing outer swords. You are rehearsing. Stop while it is still rehearsal. If the rehearsal is completed, the drama will have to be staged. Otherwise the mind will say, “We rehearsed so much; do it now.”
And as you savor it within, the poison of anger spreads into every pore; it prepares your body to fight. Your inner energy is being converted in the direction of anger. Now you go to fight. You unsheathe the sword. Even now there is time—the sword can go back to the scabbard. But the tree has grown quite large. Once the sword is out, to put it back is very hard. “What will people say now? I came this far, drew the sword, and now I put it back—they will laugh.” Now the ego is at stake. Yet even now the sword can be returned.
But you have raised the sword and it has reached the other’s neck. Now it becomes nearly impossible to turn the sword away—from the neck—because in an instant the event will happen. Where will you find awareness then?
Lao Tzu says: tackle the hard when it is easy; tackle the great when it is small. The hard problems of the world can be solved…
The hardest problem of your life can be solved—if you deal with it while it is simple. You go for counsel when the matter is utterly spoiled. You call the doctor when the patient is at the point of death.
“The great problems of the world are solved while they are still small. Therefore the sage accomplishes greatness without grappling with great problems.”
What does it mean? The sage accomplishes greatness without grappling with great problems—because he never lets a problem become great. Therefore you will never see a sage wrestling with great issues; he is always dealing with small things. And as understanding deepens, even that is not needed; for he becomes skillful in preemption. Before the enemy arrives he has established friendship. Before abuse comes he has prepared blessing. Before your hatred arrives he has written “Welcome” on the door. His preparation is in advance.
“One who promises with crudity will often find it hard to fulfill. One who takes many things lightly will meet many difficulties.”
If you take small problems as small, soon they will become big. Do not give them the chance to grow. Treat small problems as big; deal with them quickly. And think with awareness. Otherwise you promise many things you will do—but you promise in unawareness. You give your word without understanding what you are saying.
Jesus told a parable. A father had two sons. There was work in the field. The father said to the elder, “Go to the field; the work is urgent.” He said, “I cannot go; I am tied up in other matters. Forgive me.” He said to the younger, “Then you go; the work is urgent.” He said, “I go at once, Father.” And he left. A guest was in the house. He said, “Your elder son is disobedient; your younger son obedient.” The father said, “By evening we shall know.” In the evening the guest asked, “I did not understand. Tell me now.”
The elder reached; the younger did not. The younger is skillful in promising, not in doing. The elder does not promise, but he is skillful in doing. What he cannot do, he says, I cannot; yet he still tries to do. The younger says yes even to what he cannot do—“I go right now.” But he is not going.
Jesus said: before God, your theism has no value because you said “Yes,” nor your atheism because you said “No.” The real matter will be decided by whether you did—or did not.
Do not trust in your saying Yes; nor be frightened by your saying No. Even after saying No you can do; and after saying Yes you can evade. Most people say Yes precisely to make evasion easy.
So Lao Tzu says, “One who promises crudely—in stupor, in heedlessness—will often find it hard to fulfill.”
Do not give a promise that will be hard to fulfill. Promise less than you can do. What you cannot do, say clearly: I cannot. These virtues will help transform and refine your inner life. Otherwise you become entangled in the unnecessary. You say you will do what you cannot. Now you have taken up a tangle. If it is not done, there is trouble; and if you try to do it, there is trouble.
Rightly understood, the knower does not promise at all. What he can do, he does; what he cannot, he does not. He does not promise. Therefore you will never catch a knower breaking his word—because he does not give it. He fulfills promises; he never gives them.
And he does not treat even the smallest thing as small—because small things become big. If you treat them as small, you will be in danger. You think, “It’s small; I’ll deal with it later.” But as long as you postpone, it grows. Problems too grow and spread.
“One who takes many things lightly will meet many difficulties. Therefore the sage too takes things as difficult when he takes them in hand; and hence he does not meet with difficulties.”
Remember this. Deal with the seed; dealing with the tree will be very hard. With time everything grows—so do not postpone to tomorrow. Prevent evil beforehand. If you cannot prevent it beforehand, then when it knocks on the door, remedy it at once. Do not welcome it as a guest. Do not give it room within. For the whole world is dragging you into doing. If you would enter non-doing, you are moving into a wholly different dimension from this world. You will have to change your whole style and color.
Jesus said: if someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too—lest he return to ask for the shirt. Jesus said: if someone compels you to walk one mile carrying his load, go two—perhaps out of shame he could not ask for two. If someone strikes you on one cheek, offer the other—lest he has saved one slap and comes back. Settle it now. Deal with things while they are seeds. End them there.
And the whole world whirls in the vortex of karma. If you would become non-doing, great care is needed lest anyone drag you into doing. All are eager to drag you. Everyone wants you to plunge into action, because everyone’s craving is for action. And you have chosen the non-act; you are ready to enter another world. There is no more difficult thing in this world. Therefore great awareness is needed lest anyone pull you in.
One who abuses you is pulling. One who praises you is also pulling. Be alert. Place each step with awareness, weighing each breath. Only then will you attain to that state where non-doing becomes your style of life. Then do the second thing: attend to no-affairs. And then the third will happen on its own: the tasteless taste. That is Brahmananda. That is the great bliss. That is nirvana—mukti, kaivalya—whatever name you love.
But ‘the tasteless taste’ is a very lovely expression. There no taster remains; there no taste remains. Yet an experiencing happens; without an experiencer, an event happens. That event is the greatest miracle. And when it has happened in a life, there remains nothing else to happen. Beyond it there is nothing.
If you set out to seek the Great, great care is needed. You cannot afford the convenience of living like others. You cannot afford the convenience of behaving like others. You will have to be unique. If you would fulfill this longing now, then for abuse you will have to offer thanks; and for those who sow thorns for you—you will have to sow flowers for them. Kabir has said: “He who sows a thorn for you—sow a flower for him.”
Only then! Only then is the tasteless taste possible.
Enough for today.