Tao Upanishad #104

The whole problem of life hides in this one matter: when you can resolve, you do not resolve. When it was easy to stop a matter, you go on prolonging it. And when the matter crosses all bounds, then you come to your senses. When nothing can be done, then you wake up. When much could have been done, you rested in laziness.
Then a thousand problems gather upon you; under their weight you become fragmented, scattered. The connection, the life-thread that binds you to your inner Self, its ends are lost. Then you become incapable of solving even a small problem. For your mind becomes a confusion, a bewilderment. Such a heap of problems lies there. Crushed beneath them, you lose all strength. Your self-confidence also disappears. The one who could not solve anything—how will he solve anything now? Even the trust that something can be solved breaks. You begin to think nothing can be done by me. And once such helplessness arrives—once the ground slips from under your feet—then you will not be able to solve even what children could solve. The trust and reverence in solving has been destroyed.
Therefore, understand Lao Tzu’s sutra with great care. It is exactly for you. You have been doing precisely the opposite.
The first time I understood this sutra—when I did not even know of Lao Tzu—it came to me through a strange man. When I was a university student, there was a man in the village whom people called Bannu the Mad. I was drawn to him. He did not seem mad to me. He was different; not at all mad. He was the reverse of people; not at all mad. I could have called people mad; to call that man mad was difficult. For such joy he had! I never saw him weeping or sad. His gait and his merriment—everything announced that somewhere within he had put down deep roots.
Gradually—he rarely spoke to anyone—when my closeness with him grew and he began to speak to me, when he even began to wait for me and we started going for walks morning and evening, I asked him, Why don’t you speak to people? He said, There is convenience in not speaking; if you speak, you get entangled. Speaking brings trouble.
One evening while walking he suddenly stopped, and he slapped his own cheek. I asked him, What did you do? What happened? He said, It is right to stop a matter when it can be stopped. I was feeling anger toward someone. Now I have set Banke Bihari Lal ji right.
He would always address himself with respect: Banke Bihari Lal ji. People called him Bannu the Mad. He smiled and said, Say it—Banke Bihari Lal ji, have you come to your senses? A faint line of anger had arisen within; right there he finished it with a slap. He said, Rather than others slapping you, better slap yourself. And before the matter goes further, it is proper to stop it.
He said to me: When a fire is just beginning to smolder, a little water extinguishes it. And this is the law of wind: it blows out a small lamp, but it fans the great flames. That madman told me: Erase it at the beginning and it is erased; later, even when you try to erase, the flames rise higher. Even Lao Tzu has not said this in this sutra. You must have seen it: a gust of wind comes, a small lamp is extinguished; and if a house has caught fire and wind begins to blow, you are finished—then it is hard to put out. Wind increases the flames. What has grown gains help from all sides. Extinguish it while small, and even the wind helps extinguish.
This man who was called mad was not mad—he was being mad with understanding. He had erected around himself a covering of madness. It was a defense. Taking him to be mad, people neither paid attention to him nor took any interest in him. Living in society, he remained completely outside of society. He built around himself a small cave of madness. That madness was his protection.
How mad must a society be in which a man has to become mad even to protect himself! Many fakirs in the world have assumed madness so that people may forget them, so that people may not pay them attention, so that whatever they are doing they may be left alone to do, no one takes interest in them. Once people assume someone is mad, they forgive everything.
Understand together this sutra of Lao Tzu and your being its exact opposite. When a problem arises, what do you do?
First, you do not pay attention to it. You take the stance that it will go away on its own; it is nothing special. Just a cold, it will pass. Why consult a physician? Why take treatment? You minimize it. You first neglect it, postpone it. You do all you can to have it resolve itself.
Has anything in the world ever resolved itself? You tangle it and it will resolve itself—how? You create it and it will resolve itself—how? You are raising the problem; it will not resolve on its own. But this is man’s first attitude. He thinks perhaps some miracle will happen, some event will change, the coincidences will shift. The thing will work out by itself; why fall into hassle! Man wants to ignore; he starts looking elsewhere. This is the first process: you engage your mind elsewhere so the problem is not seen. And the danger begins right there. Because the problem you stopped looking at begins to slip into your unconscious, it starts falling into your dark well, it goes beneath the ground of your being; it goes underground.
Once a problem goes under the ground, into darkness—unseen, unattended—it will take root like a seed. A problem that is in consciousness is easy to solve, because there you are the master. Once it descends into the unconscious, then it is difficult to solve, because you are no longer the master. Your mastery is only on the upper surface of the mind. If we divide the mind into ten parts, on the first your mastery works a little; on the nine, your mastery has no...those nine parts have no connection with you at all. Once a problem goes into the unconscious, the seed has gone into the soil. Sweeping the surface was easy; beneath the ground is great difficulty. And digging is frightening. Because if you dig for one, a thousand will come out. Therefore no one digs into the unconscious, no one touches it. There is fear. Because not one seed is buried—there you have been burying yourself for lifetimes. Your unconscious is a junkyard filled with all your rubbish. You fear that if you go there and everything breaks loose at once, what will happen?
So, once something goes into the unconscious, you fall into complexity.
But first the mind postpones. When the mind postpones, you must awaken. Do not lose that moment. Leave a thousand tasks and first settle this; leave big tasks and settle this small one. For what is small today will become big tomorrow. What can be solved now will become difficult to solve later. Because a problem never comes alone; it brings a thousand friends along.
You have heard the saying: a disease never comes alone; one disease brings a thousand diseases along. All have companions. Problems also have companions. If one problem takes root, then a thousand problems of the same family will knock at your door: Give us space too! And once you have given one a place, an aperture has opened in you. Through that very hole a thousand problems will enter within.
If you have given space to anger, how long can you remain far from violence? If you have given space to anger, how long can you remain far from lust? For they are connected. They are woven into one event.
Therefore the wise have said: if a person solves even a single problem, all his problems are solved. Because in solving one you will find all are included.
If you become free of lust, you will not be able to be angry. For lust itself—when someone hinders your lust—becomes anger. You wanted to obtain something, and someone obstructed you. You wanted to go somewhere, someone came in between. You wanted to go, and someone raised a wall of stone. Whoever creates a hindrance in your path, anger arises toward him. But if you do not want to go anywhere at all, if you have no desire, no lust, you want to obtain nothing—who will create a hindrance for you? How will anger arise?
He who has no lust—what greed can he have? Greed is an attendant of lust. For the lustful will be greedy. Greed means I am arranging today for tomorrow’s lust, arranging today for the day after tomorrow’s lust. I am filling the strongbox for old age. I must prepare today for the future. So greed means I accumulate so I may enjoy tomorrow. One without lust—what greed can he have?
One without lust—his tomorrow is not; his future is finished. His time has stopped. His watch has ceased. He is here, he is today. And today is enough. There is no demand beyond today. Whatever little comes is enough. More than enough for today. If you do not bring in tomorrow, what you have is enough. You are rich. If you bring in tomorrow, even the greatest emperor is a beggar. For no one can fill tomorrow. Tomorrow is unfillable.
Change one desire and you will find all desires begin to change. Solve one problem and all problems are solved.
First the mind says, Postpone; we will see tomorrow, the day after. Thus you keep postponing. But the more you postpone, the more time the seed gets—to sprout, to germinate. Then the mind has a second tendency: when postponing becomes impossible, when the problem stands right before you, then you begin to fight it.
First you postpone—that too is wrong. Then you fight; a wall stands and you bang your head against it. That too is wrong. For no one has ever solved a problem by fighting. If you fight, solving becomes impossible—for it requires a silent mind; the fighting tendency is restless. First you let anger grow. Then when anger places you in difficulty, entangles your life on all sides, sows thorns all around, leaves no place to walk—wherever you look you see enemies, the whole world appears opposed, as if everywhere a conspiracy against you is afoot, everyone stands as your enemy—then you wake up. Then you make the second mistake: you try to fight—to suppress anger, to eradicate anger. But has anyone ever won by fighting a problem?
Suppose you were untangling threads and the threads became knotted. Will you fight these? Will fighting untangle them? In fighting they will tangle more, they will break. Once threads are tangled, great patience is needed; a great friendliness is needed. With great simplicity and patience you take one thread at a time, only then will they come free. If you pull even a little, the tangle will increase.
There is no patience at all. First you postpone; do not mistake that for patience. That is not patience, that is laziness. You say, We will do it tomorrow, the day after. What is the hurry? First you postpone; that is not patience. Many mistake it for patience, thinking, We are patient; we can do it anytime, what is the hurry? That is laziness. That is negligence. It is only deceiving yourself. The test of patience comes the day the tangle arises. And what do you do then? Do you untangle with patience, or do you fight? You fight. You fight with little things—and you get into trouble.
I have heard that in Japan there was a great warrior. Warrior is relevant here. No one could match his skill with the sword. His fame spread in Japan. People trembled at his name. Great swordsmen were reduced to dust within moments before him. There is a story in his life. Zen monks use it much, for it is thoughtful, and connected to your life.
One night the warrior returned home. He hung his sword on a peg. He saw that a mouse sat on his bed. He became very angry. A warrior! In rage he drew his sword—for in rage he knew nothing else to do. Not only did the mouse remain seated, watching the sword, the mouse looked in such a way that the warrior was beside himself. A mouse—and such daring! And the mouse looked as if to say, So what if you draw your sword? I am not a man to be frightened. In anger he swung the sword. The mouse leapt aside and escaped. The bed was cut. Now there was no limit to his rage. He began to swing the sword blindly wherever the mouse appeared. And the mouse was astonishing. It would spring and evade. The warrior was drenched in sweat; his sword shattered into pieces. The mouse still sat there. He panicked; he understood this was no ordinary mouse—some ghost, some spirit. For greater warriors than I have lost—and a mouse does not lose!
A warrior is one thing and a mouse is quite another. Terrified, he went out. He asked his friends, What should I do? They said, You are mad! Who fights a mouse with a sword? Go, bring a cat; it will finish it. Every thing has its medicine. Where a needle will do, if you wield a sword you will get into trouble. Bring a cat.
But the warrior’s trouble and the brilliance of the mouse had spread through the village. The cats also got the news. The cats were afraid. Their self-confidence was shaken. Such a great warrior has been defeated by a mouse! Cats had to be caught and brought. With great difficulty. At the door they began to drag themselves backward. Somehow they were pushed inside; seeing the mouse, they ran out. One or two cats tried to pounce; but they found the mouse pounced on them. This mouse was strange—for a mouse never pounces on a cat unless given LSD or liquor, unless it is out of its senses. If a mouse pounces on a cat, the cat’s confidence is lost.
So all the cats gathered. They said, Our honor is at stake. The warrior is one thing—whether he loses or not, we have nothing to do with it; he was never a friend of ours anyway. The mouse did well. But now our honor is on the line. What shall we do? If we lose once more, and the other mice of the village learn of it, then reputation is only reputation. Once it is exposed, there is great difficulty. If the other mice begin to attack, we are finished. This warrior has drowned us.
They prayed to the master cat in the king’s palace—the guru of cats—to do something. She said, You are mad. What is there to do? I am coming. The cat came, went in, caught the mouse and brought it out. The cats asked, What did you do? She said, Is there anything to do? I am a cat, he is a mouse—end of the matter. If you think of doing, you will get into difficulty. For doing means fear has entered. It is the nature of the mouse, and my nature as a cat—end of the matter. Our work is to catch, and his work is to be caught. This is natural. There is nothing to be taken or given here. In this neither do we win nor does he lose. Where is victory or defeat here? It is his nature; it is our nature. The natures fit; the mouse is caught. You tried to do something beyond nature. Has anyone ever fought a mouse and won? And the day a cat fights, understand she has already lost. The beginning of fighting is the beginning of defeat.
Do not fight with problems. Zen masters say: relate to problems as the cat related to the mouse. The nature of awareness is sufficient—alertness is enough. In the mouth of awareness the problem walks the way a mouse walks into the cat’s mouth; nothing has to be done.
But you stand as a warrior with a sword. The problem is worth two pennies; not even a needle was needed, and you fight with a sword. You will lose. Remember, if the patient has a cold and you treat it as cancer, you will kill him. The cold will remain; the patient will die.
Samyak-vidhi—right method—means only this: what is appropriate, what is natural. Where is the question of fighting? With whom are you fighting? When a problem is within you, to fight it means you have lost self-confidence. Otherwise your awareness, your wakefulness, your attention is enough. The light of your attention will fall and the problem will dissolve.
So first you make the mistake of postponing. Then you make the second mistake—impatiently fighting.
Now you will laugh and say, The warrior was mad. But think about yourself. Try to find this story in your life.
Someone comes to me and says, I cannot give up betel leaf. I have been fighting for twenty years. Is betel chewing greater than that mouse? The mouse is still bigger. Someone says, I cannot give up cigarettes. What are you talking about? Do you have a soul or not? What sort of a cat are you that you flee at the sight of a mouse and begin to think what to do? Cigarette smoking—and twenty years and you cannot let it go! You have left it many times and fallen again and begun again! Who are you? It seems you are nothing. You have no energy of attention. You have no self-confidence. Otherwise, must one fight with cigarette smoking?
About forty years ago, man first reached the North Pole. The travelers who returned told their story; it made headlines across the world. Their story was also full of pathos. Their food ran out, and they had to survive killing fish or bear somehow. But the most astonishing thing was this: the leader of the expedition said hunger did not trouble them so much; people were willing to remain hungry, could live on water—but when cigarettes ran out, they were in great difficulty. People began to cut the ship’s ropes and smoke them. They were warned again and again: if these ropes are cut, how will we return? The whole rigging depends on them! But no one was willing to listen. They cared less about reaching back; less even about dying there; but when the craving struck, they could not stop. Guarding them was difficult, for about ninety percent of the party were smokers. Who would guard whom? At night the ropes would be cut. The captain was worried that if this went on and they smoked all the ropes, there would be no way to return.
A scientist was reading this in the newspaper. He too was a chain smoker. There was a cigarette in his hand as he read. A thought arose: How absurd! If I had been part of that expedition, would I also have smoked dirty ropes? In his hand was the cigarette; he looked at it, looked at himself, put the cigarette half-smoked into the ashtray, and said, Now I will wait for the day when I have to pick it up again. That day I will understand I have no soul. The cigarette is great, the Self is small. The bidi is great, Brahman is small.
Thirty years passed, and he kept the cigarette always there in the ashtray, half-smoked, waiting for the moment when he would have to pick it up again. That moment did not come.
Only this is needed: the sense of the Self. A little awareness. The problems you fight are your shadows. Fight them and you will lose. For in fighting you display un-intelligence. You fight—meaning you do not know you are fighting your own shadow. The habit is yours. The problem is yours. Will you descend so low as to fight it? Problems are dissolved by awareness, not by struggle, not by vows.
Vows are taken by the weak. Oaths are taken by the weak. A vow means you are binding yourself regarding the future—you have no trust in yourself. So you say, I take the vow of Brahmacharya. You have no trust in the future. You take the vow before society so others may also keep an eye. You take the vow before others so that because of your public commitment your ego stands in the way. Then your ego will stop you: you took a vow before so many people, how can you break it now?
You want to change your habits through the medium of ego! But the ego is the worst and most dangerous habit of all. Smoking a cigarette, perhaps you might still enter Moksha, for I have never heard that at the gate of liberation there is a restriction saying smoking is prohibited. But carrying ego, you can never enter Moksha. When you pit ego against habit, you make the mistake of the warrior. The ego is even more dangerous than the habit. Then your medicine is worse than the disease. The disease was better; not so bad. You might have survived the disease; you will not survive the medicine.
Awaken the Self. Do not erect the ego. If problems are to be solved, not by taking oaths, but by awakening awareness. Taking oaths is only a strategy of fighting. No one ever won by fighting. People win by knowing. And what can be done by knowing—why arrange for fighting, for struggle?
So the first mistake is postponing. The second is fighting. The result of fighting can only be this: if you are very stubborn, then the habit that was on top you push into the unconscious; the anger that used to come out, you drink it down within.
If anger comes out, your system is relieved; you become lighter. If you take it inside, poison will collect within. You are collecting pus. You are not erasing the boil—you are tying bandages and putting flowers over it. You will become explosive within. You will become a volcano ready to erupt anytime. And in your every act, all you have suppressed will begin to leave its imprint. You will rise in anger, sit in anger, walk in anger, speak in anger. You will begin to get angry without cause.
This is madness: doing something for which there was no outer cause, no need; for which no outer reason existed. That is madness. What is the difference between awareness and madness? The difference is this: someone called you, you replied—if there is one calling, that is awareness. If no one is calling and you hear a call—that is madness. Then you live by inner causes without searching for any outer cause. If someone has abused you, it is okay to get angry. But no one abused you and you become angry—as if you were waiting for someone to abuse you—then you interpret that surely he abused me. Even if he did not abuse, you conclude from his expression that he wanted to abuse, that he concealed it, that he deceived, but he wanted to abuse, that it was written on his lips, his eyes said so, such is that man, we know him; there is no need for him to abuse—without abusing we recognize that he came to abuse. You begin to interpret. To release your inner anger you will find some way.
And the more you suppress, the more sick you become. The more sick you become, the more impossible it is to be part of the great festival of life. And most of your so-called sadhus are doing precisely this. They suppress, and by suppressing they think they will meet the Divine. The more diseases one suppresses, the farther one goes from the Divine.
Near to the Divine is only he who has nothing suppressed within, who is utterly empty inside, whose unconscious holds no diseases. Only he can be part of this vast festival. Only he can dance. Only his anklets can ring. Only upon his lips does the flute of existence arrive. Only in his life does song arise.
You will fear placing the flute upon your lips, because you know there is poison within—it will come out; you will not be able to sing. You can only abuse. How will a song arise from you? The situation for song is not there within. How will you love? You can only hate. You can only do what rests suppressed within you.
Thus your sadhu goes far from the Divine. The farther he goes, the more he thinks he must suppress. He builds a hell within.
I know sadhus. Knowing them closely, it occurred to me that the world needs a new sannyasin. The old sannyas has rotted. It has fallen to the great disease of suppression. And the old sannyasin is not joyous. Even if he smiles, his smile is false. Because when he met me alone, he wept his sorrow. In the assembly I saw him sitting smiling. Alone he is miserable. Alone he is disordered, anarchic. Alone he does not understand what is happening. Alone he has the same pains as you have—and a thousand times more; for you have not suppressed, he has. He is a greater householder than you. He has more craving for women than you. More greed for wealth than you. He clings more to enjoyment than you. But he has suppressed; he does not let it show. You have expressed; you are a little lighter. You are not so heavy. You might reach the Divine; your master, your guru—difficult.
Hence I felt a completely new sannyas must descend, which transforms life not through repression but through awareness.
These sutras—try to understand them now. These are sutras of awareness. For great awareness is needed; only then can you prevent life’s problems before they are born.
That which lies still is easy to hold. That which is not yet manifest is easy to forestall.
You will be able to forestall only if you begin to see what is going to happen before it has even happened—otherwise you cannot forestall. What is going to happen, what has not yet come into existence.
Try to understand your inside. If you study within a little, things become very clear. A little swadhyaya is needed. For what I am saying is no philosophy; it is guidance for your self-study. Try to see within how an event happens, how a thought is formed. Sit empty and watch how a thought is formed, from where it comes.
First you will find there is no thought; there is feeling. Only feeling. Feeling is very vague; not clear. As if something is about to happen; a sprout is about to break—but not clear: where it is, from where it is sprouting, what is happening. It is still in the heart. It is still on the plane of feeling. In a short while, from the plane of feeling it rises to the plane of thought. Then you can recognize more easily what is happening within. As soon as it comes to the plane of thought, it will insist on going to the plane of action. There are three planes: feeling, thought, action.
Anger will first be in feeling; even you are not clear what it is. Then it will become thought; gradually you will become clearer what it is. Others are not yet clear. Then it becomes action. Then others know what it is.
If you catch it before feeling, you can prevent it—prevention in advance.
As of now your awareness is not even on thought. Even thoughts are going on in unconsciousness. If someone suddenly asks you, What are you thinking? you cannot answer immediately. People say, Nothing. Why? If someone is sitting and you ask, What are you thinking? his immediate answer is, Nothing, just sitting.
Can anyone sit just like that? Only a Buddha sits like that. There cannot be so many Buddhas in the world as there are people answering, Nothing.
No, he is thinking. He does not know. Thoughts are moving, but he is unaware. Everything is happening in darkness. If you insist, No, close your eyes and tell me rightly—you must be thinking something, then perhaps he will try a little and be amazed: I am thinking a lot. Thoughts upon thoughts are moving—senseless, disconnected, absurd, with no sequence; no reason is seen for why they are moving. As flies buzz around, your thoughts buzz around. Their buzzing is so constant you have become accustomed—just as one sitting in a market becomes accustomed to the hum of the market. He does not notice anything is happening. He would notice only if suddenly the whole market fell silent for a second; then he would be startled: what has happened!
If you drive a car, you do not notice the sound of the engine until something changes. If the sound stops entirely, you notice; or a new sound joins in, you notice. Otherwise, you notice nothing. You become habituated. You are habituated to thoughts. Therefore if someone suddenly asks, you say, Nothing. That answer is not correct. Begin to look within a little. First be the witness of thoughts. Begin to recognize that whatever moves, moves in awareness. Many times you will miss. To keep awareness for more than a second is difficult. Awareness is a precious thing; it is not obtained so easily. Having the eyes open is not awareness. To see what is happening within—that is awareness. Seeing what is outside is not awareness. Close your eyes and begin to watch your thoughts.
It is wondrous, this play of thought. And if you can see it, it is entertaining. Within you stage a great drama; only you can see it, no one else. Great images arise; great stories are enacted; great plays unfold. Build the habit of watching.
And do not fight. Otherwise you will not be able to see. Watch as you watch a film in a cinema house. Just watch. Enjoy one thing only: that nothing passes unseen, unobserved, missed. As when you go to a very sensational film you sit upright, not even leaning back, lest leaning back you miss something. You sit leaning forward, alert, that everything be caught, not a single word be missed. Or when you are listening to something very delightful, you listen so attentively that if a single word is missed the thread will be lost, the strand will slip from your hand. With such attentiveness watch the inner thoughts.
This is of immense utility. There is no greater gain in the world. By seeing anything else you will not gain what you gain by seeing thought. For by seeing thought your awareness will deepen, your witnessing will grow dense, your attention will settle. You will become a lamp of wisdom within in whose light everything is seen. Slowly the light will increase and each thought will become transparent.
When thoughts begin to turn transparent and you see each thought, then gradually you will glimpse the feeling hidden beneath thought. Under each thought a feeling is hidden, as roots are hidden beneath each tree. They are under the ground. When you accurately recognize the thought, you will notice the feeling that lies behind.
And when feeling begins to be seen, you have entered very deep realms. Now your wisdom must surely be becoming unwavering, its trembling ceasing, becoming still. The day you not only see thought but also see feeling... Feeling means only the state of feeling; no thought has yet formed—only a sense is happening. Anger has not yet come, only an unease that is unexpressed, which is urging you to do something. But it is not yet clear where to go. Lust has not yet formed into thought, but lust is flowing in the body, pushing the body to form thought. It wants to come to the plane of thought.
As a bubble rises in water. See: the bubble rises from below. It was hidden, lying in the mud beneath the water. From there it rises. Slowly, as it comes upward, it becomes larger—for the pressure of water lessens. Pressure lessens, the bubble grows. Then it comes right to the surface. When it comes right to the surface, you begin to see it. And when it sits right on the surface, you see it clearly.
This arrival at the surface is action. Being in the middle is thought. Lying hidden beneath the layer of the water is feeling. And the day you see feeling, that day a unique event happens—you become a seer of the future concerning yourself. For before feeling comes, a seed comes into you. That seed always comes from outside. Because the bubble was hidden beneath the water; before that, air must have entered the ground—otherwise how would a bubble hide? After feeling awakens you can see which feeling is going to come. This is the subtlest state of mind, the most subtle, where you become a seer of the future; where you can prophesy about yourself: now this is going to happen; by evening I will be angry; by noon the feeling of anger will become dense—the seed has been sown.
And the day you become so subtle-eyed that you see what will happen tomorrow, that day Lao Tzu’s sutra becomes your tool. Prevention can be before feeling is formed. For feeling is the root. And that which is prior to feeling, for which we have no word—because few look so subtly; and those who do are so alone that there is no way to tell anyone, no one understands them—that pre-feeling state is the seed. And that seed always comes from outside. Thoughts come from outside; feelings come from outside; the seed comes from outside. Everything comes from outside. And you become possessed by what comes from outside. The day you see all this and your seeing becomes perfect, that day, prevention. That day you will close the door before the arrival. That day no more havoc will remain in your life.
That which lies still is easy to hold. That which is not yet manifest is easy to forestall. That which lies still is easy to hold. That which is not yet manifest is easy to forestall.
Yet not manifest—what has not yet appeared—changing it is entirely at hand. On this I will tell you something, a parallel device, so you may understand.
In Russia, Kirlian has developed a new kind of photography, to catch disease in its unmanifest state. A man who will be a cancer patient six months from now—no physician can catch it today, because no mark has yet appeared anywhere in the body. A psychologist also cannot catch it, because no imprint has yet appeared in the mind. Kirlian catches it.
He prepared such subtle, sensitive photographic plates that they catch what is deeper than body and mind—what spiritual people have called the aura, the body’s luminous field, its electric field. Like this: if this finger of my hand is going to fall ill six months from now, the electric field around this finger has already become ill. First, disease enters the electric field; through that field it comes into the mind. Then through the mind into the body. Feeling, thought, action; electric field, mind, body. Six months earlier Kirlian catches it. And he says: if treatment is done now, this disease will never come. And now treatment is entirely easy, because nothing much needs to be done. Now this person’s electric field must be set right—which has been done by many methods. In China it has been done through acupuncture.
Kirlian’s photography has given great honor to five-thousand-year-old acupuncture. People thought it was only the imagination of the Orient. Acupuncture has proven very scientific. And it is five thousand years old. And acupuncture was born when Taoist thought was deepening. It is part of Tao. Acupuncture is to Tao what Ayurveda is to Yoga in India. It is a limb of Taoist practice. Lao Tzu’s very statements are its foundation: prevent beforehand. The same idea applied to the body’s disease—that when disease has appeared, fighting is very difficult; when it has reached the body, removal is very hard and almost incurable; but if it is freed at the primary stage...
So what does acupuncture do? It only alters the body’s electric field. Acupuncture discovered seven hundred points in the body where change can be effected. And at those points the acupuncturist merely pricks a needle—a slightly heated needle is inserted. Because of that heated needle, at that place where there was a hole in the electric field, the current changes. From that change, the disease that was about to be is corrected.
Now this remains imaginary—imaginary because the disease was unmanifest. Even the sick person did not know; even the physician was not willing to accept he had any illness. Only the acupuncturists—whose entire training is to give birth to very subtle eyes, who try to see the body’s electricity—therefore acupuncture training is arduous. Ten, twenty, twenty-five years—and still no certainty. It depends on the speed of your eyes and attention whether you begin to see the electricity around the body. Kirlian has made the work easy. The camera shows it. The photo appears of the whole body; around the body, electric lines appear. Where the lines are ragged, broken—there a disease is about to appear. If the electric field is set right, the disease will never manifest.
There is one hitch. If the disease does not manifest, how can it be proven that it was going to be? If it manifests, it is clear the acupuncturists were wrong. If they succeed, it seems nonsense—since the disease did not occur, what proof is there it was going to?
But with Kirlian photography, great clarity has come. Now the plate can be seen just as a physician sees an X-ray plate. Just as X-ray became necessary in every big hospital, within the coming ten years Kirlian devices will become necessary. Then it will be appropriate that instead of falling ill, you go in advance—get a monthly check-up done, whether there is any beginning of trouble anywhere.
And it can be corrected right there with great ease. Because at the source things are very small. Gangotri is very small; at Gaumukh it falls, just a tiny trickle. Drop by drop water seeps. Whatever change is to be done there is easy. In Haridwar it will be difficult. In Prayag very hard. In Banaras, impossible. In Banaras the disease has become incurable. Now nothing can be done. Why wait for Banaras when the treatment can be done at Gangotri itself?
As it is true of the body, so it is true of the soul. Within, settle your inner life at that very time when things were about to be, not yet. Prevent the future today. But for such prevention your awareness must be very deep, wakeful.
What is like ice melts easily. What is extremely small scatters easily.
Deal with a thing before it comes into existence. Stop the mischief before it matures.
The tree whose trunk is filled out begins from a tiny sprout. The nine-storeyed terrace begins with a handful of earth. The journey of a thousand kos begins with the traveler’s foot.
After long walking, changing becomes difficult. Before walking, think well so that at the first step things are set right. Before building a house, think properly so the foundation is filled correctly. A mistake left there will follow you always. To return and correct becomes very hard. Some things cannot be corrected by returning at all. And this is your life’s calamity—that you have started thousands of journeys. You took the first step in unconsciousness; now you wish to correct. You fear within—how will it be corrected?
It can be. However difficult, it is not impossible. Even now nothing is spoiled. Even now it is not too late. Time is in your hand. If you awaken even now, nothing is lost. When you awaken, that very moment is dawn, that very moment is morning.
But now each sutra must be understood exactly and steps taken accordingly. From today keep this in mind: do not postpone. Whatever problem comes, try to settle it. Do not say, We will settle it tomorrow. If anger arises toward your wife, sit and talk to her now. It is still in Gangotri. Things are still very simple. Anger does not yet have a sting, a poison. It is only a feeling-state. Tell her: I am experiencing anger. State the cause. Talk it through. You are not yet so angry; there can be a conversation. In anger, is there conversation? Then there is quarrel—debate, not discussion. Now the first wisp of anger has appeared, the first smoke has risen. Sit now. Let a thousand urgent tasks go—nothing is more urgent than this. Talk it through now. Don’t say, In the evening, or tomorrow—who knows, it has come with the wind; it will pass without doing anything. Nothing passes without doing. Everything remains stuck.
If you become skilled at catching it at Gangotri, you will find things become so simple, so light that a problem does not even form. If greed is stirring in the mind, do not let it lie there; close your eyes, sit, bring your greed fully into view. Whatever will gradually arise on its own, pull it out yourself—bring it from the unmanifest to the manifest. What would become a tree in years—you can perform a magic.
Have you seen magicians? They hide a mango stone under a basket; chant mantras; lift the basket—the plant has sprouted. They cover it again; chant; beat the little drum; lift the basket—the bush is bigger. Again cover; chant; drum; lift—fruit has appeared. Again cover; perform magic; lift—the fruit is ripe. They pluck it and give it to you. All is sleight of hand. But within you, you can do this absolutely. Do this mantra-magic.
If greed arises, do not postpone. Sit; darken the room; close doors and windows; get under the basket; cast the mantra—Say, Grow! Within there is no difficulty; say, Grow—and it grows. Say, Anger grow, greed grow—I want to see you fully. Tomorrow you will grow by yourself—grow now! What do you want? A palace? An empire? What do you want? Say it now! Reveal it now! Why wait for tomorrow? Draw out anger fully. Anger will gleefully grow; the bush will grow; the fruit will quickly appear and ripen. You have become Alexander. The kingdom of the whole world is yours. See it. Raise it fully. Recognize it completely. And throughout keep awareness: what play the mind plays!
What Alexander realized at life’s end, you will realize in a moment: even if you gain the world’s kingdom, what will happen? Even if you get all wealth, what then? What will you do? Eat wealth? Drink wealth? And in obtaining it your whole life will be wasted. Alexander at death felt his hands were empty. With a half-hour’s meditation in which you ripen greed to fruit—you become Alexander, you conquer the world—no murder is needed, no violence, no going anywhere. Only a little magic is to be done. What Alexander realized at the very end, having lost his life—that my hands are empty—that will be revealed to you in this small play: the hands are empty. Empty—the race is futile. And when the race becomes futile, you have stopped what was to come; you have changed what was to be.
Whatever be the inner problem, do not delay. Do not make a seed of it. Do not give it time. Do not give it the chance to grow. Grow it now and see it. This is what is called self-inspection. And by self-inspection your capacity will grow twofold. On one side the futility of greed will be proven; on the other, through inspection your awareness will be proven. These are double benefits. Every problem you can make into a step. If you delay not, every problem can become a means to bring maturity to your life. A problem is there so you may resolve it. By resolving you grow, you become mature. By resolving you become strong. Do not postpone the problem. Do not escape. One thing.
As for the past problems—those you have postponed and kept escaping—do not fight them either. Give them too the chance to spread in the mind. Sit on the riverbank and let the stream of your problems flow. You remain a witness, full of indifference, watching. Neither to this side nor that; neither for nor against. The stream of lust flows; let it flow. You are seated on the bank; you have nothing to do with it. Neither are you for it nor against it. Neither are you worldly nor are you a sadhu. This is the meaning of my sannyas: neither worldly nor sadhu; neither a sensualist nor a renunciate. You are on neither side.
Kabir says: Pakhāpakhi ke pekhane sab jagat bhulāna—In the agitation of for and against, the whole world is lost.
Neither for nor against. You sit. You watch. You say: Come, whatever there is. Let forms be made. Do not be frightened. If the mind begins to enjoy beautiful nymphs, let it enjoy. Only keep this in mind: you sit across, watching. Do not do anything. The moment you act, the mistake is made—you have raised the sword; you say, I have taken the vow of Brahmacharya, what is happening? The moment you act, the mistake is made. Fight—and you have laid the foundation of defeat. Do not raise your sword. Sit with both hands folded. That is why Buddha, Mahavira—everyone sits with both hands folded. Otherwise by mistake the hand might rise. Sit with both hands folded. Do not move the body. Do not move the inner act. And whatever the mind wants, let it do. Let it enjoy the nymphs of heaven; nothing is harmed—let it enjoy. Nothing is being spoiled; it is a play—let it happen. What do you have to do with it?
In the body are hidden particles of lust; in the mind are hidden longings of lust. It is the play of body and mind. The body is the stage; the mind is the actors. You are only the witness, only the spectator. You need not go on stage. You need not participate. Remain seated. After a little while the play ends, you return home. This is not your home. Neither are you an actor nor the stage. The body is the stage. Biology’s hunger hidden in the body becomes lust, becomes anger, becomes greed. Then the mind gives form to the body’s hidden hunger, gives thought, gives color, gives manner, writes the story. The script is of the mind; the mind supplies the actors. You unnecessarily come in between.
Do not come in between. Keep a distance and keep watching. Then you will be very delighted. No play anywhere is like the play the mind stages. It is delightful, entertaining. And free. No going anywhere. No standing in line at a ticket booth. The moment you close your eyes the play is already running. And the more quietly you sit, the more colorful it becomes. At first perhaps, in the beginning, the play will be in black and white, an old kind of film. Soon it will be multicolored—many-hued—if you sit. First the worldly plays run. If you continue to sit, soon the worldly plays fall, and what are called spiritual plays begin. Kundalini is rising; light is seen; Rama stands with the bow; Krishna plays the flute; Jesus hangs on the cross—these are spiritual dramas. They too are just plays. Their whole show is also of the mind. Their stage is the body too. Watch these also. As the world passed, so this play too will pass. Remain nothing more than a spectator by an inch.
It is very difficult. Many times you will feel suddenly moved—Jump in! Many times you will find you have forgotten and jumped. As soon as you see you jumped, return to your seat and sit again. This mistake will happen many times. It is an old habit. Even in this do not be troubled. If you forgot, you forgot—what to do now? When you remember, return and sit and watch again. First the worldly will pass; then the spiritual will pass.
To be saved from the world is easy; to be saved from the spiritual is very difficult. Because it is even more entertaining. Many-colored; its colors are not seen in the world. You have seen the color blue; but it is nothing. The day a blue star is seen within, when you see in your third eye that a blue star is appearing—that blueness is otherworldly. You will be drenched in it, you will sink into it, you will forget you are a spectator, remain seated on your chair. You will become the enjoyer. For there is nothing in the nymphs, nothing in wealth, compared to when inner subtle colors appear. And they appear only to one who lets the world pass. The one entangled in the world never gets a chance for them to appear. He who lets the worldly pictures pass, spiritual pictures begin to come before him.
That is a good sign. It tells you that you have become a little quiet, you remained seated a while on your chair, you did not rush to the stage. Hence these colors began to appear. And when you see inner colors—so unique! Everything becomes otherworldly. Sounds are heard that even great musicians cannot produce. What the greatest musician can do will seem only an echo of those sounds. Moons and stars by the thousands, suns by the millions! A marvel of a realm appears.
As you become quiet, such unique forms and colors appear. And they seem so real that this world will seem like maya. He who has seen the inner blue star will find all the world’s blue colors just pale, only a faint impress of it, a carbon copy. He who has glimpsed the inner nymph—outer women will look faded, desolate, ruined. He who has glimpsed the inner wealth—outer strongboxes will seem empty.
But remember: even that is still outside. All sights are outside. Within, only the seer is. Let these pass too. Many are entangled in the world; many get entangled in the spiritual. Those entangled in the spiritual come to me. They want my testimony.
This is my difficulty. If I say to them, Yes, something tremendous is happening, they get even more entangled. If I say, Do not bother about this, they become sad. They say I am not helping, I am making them sad. We came with great hope. If I say to them: these blue stars, these thousands of suns—these too are imaginations; your Krishna playing the flute—this too is the play of your mind; your Buddha, your Mahavira—you are creating them; this is the mind’s final deception—then they feel hurt that I am calling their Krishna the mind’s imagination. And they attained it with great difficulty—and I am snatching it from them.
So they either run away; they do not return; What is the use of going to such a man! Or they seek those who say, Amazing! You have become a siddha; you have attained. This is the real mystery. This is spirituality.
No, neither is this the real mystery nor is it real spirituality. This too is the mind’s play. When the mind sees you will not be entangled in the world, it throws a new lure. The mind says, The old greed is gone, no worry. You caught the juggler’s trick—wait, I will show another, even better. That was nothing, we just showed it anyhow. The mind is a juggler. It will show till the end. And you must hold awareness.
A moment arrives when you do not tire of awareness and the mind tires of showing. In that moment, revolution happens. Then the mind’s juggler, with his basket, his props, and his assistant, says, Come, boy. He leaves. He leaves you. The play ends. The stage dissolves. You remain alone upon your chair.
Mahavira called this Siddhashila: nothing remains; you sit alone. That very sitting is siddhi. Now nothing is seen; only the seer remains. No object remains—only subjectivity. Only the Atman remains; no experience remains.
Therefore Kabir says: Shunya dies, Ajapa dies, even Anahad dies.
Even shunya dies. Because shunya too is an experience. If you say, I am experiencing emptiness—this too is the mind’s play. Experience as such is of the mind. When all experience goes—Shunya dies, Ajapa dies, even Anahad dies.
Nothing remains—that is the real shunya. Where no experience remains—that is the real shunya. Where you cannot even say, I am experiencing shunya. Nothing remains; what experience? Only the Experiencer remains—established in his supreme glory, in his supreme energy. All else is lost. The play ended. You came home. This homecoming is Moksha.
Therefore Lao Tzu says, Deal with a thing before it comes into existence.
This is the dealing. The mind holds subtle seeds. Settle with them. Let them be manifest in the mind; do not make them into action. The moment they become action, the net of karma begins. Let them manifest in the mind. Watch them and become a witness.
Stop the mischief before it matures. The tree whose trunk is filled out begins from a tiny sprout.
If you must erase, erase the tiny sprout. Erasing the large tree is difficult. If you must cross over it, why make it big? If you must go beyond it, why water it? If you must be free from it, why build attachment to it? If you must move from this place, think of it as an inn—why make it your home? Do not make the halt your destination. Before the halt becomes the destination, move on. Before something grips you—before you are bound—be alert.
The nine-storeyed terrace begins with a handful of earth. A journey of a thousand kos begins with the traveler’s foot. A journey of a thousand li begins at one’s feet.
This is among Lao Tzu’s most famous sayings.
There is an old Chinese tale: a man for years thought to go on pilgrimage to a sacred place on the neighboring mountain. But it was a distance—about twenty miles. People would leave at two in the morning to arrive in the cool. On foot was the only way to the mountain. He kept postponing. Pilgrims from afar passed through his village. Finally he could not bear it. One day he decided. He asked experienced travelers what he must take. They told him everything, and said, Take a lantern as well. Because at two in the night it is dark. The path is wild. Walking without light is dangerous. Many have fallen and died.
At two in the night he rose. He lit the lantern. He came out of the village. He must have been a great mathematician—much into calculation. Outside the village he looked to see how far the lantern cast light. Barely ten steps. He said, It casts ten steps of light, and the path is twenty miles. We are done for. There is too much darkness, too little light. The math is clear. Ten steps of light, twenty miles of path. How will it be crossed? He sat down right there: What to do? Returning would be shameful; he had barely managed to leave home. For years he had thought, talked; finally the family was tired: If you must go, go—stop talking! He sat there.
A fakir was also coming on pilgrimage. He had an even smaller lantern. He stopped him: Wait, you will get into trouble. I have a big lantern—it casts light for ten steps. You are carrying such a lantern it barely shows four steps. How will you reach? It is a twenty-mile journey!
The fakir burst out laughing. He said, Madman, if a single step is lit, that is enough. For no one walks more than one step at a time. With one step of light, people complete journeys of thousands of miles. Only that much light is enough—let one step be seen. You take one step—then another step is seen. You take that step—no one can take two steps at once.
The mathematician said, Do not try to explain to me. I am proficient in mathematics. It is simple: divide ten miles by ten steps. You cannot deceive me in this way. And I am not a man of faith; I am a man of logic.
Lao Tzu says: that man will never set out. A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step; with one step it is also completed. Therefore Lao Tzu calls this Beginning and End. Beginning and End. At the first step is the beginning of the journey; at the first step is the end as well.
What is the first step? That you prevent problems before they come—that is the first, that is the last. Do this much and all is done. Attain this much and all is attained. Master one step—the Gangotri, the first stage—then nothing gets entangled. Things keep resolving. And you know how to resolve one step. No one ever lifts more than one step. Whenever a step is lifted, you resolve it. You resolved today; you will resolve tomorrow; you will resolve the day after. One step will keep rising, and it will keep resolving; one step of light will keep shining. Then however far the pilgrimage, who cares? He whose first step has risen rightly, resolved—his goal has come near.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: this is the end, this is the beginning. And he who goes astray at the beginning never reaches the end. He is like a river that is lost in the desert, that cannot reach the ocean. If you wish to reach the ocean, do not keep your eyes on the ocean—keep your eyes on the step. One step is enough. Lift it resolved. Remain resolved in this moment. All moments will flow out of this moment. All steps will flow out of this step. One resolved, the next will arise out of that resolution. Do not worry about it. Do not worry about tomorrow. Do not think of the future. Do not fall into concern whether the goal will be attained or not. Resolve one step. Those who have resolved one step have always attained the goal. For that is the beginning and that is the end.
Enough for today.