Tao Upanishad #105

On the journey to the Infinite, just as the end is hidden in the beginning, so too the beginning is hidden in the end. If one steps with care, the very first step brings the goal near. If there is even the slightest lapse, a moment of unconsciousness, then even on the last step the goal can be missed. The question is of awareness.

A first step taken with awareness proves to be the last. But let a faint shadow of unawareness fall—and you are back where the journey started. You have seen a small children’s game: Snakes and Ladders. At every step there are snakes, at every step there are ladders. If your foot falls on the ladder, you rise; if it falls on the snake, you come down.

The game of snakes and ladders is the whole game of life. From the very last rung you can still fall. From the last step you can return to where you began—and from the first step you can arrive.

Therefore, as much care as is needed for the first step, even more care is needed for the last. For at the first step there is nothing to lose; a little care will do. On the first step there is only to gain; there is nothing to be lost. Even if you remain unawake, what will you lose? You have nothing yet. It is only the first step; the goal has not begun, the journey has barely started. You are already in defeat. But on the last step very great awareness is needed, deep awareness. A tiny slip—and all is lost. What had been attained, what was within reach, what the fist would have closed upon in another instant—can be missed.

Just as there are dangers in the first step, so there are dangers—and even greater ones—at the last step.

Yesterday I spoke to you of the dangers of the first step. The first danger is that you postpone: we will take it tomorrow, the day after tomorrow. Postponement is the greatest danger of the first step. You only hope that you will take it—and slowly hoping becomes a habit. Then daily you postpone. Postponement becomes your way, and the first step never happens. And for the one whose first has not happened, what talk can there be of the last?

The second danger of the first step is that even when you do take a step, you descend into struggle. You do not flow in the journey; you start swimming against. You start a kind of fight—as if there were an enemy, as if Nature were not a friend but a foe. Then you begin to fight with every little thing. Earlier you stopped by postponing; now you stop because of fighting.

By fighting no one has ever arrived. There is no one to fight with. It is your own self, your own expanse. With whom will you fight? If there were some other, fit for combat, it would be fine. But whenever you fight, you will fight in solitude with your own shadow. You will waste your strength. Whom will you conquer thus? There is only a shadow; even if you win, nothing will be gained. And if you lose, it will be a bad loss; you will lose self-confidence.

Two dangers: postponement and struggle. The way to be free of both is this: whatever is to be done, do not delay it even for a moment. This very moment is the moment to do it. Tomorrow never comes; only the present exists. And if for even a moment you drift away from this moment and bind hope elsewhere, you go astray. And when you take the step, let it be a step of cooperation with Existence, of surrender—not of opposition, not of struggle. For all who have known, have known by flowing with the river’s current. No one has known by swimming against the current. The one who wants to swim against the current is the ego; that is the obstacle. When you flow, no ego is created—for you are not doing anything.

Hence Lao Tzu puts great emphasis on non-doing, because in non-doing there is no possibility for the ego to form. A little doing—and the ego forms: I did, I won, I attained; my character, my knowledge, my renunciation, my wealth—all give birth to the I. Nothing is done; character has arisen in non-doing; knowledge has blossomed in non-doing; light has spread in non-doing. Nothing of yours has happened—everything has happened un-done. Then what ego can there be? Surrender is non-doing; struggle is doing.

These are the two dangers of the first stage. There are two dangers of the last stage as well. Let us understand them also; then entry into the sutra will become easy.

The first danger of the last stage is known to all who have ever undertaken a journey on foot—and this journey is on foot; there is no vehicle to go to the Divine. You have to rely entirely upon your two little feet. If you have ever walked on a pilgrimage—gone to Badrinath–Kedarnath, gone to a sacred place, gone on the Hajj, or climbed a mountain to see the sunrise—you will know that when the destination comes close, fatigue is felt most. So long as it is far, you are bound by hope; you drag yourself along: just a little farther, just a little farther. You persuade yourself—four more steps and you will arrive. But when the destination is right before you, when you reach the temple’s gate, you sit down to rest: now there is no fear; the goal has come.

In an ordinary journey there is no danger, for if you rest on the temple steps the temple will not go far. But in that supreme journey there is danger, because that temple of the Ultimate Truth is not a fixed thing. Its distance depends upon your states of feeling. So long as you keep moving, it comes closer; the moment you stop, it goes far. So long as you keep flowing, it is near; the moment you rest, it recedes.

Thus if, near the ultimate destination—when everything has begun to be seen—your whole mind says: now rest, now there is no hurry, the door is right in front; we will rest, then rise and open the door—if then you fall into sleep, if laziness takes hold, when you open your eyes you will find yourself where you had started the journey. The temple will not be seen. You will find yourself sitting at the door of your own house. For there is only one way to be far from That—sloth. There is only one arrangement for distance—negligence. The very thought, I have arrived, is the danger. The moment the thought arises that you have arrived, your feet grow slack, you feel like resting—and, having arrived, what hurry is there now? Whoever has made this mistake—his whole effort goes to waste; water is thrown over everything. I have seen many of you come very close to that destination—and then I have also seen you begin to relax, and then I have seen you stand again at your own door.

The last step can become the first at any moment—just as the first can become the last. You feel a little tired; a little laziness catches hold; you say, let me close my eyes for two moments and rest. Rest from what? In this journey, rest means: become a little unconscious. Awareness is the step in this journey; unawareness is resting. Let me be a little unconscious—what fear is there now? A slight unawareness—and the goal becomes as far as it ever was.

The second danger—more subtle, more delicate—is this: as the goal appears, your being is filled with great joy, great ecstasy. The unstruck sound resounds all around. Such bliss you have never known. Showers without clouds. You are drenched and drenched. Every pore of your being is soaked. A new music beats in every heartbeat. Open your eyes—mystery; close your eyes—mystery; wherever you look—mystery. Astonished, self-enraptured, speechless, you stand still. In this moment there are two possibilities.

One possibility is that this joy is happening because you have come close to your swabhava, your Nature. This is natural. And if this celebration arises from nearness to your Nature, then the instruments that begin to play within you, the flowers that begin to bloom, the thousands of melodies that appear, the gentle, cool light that showers around you, the millions of lamps that are lit—this is auspicious. Through this, you will come even nearer; this is the welcome at the door. One long lost has returned home; the whole Existence hangs garlands to receive him. If this celebration is of coming close to Nature, then the last trace of ego still lingering in you will melt here too—in the warmth of this celebration. In this heat the final faint line of the I-sense—the little sense that I am—however pure, yet since it is an I, it is impure—this line will melt. In this celebration you will become a part. The wave will be lost; the Ocean will remain. This is as it should be.

But the danger is right here. If by chance you understand it as: I have arrived, I have attained—you will be thrown back to the first step; perhaps even further back than the first.

Where is the difference? The difference is subtle. The knower will understand in this moment—Paramatma has attained me; the unknowing will think—I have attained Paramatma. That is the only difference. The knower will say—home has come; now I am dissolving, now I am drowning. The unknowing will think—I have attained the ultimate; nothing remains to attain; my ego stands on the supreme peak. The knower will melt—because Paramatma has attained me; it is His grace, His prasad. Like a small child placing his head in the mother’s lap and disappearing—so the knower disappears. The unknowing stiffens and says—I too have attained God! Where great seekers failed, where many strayed, I have won! The ego will flare up in its final blaze—and in a single instant you will descend from the highest peak into the deepest abyss.

And both seem alike; the difference is only of emphasis. The knower says—Paramatma has attained me; the emphasis is on Paramatma. The unknowing says—I have attained Paramatma; the emphasis is on I. The knower is absorbed in the great celebration; the unknowing tries to clutch even this celebration in his fist. The knower lets himself go; the unknowing tries to seize the Vast. In a moment all is wasted, and the effort of many lives is washed away.

These are the two dangers at the end. From the first step to the last, awareness must be preserved. And the nearer you come, the greater the possibility of losing—because only he who has can lose. What does the ignorant possess? What can he lose? But the nearer you come to Paramatma, to the supreme treasure, something begins to be with you; the treasure is showering. Now even more awareness is needed; even more awareness is needed. Standing at the last door—before the temple absorbs you into itself, before the door opens and you are dissolved in its womb—the greatest danger is in that last moment; and there the greatest awareness is needed.

I have often seen many of you get a little glimpse—and from that very glimpse you are thrown back. Your glimpse becomes your fall. The moment a glimpse comes, the ego stiffens. Your gait changes. You begin to think you have attained something, you have become something; you are special; no longer ordinary.

An old sannyasin came to me a few days ago. There is nothing yet to attain. Only tiny, subtle glimpses of the mind’s play have happened—sometimes sitting silently a light is seen; sometimes an inner column of energy appears. Small things of no great value, mental playthings; they are to be gone beyond; if entangled in them, one never reaches Paramatma. He was very troubled: how to go further? I told him, clear and simple: this is not the big question. The question is not how to go further—it is that what has happened so far, you are holding it; how will you go ahead? Like someone clinging to a tree on the roadside and asking: how to proceed?

What is the matter? Leave the tree! If you are holding it, how will you go ahead? Only by letting go does one move forward. Leave one step for the next foot to find a higher step. If you clutch a step, there is no next step possible.

But he is stiff. He says his Kundalini has awakened. That stiffness shows that the little experiences have been grasped. He says a blue light is seen. And he came asking me: what state am I in now?

I told him: do not even ask this, for there are only two states—the knower’s and the ignorant’s. There is no third state. And if you manufacture a third, it will be the ignorant one’s mischief. Only two states: either of the one who has arrived, or of the one who has not yet arrived. And the one who has not arrived—if he makes a middle state—will clutch it. By clutching it, arriving becomes difficult. Do not make a state. Decide between these two: which is yours?

He found it very difficult to say: the ignorant’s. Had he said that, the danger of the last step would have been gone; the journey would have begun. He said: somewhat the knower’s; I am not fully a knower.

I said: have you ever heard of partial enlightenment? Ever heard that knowledge has percentages—fifty percent, sixty, seventy? That this Buddha is ten percent, that Buddha twenty, this one seventy, and this is pure—twenty-four carat? Buddhahood has no gradations. Either Buddha, or not.

But the mind does not agree to not-Buddha. Nor can it claim Buddha—because if you were Buddha, why come to ask me? The matter would be finished; others would come to ask you. You cannot even say “I am Buddha”—for you are not; otherwise what need to go anywhere? And the mind shrinks from saying “I am ignorant.”

This is the danger. Until the supreme knowing happens, consider yourself ignorant. Do not invent cleverness—even by an inch—that there are many kinds of ignorants; some are below me.

No ignorant is below you, and you are above no ignorant. Ignorant means ignorant. Some are lost in wealth; some are lost in religion. Some have filled their safes; some have chosen renunciation. Some have coins of silver; some have coins of renunciation. Some have filled their ledgers with fasts and vows; others have collected different junk. Some are crazed for outer light; some have clutched inner lights. But all are ignorant; outside or inside makes no difference.

Until the hour of Knowledge—the very last moment—know yourself to be ignorant. If you wish that last moment to come, until you are invited into the inner sanctum, remain ignorant, remain a beggar. Do not throw away your begging bowl. Remain humble. Do not allow even a trace of ego to form. If you allow the ego to form on the way, at the last moment it will drown you; that very snake will swallow you at the end and drop you back at its tail.

Remember this from the first moment. Do not make religion into a possession; do not collect experiences. Say: these are things along the roadside; they happen, they are ordinary. Do not give them too much attention. Do not even think much about them. Do not attach stiffness to them. If from the beginning you walk in awareness—and to the last moment you know yourself as ignorant—then no one can send you back from the last step.

Now, let us try to understand Lao Tzu’s sutra.

“Who acts, spoils; and who grasps, what he grasps slips away.”

These are very deep sayings. If you only hear them on the surface, you will not understand; they will appear like riddles. But they are straight and simple—no riddles at all. If you do not drag the intellect into understanding, they are easy. They are direct sutras. If you bring intellect in, difficulty increases. Anything connected to intellect becomes a riddle.

Why? Because intellect is one-dimensional; it looks only in one direction. Hunters say there is a dangerous animal in the jungle—the rhinoceros. If it charges, there is no need to fear—just step a little aside from its path. It is one-dimensional, it goes straight; it cannot turn its neck—it is thick. If you are not in its line, it cannot even see you. Only what lies in its straight line exists for it.

The intellect’s neck is like the rhino’s—one-dimensional. If you stand aside a little, the rhino cannot see you. It knows only a single direction—its current path. Only what falls on that path exists; the rest does not.

The intellect is one-directional. For instance, it says: if you want to hold something, hold it tightly, otherwise it will slip. Sounds clear: to hold, hold tight; else it will escape. This is one dimension. But there is an opposite dimension the intellect does not know: if you hold too tightly, the hand will tire. The harder you grasp, the sooner it will tire—and when it tires, there will be no way except to let go. You will have to release it.

Lao Tzu speaks from a different dimension than the intellect. He says: if you hold too tight, you will have to let go—because the capacity to hold has a limit.

Observe it. Clench your fist as hard as you can—more, and more, all your strength. You will have a strange experience: when your strength is exhausted, you will find the fist opening of itself. You are not opening it—you have no strength left even to open; you used it all to clench. Try it: clench, and forbid the hand to open at all. In a few moments you will tire, and you will see the fingers loosening by themselves; you have no power over them.

Lao Tzu says, “He who grasps—what he grasps slips away.”

This is happening to you twenty-four hours a day. But the intellect’s rhino does not let you hear—because these things do not fall on its path. Its logic is straightforward: what you want to hold, hold tight, else it will slip. If something slips, the intellect says: see, I told you, hold tight! If something goes wrong, the intellect says: I told you, do it properly—it would never go wrong.

And Lao Tzu says: things are happening by themselves. What happens by your doing? By doing, you can only spoil. And if you try to do more, you will spoil more.

Therefore nowhere are there greater troublemakers than the industrious. Even the lazy are better—at least they do not spoil others. The industrious march out in the morning with a flag—to improve, to change the world. Who told you to change the world? Who gave you that right? You have appointed yourself to make a revolution, to end corruption, to save society. Through thousands of years—what has man achieved by this? What has he done at all?

Things move by their own nature. Does anything happen by your doing? Yes, you needlessly get agitated, you create fuss, you perspire. You become a free martyr. And by your disturbance many others feel obstacles in their lives. They were walking simply on their straight path; now they start running after some Jayaprakash to remove corruption. They were going to their shop, to get medicine for their wife; now the idea has overtaken them—remove corruption!

If the world were rid of revolutionaries, great peace would descend. If society-reformers were gone, society would improve by itself. But the intellect will say, how can that be? Even with so much reform, nothing improves—and you speak the opposite! If so much reform cannot improve, then without doing how will it improve?

Your condition is like a child who plants a seed, and keeps digging it up to see if the sprout has come. Even if a sprout might have emerged—first it is difficult, because if you keep digging, how can it sprout? Give it a chance to happen by itself! Children are hasty. All who are hasty are childish. If somehow a sprout emerges—the child forgot and went on a holiday; and somehow despite the child, the sprout emerged—then the child in his hurry wants to pull it up quickly, to make it grow faster, as if the plant were a spring you could stretch, or an elastic thread you could pull. The child will snap it; then he will cry—what wrong did I do? I was only trying to help it grow quickly, to make it flower.

Plants grow by themselves; rivers flow by themselves—you need not push them. Children grow by themselves—you need not make them grow. Life moves by itself. It was moving before you were; it will move when you are gone. The revolutionary creates noise in between and convinces himself inside that without him the whole world will go to hell. No one is going anywhere. Revolutionaries come and go; the world goes on its own way. No one has ever abolished evil—because evil is an integral part of good. No one has ever eliminated Ravana—because then the Ram Lila would cease; it runs with Ravana.

The wise sees this truth—that things happen by themselves. Kabir said: un-done, all is done. Do not fall into the storm of doing.

And what is true of the outer is true of the inner. People come to me and ask: how to conquer lust? What should we do? How to bring brahmacharya? I ask them: did you bring lust? We did not. That which you did not bring—how will you eradicate it? That which, when it came, did not ask your permission—how will its end be in your hands? Where did lust come from? They say: we do not know. Who gave it to you? They say: what kind of question is that? It is. It has come from Nature. Nature will take it back. Where things come from, they return. That by whose doing they arise—by that doing they depart. Why stand in between for nothing?

How to destroy anger? people ask. Did you bring it? When did you buy it? Had you bought it, you could return it; had you made it, you could remove it. Why not see the simple truth? Why become a pestle-hero in rice and lentils? Things are moving straight—why stand in between?

Anger exists—no one has ever removed it by removing it. When I say this, do not be disheartened. No one has ever removed anger; no one has destroyed lust. But the day you accept this and stop being a pestle-hero, suddenly you will find many things beginning to leave you.

Nature does everything by itself. The day you become so quiet and see that my being, my doing has no value, that day your ego disappears. That very day—where are you then? The day you see this truth—that everything is happening; there is no question of my doing; I did not even make myself—suddenly you find: you are. Birth happened. One day you will find you are gone. One day you will find all pomp lying still—when the caravan moves on. Neither on arrival did anyone ask you, nor on departure will anyone ask you.

Why not understand this simple thing—that doership is not in my hands? And this is the supreme religion: to one who understands that doership is not in his hands. Many devices have been invented to bring this truth. The doctrine of fate is just a device—to bring you to this: all happens by fate.

Krishna told Arjuna in the Gita: surrender all actions to the Divine; do what He makes you do; do not bring yourself in between. Krishna’s entire teaching is this: do not be a pestle-hero. He has already slain those who stand in the field; their hour to die has come. It is His play; do not come in between. At most you are an instrument. He is shooting across your shoulder—let Him shoot. Even your shoulder is not yours; He made it. And you—are you yours? You are His. Those who stand on this side in the battlefield—they are His; those on the other side—they are His. The story is His; the play is His; the stage is His; the drama and its actors—all are His. He has fashioned forms of one kind on this side, and of another on that side. Do not come in between.

The essence of all the world’s religions is that you understand this one thing: nothing happens by your doing. Then everything begins to happen—and whatever happens brings contentment. Because if there is no question of my doing, what grief, what defeat, what success, what failure? If He does—then let Him lose, let Him succeed, let Him fail. He knows; He keeps the accounts. If all the strings are His and we are only puppets hanging on His strings, then what purpose is served? Mistakes are His, praise and blame are His. We hold ourselves totally aside. And as this understanding deepens, the ego grows smaller. The day it is seen in full—that nothing is ours, even we are not ours—that very day the ego is dissolved.

And without ego, neither lust is possible nor anger. Without ego, neither greed nor delusion. Without ego, neither householder nor monk. Without ego, neither bad nor good. The very basis of division is broken. And then—for you nothing remains; you remain only a witness. And this being a witness is the supreme destination. To be a doer is illusion; to be a witness is Knowledge. Outside or inside, in society or in the individual, in the other or in yourself—be at most a witness.

Your wife becomes angry—what can you do? Do nothing. If you do, the trouble will grow. By doing, you will add ghee to the fire. Do nothing. What can you do? You did not make this wife. He who made her knows. She is not an object in your hands that you can paint and change. She has her own journey. For a moment you met on the road; some priest staged a drama and had you circle a fire seven times. You met on the way; you walk together for a while; you will separate. Friendship is for a moment; walking together is for a moment. She has her journey; you have yours. If she grows angry, that is her business. What can you do? You can only be a witness.

Do not try to improve her. I have seen thousands of households ruined—because either the wife tries to improve the husband, or the husband the wife. In this industry, wives are very skilled—busy improving husbands. Do not try to improve the other—who has ever improved anyone? Not even a father can improve his son. A small child—without any strength—cannot be improved. If you try, you will spoil.

Lao Tzu says, “He who acts, spoils.”

The father who thought to improve his son—spoiled him. Good fathers inevitably become the begetters of bad sons. The wife who thought to reform—destroyed the relationship; quarrel began. The society that thought to reform—wherever reformers and revolutionaries arose, that society was ruined.

The world runs by itself. This river flows by itself. Sit on the bank. Enjoy as much as you can. And if the sense of doer is gone, then even when the wife is angry, you can enjoy the play. For when nothing is in your hands, even these gestures are delightful. The Divine is making it happen: look—an intelligent woman, educated, is breaking pots. See the play—she can interpret the Gita and the Ramayana, she lacks no knowledge, holds a university degree—and what acts she does! When such a thing happens, look up and thank Him: You are a great rope-walker! What all You draw from sensible folk! When the husband comes drunk and makes a racket, the wife should say: such an intelligent man—no one can mislead him, and he misleads himself. Look up and thank the Divine: what a show! Surely You have some secret. And what can we do? You have made him drink; otherwise why would it happen?

As understanding grows, you feel that He alone is the doer. Then all egos dissolve. The whole device—from many directions—is only to dissolve the ego. The wise have only one effort: that your ego melt, that you disappear. Then, all is accepted—outside and inside.

Not only will you accept the outer; here is the unique alchemy of Lao Tzu. He is no ordinary sadhu. He is not an ordinary moralist or priest teaching character. He is giving the ultimate direction of life—where character and misconduct have no value. He says: do not meddle with the other; leave the other to himself; do not obstruct. And likewise he says for oneself: do not meddle too much with yourself.

There is anger; you want to remove it. Who are you to remove it? There is lust; you want to destroy it. Who are you to destroy it? You were born of lust; lust fills every pore of your body. Who are you to annihilate it? How will you bring brahmacharya? What will you do?

No—then you will be entangled. You will begin to fight with yourself; the moments that could have been a celebration will be wasted in inner conflict. Accept. And this acceptance is ultimate and supreme. Neither condemn nor praise. As you are—be content. And for the other as well—as he is, give him the chance to be. Tell him: you are on your journey; do what seems right to you. What seems right to me is happening through me. And what is the question of right or wrong? What is happening is happening; what is not happening is not happening. Then what restlessness can there be? When what is happening is happening, when tathata—suchness—arrives, what unrest remains? What anxiety?

All this is the play of ego. The ego says: wear good clothes; live in good character. The ego says: you were born in a great family—how can you drink? The ego says: this does not suit you—you look good only in the temple. You were born in a great house—how can you be filled with lust? Brahmacharya suits you. These are words of ego. Drop them. And by drop I do not mean you have to do anything—for these are illusions. You need not push them away either—just understand.

Life’s stream flows by itself. Trees are growing; flowers are blossoming. In man, desires blossom. Stars move in the sky. All happens by itself. You are not the controller—you are an instrument. The Vast is making things happen through you; let them happen. If it makes anger happen, anger happens. If it throws you into lust, you fall into lust. The day it lifts you, you rise. Neither your falling is yours nor your rising. Do not become humble in falling, and do not become stiff in rising.

Understand this. If you have understood humility in falling, then when you rise you will be filled with pride. Whoever felt humble in lust will become stiff in brahmacharya; his gait will change; his conceit will have no end. Give everything to That—bad and good alike.

“He who acts, spoils.”

Sit in your inner cave; remain only a witness.

“He who grasps—what he grasps slips away.”

Therefore it continually happens—though you do not notice—that the one who fights lust, often slips into lust. He who fights anger and represses it, becomes a volcano of anger. Otherwise how would a Durvasa arise? He who holds tight to character—his hands too become weary. How long can one clutch anything? At some point the hand needs rest. Even the saint needs a holiday from saintliness. How long will you fight? No one can fight twenty-four hours. The mightiest warrior will tire—and in rest the repressed will surge. The saint will battle brahmacharya for twelve hours—and for twelve hours his mind will whirl in sex. He will fast for twelve hours—and for twelve hours he will think of food, he will dream of feasts.

“He who grasps—what he grasps slips away.”

Lao Tzu says: we teach you a skill by which nothing will slip from your hand. And that skill is—do not grasp at all. Then how can anything slip? Do not possess—then who can rob you? Do not try to keep anyone by force—for the one you try to keep will go far. Do not hold to keep near—then no one can go far from you.

The sage’s life is beyond the reach of logic. It is not the rhino’s gait of intellect. The sage is multi-dimensional; he sees the depths of life and observes strange happenings.

If you make your love into a grip, your love will be destroyed. If you love and give freedom—give even the facility to go far—then he will never go far. We do not want to go far from the one who gives us the freedom to go far. We want to flee only from the one who ties us to a peg—because consciousness seeks freedom. We want to be free from the one who binds us. From the one who keeps us free—how can we be free? He has bound us with a chain so subtle and invisible that there is no way to escape—he has bound us with freedom.

Therefore, if you truly love, give freedom. Otherwise, the very one you love will go far. If something is truly yours—give it; then no one can snatch it from you. Then for the first time you become its true owner. Lao Tzu says: until you give, you are not the owner. Your clutch shows you are a thief—otherwise, why clutch? What is yours needs no clutching. Only by giving does your ownership first become known.

These things feel upside-down to the intellect, but your heart can understand. And in your life’s experience, the imprint of this is everywhere. If you contemplate and observe, you will find: whatsoever you tried to hold—has gone away. The intellect says: hold tighter; that is why it went. If you had built a perfect prison without any loophole, how could they escape? If you had held tighter, they would have left even sooner—who wants to live in a prison?

Gibran has said: give your children love—but not your beliefs; love—but not your experiences; love—but do not bind—free them. Children come through you, but they are not yours. They too belong to the Vast. Who are you to impose your molds of conduct and character upon them? Who are you to throw them in a prison? The larger the prison you build, the sooner they will break free—and it is right that they do, or they will die. For the protection of their life, they must move away.

Have you noticed? In life, whatever you tried to master broke. Yet you do not awaken. The rhino of intellect keeps saying one thing: you should have mastered it better. Whatever you tried to save—slipped away. Whatever you wanted to keep forever—was lost forever. Still you do not awaken.

If you keep listening to the intellect, it will not let you awaken—because it has one set logic. It does not see the opposite. But life is not one-sided; it is manifold.

Lao Tzu reveals that manifoldness. He says: there is no opposition here. Understand the simple sutra of life:

“He who acts, spoils. He who grasps—what he grasps slips away. Because the sage does not act, he does not spoil. Because he does not grasp, he does not let things slip.”

You will not be able to slip from the sage’s non-grasp. Try whatever you may—there is no way to slip there, because in the first place there is no grip. Where will you run? Where will you go? There is no distance where you will not find him with you—because he will support you in going far.

If mother and father understood this secret—that by helping the son to go far, he will always remain near—then wherever he is, he will be near. But parents listen to the intellect; they draw Lakshman-rekhas everywhere, raise prohibitions, build fences: do not go out. Then one day they suddenly find the nest empty—birds have flown. Then they weep.

I see many in old age suffering one disease—their children have left them.

Why did you clutch? Otherwise, how would they leave? You clutched—so they left.

But the intellect says: the grip was weak; you should have held tighter. I told you! Then you repent and weep. This web of the intellect goes on through lifetimes; you cannot come out of its vicious circle.

“The sage does not act—therefore he does not spoil.”

A sage cannot spoil—because he does not reform. All your notions will become obstacles to understanding Lao Tzu’s sage—because you think a sage is one who reforms; who is born for the salvation of the world. Nothing is more false. A sage wants to save no one. Saviors create the mischief. A sage supports you in what you wish to be.

It happened two weeks ago. One evening an elder came to see me. A young man asked: I want to marry—what do you say? I said: certainly, marry. I even told him how to choose the girl, what to do. The elder became very restless. He said: beyond my understanding! A saint is for lifting men out of lust—why are you misleading this youth? Warn him that marriage is not right. If he has come to you, leaving the decision to you, why tell him this?

I said: he has come precisely because he wants to marry. Had he not wanted to, there would be no question. And if I say do not, I will attract him even more to marry. And if he listens to me and does not marry, he will remain troubled all his life—because marriage is an experience one must pass through. It has fire; blisters happen—but without them, no maturity comes. One must pass through the other to come to oneself. Many doors must be knocked before one’s own home is found. He is not old; you are old. You have gone through the experience; you remember the burn. Scalded by milk, you now blow even on buttermilk. Let him burn. My whole work is that I tell him how not to burn so much that there is no way back. Let him burn, pass through experience—but return victorious; not be destroyed in it. That is all my work—that I support him in what he wants to do.

If even a thief comes to ask: how shall I steal?—I will show him the way of right stealing; a way to steal and yet not be lost; to rise above stealing through the experience of stealing. The lotus rises out of the mud. Achorliness rises above theft. The flower of brahmacharya blossoms in the mire of lust. He who is deprived of the mud—how will the flower bloom? Who am I to stop him? Wherever he wants to go, I will give him a lamp—on the condition that wherever he goes, the lamp’s light remains. If he goes to steal, I will give him a lamp—that light may fall upon his stealing, and the path not be dark. If he goes into lust, I will give him a lamp—so that there is light on the path. For the real question is not what you should not do; the question is: whatever you do, do it with awareness. Then nothing can bind you. One day that light will bring you out of all hells. So the question is not of forbidding; the question is of awareness.

The sage does not reform—therefore he does not spoil. Those who try to reform are the very root of disorder. And your so-called sadhus who are not sages—who have themselves been reformed by others, and thus ruined deeply—who have not ripened by their own experience, who are borrowed, who have fallen into some reformer’s net—on the surface they appear reformed, inside they are full of rubbish—such people go on reforming others.

Remember: the disease that troubles you, you spread it. It becomes infectious. They have suppressed lust, taken vows of brahmacharya; they sit tailless—now their eyes are on your tail. Until they cut off your tail too, they will not rest—because if your tail is cut, you become part of their tailless society, and then you too will cut others’ tails.

You have read the story of the fox whose tail was cut. She fell into some guru’s net. Gurus are everywhere—among men, among foxes. Her guru had already been cut. He said: until you cut your tail, knowledge is not attained. One must pass through hardship, tapasya. Where has anything been gained without sacrifice? Drop the tail—what is there in it? Uselessly hanging, of no use. See—we cut it and attained knowledge; our guru too attained by cutting it; and so has it always been done.

Listening to such talk, the fox had her tail cut. The moment it was cut she understood—nothing was gained, only the tail was lost. Two ways remained: either tell the other foxes the truth—do not cut! But then there would be no way to save her prestige; they would laugh: a tailless fox! Or conceal it, and preach to others: cut your tails. The guru said: what did we get? But what is the point of telling anyone? Now you too persuade others to cut. Has anyone got anything? No one. It has always been this way; we are trapped—now the only way to preserve our status is to hide our pain, smile, and make others cut their tails. Until every tail is cut, we are not safe.

This goes on everywhere. You go to a sadhu who has left the world; he tells you: leave the world—wife, house, children—all bondage. It sounds convincing, because you too are in trouble; it is bondage. And he sits there quiet. You do not know that his tail is cut—and he is troubled within. His mind keeps returning to household thoughts, to women. He repeatedly tells himself: not right to turn back; against prestige. People will laugh; they will say he is fallen. You give no chance to one whose tail has been cut to return—and even if he returns, you will not accept him.

A Jain monk came to ask me. I told him: there is no need to hide the truth. If you have gained nothing by all these fasts, renunciations, pretensions—drop them. He said: if I drop them, those who touch my feet will throw shoes at me. They will say I am corrupt.

A very amusing world! A truthful man—if he says: I have gained nothing—people will say: you gained nothing because you are a sinner; you did not try properly. Is it possible that for so many years and so many tailless ones—no one gained anything? You alone are the wise one? Your sinful karmas obstruct you. You are at fault. People will say this.

I asked: what do you do? He said: I too preach daily that which gave me nothing. All day I explain; all night I bang my head—what has happened! I know that at most I can make them do what I did. Inside I fear it is a sin. But I am uneducated. If I leave—now I am honored—if I leave, these very devotees who touch my feet and pile up money will not give me a fifty-rupee job. Still I said: if you are honest—go through this pain—leave; let us see what happens.

Truly, he left. And what he had said happened. The Jains turned against him—corrupt, sinner, returned to the world.

In a meeting in Hyderabad I was speaking. That “corrupt” one—the tailless man—was present. He came with me to the hall and sat on the dais. It was a Jain temple; there was uproar. Because of me they could not say much, but whispers rose: this man should not be on the stage. A slip of paper came: everything else is fine—remove this man; he is corrupt.

I tried to explain: he is not corrupt—he is very honest. His real renunciation has happened now—that he gathered the courage. I know your other monks; I have spoken intimately with them too. I found them in the same state. But this man is honest. They said: you are spreading corruption; take him down. They created such an uproar that they climbed the dais and dragged him down; they beat him. He is honest—when nothing happened, he says so. But honesty is not worshipped; the dishonest are.

If the tailless fox goes and says: we were cut for nothing—do not cut your tails—the other foxes will laugh: how can that be? From time immemorial, by tail-cutting, knowledge has been attained!

A wicked web. You too know that you have tried many devices; they fail. Yet you do not tell anyone that they fail. You also cover yourself—because people will say: devices cannot be wrong; you must be wrong. You hide.

Lao Tzu calls that person a sage who has no enthusiasm to reform anyone—and hence does not become the cause of anyone’s corruption. The sage’s attitude is: whatever is happening, he makes your way smooth for it to happen, and gives you support. He says: you are going west—go—with my blessings. I have gone west too—on that path there are these difficulties; avoid them if you can. And there are ways to return—keep them in mind. If you need one day, return. But wherever you are going, go. For it is sin to obstruct another’s destiny; it is mischief to force yourself upon another’s path. Whoever forces others does so because he is forcing himself—and what he does to himself, he will do to others.

Understand this law: one who forces himself will force others. One who has done nothing violent to himself, who has simply and naturally recognized Truth, who has attained sahaja Samadhi, does not force anyone. Is there any Samadhi that is not sahaja? Samadhi is sahaja—natural.

The sage does not force you. This is hard for us to understand, because our notion is: the sage reforms. When you want to reform, you go to him—like a physician when you fall ill.

No. The very being of a sage means this: he creates for you the ease to become as simple as he has become. Simplicity means: no doing, only witnessing; not the doer, but the seer.

“Human undertakings often go wrong when they are near completion. By remaining as alert at the end as at the beginning one can avoid failure.”

Hence the sage gives only one sutra, one lamp: be aware. Wherever you go, whatever you do—be aware. If you feel like doing what is wrong, do it—for what else can you do? If you repress this mind, wrong will accumulate and burst tomorrow. Do it—but do it with awareness. Awareness has a wondrous alchemy. As you become aware, wrongness diminishes of itself. Has anyone ever done evil with awareness? All evil happens in unawareness; all evil is a kind of madness; evil is possible only when you lose consciousness.

Therefore the sage gives a single virtue: remain awake. Do whatever you do—do it with awareness. Enter sex with awareness—make even that a meditation. Soon you will be beyond it—and that beyond will be different; not suppression, but transcendence through understanding. In that transcendence there is no sting. It is as natural as flowers blossoming; no one pastes flowers on trees. As the Zen say: the grass grows by itself. Nothing needs to be done; the grass grows by itself. So too does brahmacharya grow by itself if there is awareness; so too compassion, so too non-violence. No vows are needed; no one becomes loving by force. By force perhaps you can fill yourself with hate—but never with love.

The sage says only this much: “They desire desirelessness.”

These too are desires—that I be free of anger, that I attain moksha, that brahmacharya blossom in my life. These too are desires. The sage has only one desire—the desire to be desireless. And desirelessness blossoms as the shadow of awareness. For as you enter desire with awareness, you find: what madness! What are you doing? It no longer seems worth doing; the inner juice dries up; the seeds of desire are burned in the fire of awareness.

And the day you are desireless—there is no need to desire God or moksha. Desirelessness is liberation; desirelessness is moksha; desirelessness is becoming Divine. Therefore the phrase “desiring God” is wrong; “desiring moksha” is wrong.

Now you will see the difference. Your so-called sadhu desires moksha. First he desired the world; now someone cut his tail; now he desires moksha. But the desire has not been cut—only its object has changed. Yesterday he wanted wealth; today he wants the Self. Yesterday he wanted fame; now he wants Paramatma. Yesterday he wanted empire; now he wants liberation. But desire continues. This is the difference between the real and the fake sadhu.

Desire continues—with a religious color, but still desire. This one is false. He has not arrived through life; he heard someone’s sermon and became a sadhu. Someone shaved his head. He did not come through his own experience; he fell into someone’s salesmanship. Just as the marketplace has salesmen who know how to sell things, so do temples, mosques, churches have their salesmen—priests, pundits. They sell religion. In the market you are robbed; in the temple you are robbed.

I have heard: two salesmen were talking. One said: I did something amazing today. I sold a man a piece of land that was eight feet below ground. But I talked so well that he bought it. Two days later it rained, and the whole pit filled with water. He came screaming: what will we do with this land? Eight feet of water—it has become a lake! Can we build a house? Farm it? I sold him a motorboat too.

The other said: that’s nothing. Today something greater happened to me. A woman came—her husband died. For burial a special suit is needed. I sold her two sets—“Sometimes it’s good to have a change.” The man is dead. For the cremation you need one suit. I sold two. She even put the second in the coffin.

In the bazaar there is robbery—shopkeepers sell you things. In the temples there is robbery—shopkeepers sell you the afterlife.

The sage does not redirect your desire from one object to another. He says: all desires are the same; the nature of desire does not change whether you want money or virtue. Desire means: you are not content with what you are; you want something else. The sage teaches you to be content with what you are. That contentment—that you are right as you are—is the desireless moment. In that desirelessness the flower of liberation blossoms. In that desirelessness you experience your divinity. In that desirelessness the last event of life happens. If it does not, you will go on crying—changing shops, changing temples, moving from this church to that. All this is commerce.

“The sage desires desirelessness. And he gives no value to things that are obtained with difficulty.”

But the sadhus you know value only what is difficult. They say: do tapas, austerities—very difficult; fast—starve—very difficult. How can moksha be cheap? It is costly; destroy all and then you will get it.

The sage gives no value to things obtained with difficulty—because whatever is obtained with difficulty is an ornament of the ego. The ego is attracted to the difficult. The more difficult, the more the urge to possess.

Kohinoor is precious because it is rare. If diamonds lay everywhere like pebbles—who would care? We care for the difficult. Sannyas should be simple, not difficult—else it becomes a Kohinoor. That is why I distribute sannyas so easily. No need for difficulty. What celebration?

One takes sannyas and a huge celebration is made—bands, processions—as if something very special were happening. You bring sannyas into the bazaar. Be warned: those who make bands and processions for your sannyas—if you leave sannyas, they will throw shoes at you. For you have made their bands useless. They will not let you sit on the stage; they will call you sinner. This is simple arithmetic. Beware of those who play bands; they are dangerous. They cut off your tail and close the way back.

Sannyas is a simple matter—a state of feeling. What need of bands? Some ask me: you give initiation just like that? No ceremony? The initiation that comes with ceremony is for the ego. This is a quiet bond—what ceremony? To whom to proclaim? It is your affair. No connection with the market. Quietly.

The simple has value to the sage; the difficult has value to the sadhu. Why do you seat the sadhu above? Why touch his feet? Because he has done difficult things you cannot. That is the only reason. He lies on a bed of thorns. He may be stupid—but he lies on thorns. You cannot. And note: the stupid can lie easily—their sensitivity is less; their intelligence is dull; their skin thick. You feel blessed seeing him—you cannot lie thus.

But merely being difficult—does it make something valuable? Yes, standing on one’s head is difficult—so a man who stands on his head for three hours—your eyes widen, you run to touch his feet. You cannot stand five minutes. But what has this to do with Nature? A man fasts for thirty days—great! Granted that starving is difficult—but where is the value in that?

Christian fakirs have worn shoes with nails pointed inward. If a shoe rubs a little, how much pain! They put a dozen nails inside; their feet develop wounds, and they walk. People fall at their feet: a difficult thing! But what has that to do with moksha? Think a little—what connection? It shows only you are unintelligent, that you are dull, that you are killing your sensitivity. But that you are going to moksha—there is no sign of that.

There are many orders where they flog themselves. The one who flogs more is greater; people count: who does a hundred in the morning, who a hundred and fifty. The skin is flayed—and people come to watch. Those who come are even worse. Those who flog are fools—and those who watch are wicked.

My experience is: wherever someone tortures himself—by fasting, flogging, sleeping on nails, lying on thorns—and those who worship them—these worshippers are wicked, violently inclined. They have found a device: by worship they provoke these fools to self-torture.

There are two types of people in the world; a third type is the sage. One is the masochist—he enjoys torturing himself. A disease. The other is the sadist—he enjoys torturing others. Also a disease. The third is the sage—neither tortures himself nor others. There is no taste in torture; what is the point? He moves in what is simple and straight.

When I see Jain monks, I find them masochists. In the West they would be treated; in the East they are worshipped. They are wicked to themselves. And the procession around them—those band-players—are wicked too; they enjoy another’s suffering. Blessed are you, they say, you fasted for thirty days!

What is blessed in this? The man has tortured himself, has been cruel to the body, tormented himself. It becomes easy if worship is given. Man’s ego is such that you can make him do any stupidity if you give him worship. If you worship the man who cuts off his nose, you will find many ready to cut their noses—for worship is so cheap—only one cut and worship forever.

The sage neither tortures himself nor others. He gives no value to hard-won things—because the value of difficulty is only for the ego.

The charm of climbing Everest is only that no one else could and I did. What joy did Hillary have? Only the egoic joy: I am the first to reach. Someone asked Hillary—what is the attraction? What benefit? You went and returned—there is nothing to do there. Hillary said: that is not the question. So long as Everest is there, it is a challenge to man; it must be climbed.

It must be climbed—why? We must reach the moon—why? We must reach Mars—why? Because they are there—and they challenge. This logic is as childish as the child whose mother asked: why did you throw mud into the girl’s mouth at school? He said: what could I do—her mouth was open.

Your Everest and moon-landing people have such intelligence. The moon is there—so we must go. There is an irresistible attraction—to do what has not been done. The ego is satisfied by the difficult; never by the simple.

A Zen fakir Bokaju was asked: what happened through your nirvana? He said: what happened? I chop wood and bring it to the ashram; I draw water from the well and cook. Nothing else has happened.

What attraction is there in this for you? Cutting wood, drawing water—and such a thing in nirvana! Only this?

But you will miss. This Bokaju is the sage of whom Lao Tzu speaks. He says: life has become simple. When hungry, we make bread; when cold, we bring wood from the forest; when thirsty, we draw water. So simple. No complexity remains.

But who will worship the one who draws water? Everyone draws water. You will say: what worth is there? Everyone cuts wood. What worth? Where is the difference between this monk and the worldly?

The difference is deep. The worldly do these ordinary things unwillingly; their taste is in doing the extraordinary. You go to market—you do not like sitting in the shop. Do not think you are free from shop; you want a bigger shop. These small tasks do not suit a great man like you—stitching cloth, weaving cloth; cutting wood, drawing water—does not suit you. It suits you to lie on a bed of thorns in Kashi. Your attraction is to be special.

Another Zen mystic Dojo was asked: what do you do now that you are enlightened? He said: when sleep comes, we sleep; when thirst comes, we drink. There is nothing else to do.

You will not understand these sages—for you live in the world of doing, where the impossible is attractive and the difficult is worshipped. They live under a different rainbow of values; their track has nothing to do with yours. If a true sage meets you on the road, you will not notice him. Even if you see him, you will not recognize. Even if someone tells you, you will not believe—for nothing special is seen. The special has nothing to do with sainthood. The extraordinary of sainthood is to live utterly ordinary.

“They give no value to things obtained with difficulty. They learn what is unlearned.”

What is unlearned within you? Only that is worthy to learn. The unlearned within you is what you brought with you—your Nature. All else has been taught by society, by family, by parents, by teachers. Remove what has been taught, and uncover the unlearned—the gift of birth. The unlearned is the only thing worth learning—because that is your soul, your swabhava.

“They learn what is unlearned.”

They learn the Nature. They have nothing to do with culture—culture is taught by others. They have nothing to do with morality—taught by others. Nothing to do with good and bad—taught by others. They try to learn only that which they brought—the gift of Paramatma, the donation of Nature—your being. They drop all that is taught; it is all trash, conditioning, samskara. From samskaras arises culture. It is stale, borrowed—obedience to others’ commands, being driven by others.

No—they wish to live in their own Nature; they recognize it and remain immersed in it. In that Nature they stand, sit, walk, speak, are silent. They remain connected only with the unlearned within them—the unlearned no one taught them.

Beware of the learned—that has become your knowledge. Real knowledge is hidden in the unlearned. The day that unlearned arises, you become utmost simple—you become again as a child.

“And they restore what the multitude have lost.”

By becoming part of the crowd you went astray. You became one with the herd. What people say, you do; what they explain, you accept; what they understand, becomes your understanding. You lost your face; you lost your Nature, your form; you were crushed in the crowd.

Religion is the effort to regain what the community has lost. Hence religion is not a social phenomenon.

People have made religion into a social phenomenon. They go to church on Sunday—because it is social. If they do not go, there is talk. It is a formality; they go. People go to temples and perform worship—to keep society in mind. If you keep religion tied to society, your religion is false. Therefore your religion is Jain, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist—this is all untrue. Real religion has no name. Real religion is one: to live in one’s Nature. Religion means Nature. Therefore religion transcends culture; it is beyond.

“They restore what the multitude have lost.”

They try to regain their childhood which society has covered, hidden. They engage themselves in becoming again like innocent children.

Look at a child. He has no ideals; if he laughs, he laughs; if he cries, he cries. He sees no evil in crying, no good in laughing. If loving, he is very compassionate; if angry, very merciless. He has no ethics, no rules. Society has not entered; he is still in Nature. Therefore all children are beautiful and dear. The beauty of Nature is incomparable.

But even children are pale beside a sage—because a child’s Nature will break; culture will enter; society will dominate. Children are innocent in ignorance; their ignorance will not last; knowledge is being pumped from all sides. And it is needed—otherwise the child will not become part of society; he would learn nothing; he would be deprived of the collective experience—which is necessary. One must lose oneself, so that when one finds oneself again, one knows the secret of being oneself. Without losing, one does not know. If you were always healthy, never ill, you would never know the value of health. Only when ill do you taste the glory of health. Loss is needed to gain; it is part of the process.

But many die after losing—without finding again. Be born like a child; die like a sage. Your life-circle is complete. Be born like a child; die like a sage. This means: the innocence that was in the child through ignorance—regain it knowingly, experientially, after passing through all of life, attaining maturity—become a child again.

When an old man becomes innocent like a child—what beauty! It seems the Divine descends through him. In his air there is the murmur of the beyond; around him an atmosphere is created—otherworldly. He carries a web of waves with him—giving news of another realm, of a new way of being. That way is unlearned—Nature’s own.

“Thus they assist the course of Nature, and do not presume to interfere.”

The sage assists the order of Nature. What you wish to be, where your destiny draws you—the sage supports you there. He supports your being. He imposes no desire upon you to become his replica.

Understand the difference. The sadhu will try to make you his carbon copy. As I am, so should you be. What I eat, you eat; when I rise, you rise; when I sleep, you sleep. My life is your blueprint; mold yourself accordingly.

No greater violence exists than this—to mold another to oneself. Who are you? The other is born to be himself. He has his own destiny, his own path. For lifetimes he is seeking himself. Who are you to thrust yourself upon him?

This eagerness arises because the ego gets great juice seeing a crowd of followers who are his replicas. The guru lives upon the crowd of disciples. The more disciples, the more he feels important—surely there must be something in me, otherwise why would so many try to be like me? What I do, what I say, is the eternal law.

No—this is not the mark of sainthood. The mark is: you are your own eternal law. He can support you, but will not give you a mold. He will not give you ideals; he will give you love, friendship. He will not give you discipline to bind you; he will free you.

Support is one thing. We plant a neem and a mango. We will give support. The neem will be bitter—that is its destiny; its bitterness has its secret and beauty; it purifies the air; there is deep sweetness in its bitterness. The sage will not try to make the neem a mango—that is the sadhu’s attempt. The mango is sweet—its own charm; the neem has its own individuality.

The sage will help both to become what they can be—to sprout, to become trees; but let the flowers be theirs—and let them reach their own destination, their individuality unhindered. He will remove the useless, support the essential; but he will not mold anyone into his own frame.

Whenever someone molds another, he kills him. The soul dies. The soul lives in freedom; it needs the open sky. The sage gives support and open sky; he does not give you a destination. He strengthens your wings—so you may fly. The journey is yours; the goal is yours; the direction is yours. He gives you the power to fly, and the open sky—so you may fly in freedom.

Between sage and sadhu there is a fine, delicate distinction. If you miss it, you will fall into the sadhu’s snare—always easy. The sage is always difficult to recognize—because he is so simple. You look for the extraordinary; the ordinary you do not see. You seek the special; the common does not catch your eye. Therefore if you understand the exact nature of sage and sadhu, your life can be greatly helped. If not, you will find many improvers—who will ruin you.

Enough for today.