Tao Upanishad #106

Every single person is unique, incomparable; there has never been anyone like him, nor will there ever be again. The deeper you understand this, the more it will help your practice. Then imitation has no place. Then following another becomes impossible; the very convenience of being a follower disappears. You are only yourself, and you will have to find your path yourself. You can get support, you can receive suggestions—but not commands. In the light of another’s understanding you can awaken your own understanding, but if you take another’s life as the mold and pour yourself into it, then far from liberation, you will not even remain alive. You will become like a corpse—a mere imitation whose soul is lost.

By soul I mean individuality; I mean your uniqueness, your unrepeatability. Don’t mistake this for ego, because just as you are unique, so is everyone else. Uniqueness is a universal fact—it’s not a special distinction. Don’t let the mind think, “I am incomparable.” Not only you—everyone is incomparable. Even a small pebble lying by the roadside is incomparable. There are millions of leaves on the trees; each single leaf is unique—you won’t find another exactly like it.

Uniqueness is the very style of existence. Here everything is one-of-a-kind—and it must be, because on every leaf there is God’s signature. What is made by Him is bound to be unique. He made you; He made Buddha, Krishna, Lao Tzu; He made pebbles and stones. His mark is on all. And whatever falls into His hand cannot be a copy. What comes from the source carries the source’s uniqueness with it. You are unique because God is unique. You come from Him; you cannot be otherwise.

And if you are to become anything at all, become only yourself. No one else is an ideal for you; no one else is your law; no one else your discipline. You have to deepen your own awareness, your own understanding, your own inner lamp. Take help, take company; savor the presence of those who have arrived; look closely and recognize—but do not copy, do not follow.

Do not, by mistake, become a follower. Sects have been created by followers. Only if you refuse to be a follower can you be truly religious. To become a follower is to put your understanding on the shelf and begin to walk blindly. It is to drape someone else’s life over your own. It is to suppress your soul and forcibly sit another’s way of being upon yourself.

Force is necessary—because another’s way belongs to another. You know that even if blood is given to you, it must be of your type; otherwise the body rejects it. If there is a wound on your leg and a skin graft is needed, it has to be taken from your own body. Put another’s skin on you and it won’t take; the body will refuse it. If even the body is so discriminating, how much more the soul! If even the body recognizes, “What is of my own kind I will accept; I will integrate,” then the soul’s demand is far greater—absolute.

Understand, learn, observe, taste. From that very tasting and understanding, your inner lamp will begin to glow. Only in the light of that inner lamp will you reach. Another’s light has never led anyone, and it cannot. However luminous it appears, it will not dispel your darkness. If this becomes clear, much of what I say will become transparent to you.

Although you have wished very much that someone would hand you a simple formula—“Do this”—you are so indolent, so sluggish, so lazy, that even in living you would prefer to walk in someone else’s tracks. Who wants the hassle of thinking? Who wants the trouble of inquiry? Who wants even to exert one’s intelligence a little? “Someone should show the path, we’ll walk it.”

Don’t think this comes from faith. No—it comes from negligence and laziness. You want to be spared the bother—of thinking, inquiring, practicing, meditating. “Someone should tell us simply: do this—and we’ll do it. Responsibility finished.”

You are eager to be blind, because opening the eyes hurts, and growing in understanding takes labor. Understanding is not obtained for free. The search for truth is to pass one’s whole life through a revolution—through fire.

You would rather roll in another’s cold ashes. You’ve seen them all over the land, smeared in ash—rolling in others’ ashes. An ideal adopted from someone else is like a burnt-out ember—mere ash. Once, it may have been a live coal—but for someone else. For you it is ash. You will have to kindle your own embers; you must arrange your own sacrificial fire; you must pour the ghee of your own life.

It seems an expensive bargain; you want to settle it cheap. You want no hassle—someone should tell you: sit like this, eat like this, drink like this, walk like this. Then it’s settled; the responsibility becomes someone else’s.

Do not shift responsibility onto another, because in the end you alone will be asked. It is you who will be questioned; no one else is answerable. If God asks anything, He will ask you: “Where did you squander your life? Where did you lose the whole opportunity?” You won’t be able to say, “We were busy trying to become like someone else.”

A Jewish fakir, Hillel—a remarkable man—was dying. Just a moment before death his disciples saw him smiling. One asked, “Why are you smiling?” He said, “Because now, close to death, reviewing my whole life—since I will soon have to answer—I understand something: God will not ask me, ‘Why were you not like Moses?’ Moses is the supreme person for Jews, as Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Lao Tzu are to others. God will not ask me why I was not like Moses, because He Himself knows He did not make me as Moses. So where is the question of being Moses? He will ask me, ‘Where did you waste the days? Where did you waste the nights? Why were you not Hillel?’ Hillel was his own name. So I smile—it’s a delight! All life we tried to be Moses; but in the end the examination will be of Hillel.”

He was warning his disciples. “Remember, God will not ask you why you were not like Hillel, just as He won’t ask me why I was not like Moses. He will ask you: why were you not you?” The responsibility is yours—utterly yours.

Then things become a bit complex—complex because you don’t want to take a step, and yet you want the destination to come home to you. If you are ready to take steps, there is no complexity—utter simplicity.

You will have to find your own middle. My middle is mine; Buddha’s middle is Buddha’s. Imagine a rope stretched between two gorges and you must cross on it. Everyone’s center of balance will be different—because everyone’s weight is different. If a heavy man walks that rope, he will have to find his own center—according to his weight. A thin man will have to find his own—according to his weight. Don’t try to balance by watching another—otherwise you will fall. You must take account of your own weight. Know yourself. See your own extremes. What is extreme for another may not be extreme for you; what is a problem for another may not be your problem at all.

Whenever a disciple went to Gurdjieff, he would say, “Find your greatest weakness and tell me—everything depends on that.”

Suppose one man is lustful, full of sexual desire; another is greedy. It is worth understanding that the greedy man often conquers sex easily—very easily. For him sexuality is not a great difficulty, because all his energy is absorbed by greed. He cares neither for wife nor children; he cares only for the safe. Whether the wife stays or leaves matters little, whether children survive or not—only the safe must survive. For twenty-four hours greed consumes him. So you will often find that in greedy communities sexuality becomes so attenuated that children have to be adopted. Marwaris often adopt children. Greed is a deep sink; sexual desire withers because energy is finite—direct it toward greed or toward sex.

If a greedy man hears talk of celibacy, it will seem easy to him—no difficulty at all. He’ll say, “We are already that.” And note: the miser finds celibacy agreeable because celibacy too is a miserliness with energy—hoarding it. The miser already knows how to hold, how to withhold wealth. He treats seminal energy like wealth: “It might be used up, exhausted, destroyed—better hold and save.”

Doctors know a miser holds everything. He becomes constipated; he won’t even let go of excrement. It’s a striking finding of psychology that in ninety cases out of a hundred, chronic constipation is associated with a grasping, greedy personality. The miser’s habit is to clutch—no matter what the object is. He cannot release; he cannot even release stool. The whole body’s structure becomes “grasping.” He holds semen too; he can attain celibacy easily.

That’s why you will find many people sitting in temples and mosques for whom celibacy is easy—simply because they are intensely greedy. But greed is their issue. Their middle must be sought around greed, not around sex.

A man full of sexual desire is seldom greedy. For such a man miserliness does not take hold. Tell him to renounce greed—he is ready already; there is nothing to renounce. He is skilled at throwing away whatever he has. Give him here—he throws there. Money comes—gone. Power comes—gone. His hand is open. Ask him to practice celibacy—very difficult. Ask him to practice non-possessiveness—very easy.

A man quick to anger—ask him to cultivate compassion: very hard. But a fearful, timid, anxiety-ridden man will quickly agree to practice kindness.

You will be surprised to know: Mahavira preached nonviolence, compassion, and it was only the traders who caught hold of it. Why? Because the trader is timid. It appealed to him: “If I don’t quarrel with anyone, no one will quarrel with me.” Kindness appealed: “If I am kind to others, others will be kind to me—no trouble arises.” The trader fears conflict. To avoid quarrels he can master anger. But he cannot master fear; the slightest thing frightens him.

So you have to discover your own personality—its shape, its tendencies. Only after discovering your personality can you find your middle—what are your extremes, and what is the Majjhima Nikaya between them. If you ignore your own make-up and become someone’s follower…

Suppose your mind’s root issue is greed, and you read Patanjali’s scripture and fasten onto celibacy. You will like it; you may even succeed. But you will get nowhere—because that was not your illness. It is like this: the disease is one thing, but you took another medicine. Perhaps the medicine tasted good—but what of it? Perhaps it suited your palate—but what of it? The real question is: what is the disease?

A precise diagnosis is essential—what exactly is your illness? Once diagnosed, you must then see your extremes—between which extremes you swing. Suppose someone either overeats for three or four months—forgetting all rules—and then, when weight and heart palpitations rise and back pain comes, immediately jumps to the other extreme: he begins to fast. Such friends I know: either you’ll find them at the Oberoi Hotel, or at Urli Kanchan—not in Poona. That is why I chose Poona—right in the middle! You won’t find them here; they live at the extremes.

If this person is to find the middle, he must make it his own—right measure of food! Neither overeating nor undereating. To eat too much is an illness; to eat too little is equally an illness. In both cases you harm the body. Right measure—just as much as is needed. Neither less nor more—stop exactly in the middle.

Who can tell you that? People’s diets differ. A man who labors all day will naturally need more food. You don’t labor; you sit at a desk; you will need less.

So there can be no fixed rules. You yourself must walk, carefully, testing both extremes, and discover what suits you—the middle point. Who can tell you the point at which your stomach is neither too full nor too empty? Every stomach is different; its needs differ.

And even those needs are not the same forever. They change day to day. Don’t think that your middle today will be your middle tomorrow. Life demands constant alertness. Do not imagine that once you make a rule, there is no further need to be aware. A child’s needs differ from a youth’s; a youth’s from an old person’s. In childhood you needed more food; then came youth; then old age. Your needs change every day.

This is why people begin to gain weight around thirty-five. The reason is simple. Up to thirty-five one is moving toward the summit of youth—needing more food. The eating pattern established up to thirty-five becomes a habit. After thirty-five, life’s cart begins to roll down the mountain—the descent begins. Death draws near; old age begins. But the old eating habit continues. Now that much food is no longer digested; the body doesn’t need it—because now the body is preparing to die. While the body was preparing to live, it needed more food. Now it is preparing to die; it needs gradually to let go of food. Food intake should slowly diminish.

So between thirty-five and forty a discomfort arises in life. The habit of eating persists. “We have always eaten this much,” they say. “There was never trouble—why now?” You have changed. You are no longer who you always were. Now life is descending. Now you are going down the slope. Now you don’t need so much. That is why heart attacks occur around forty; the heart begins to be attacked. You are piling so much fat on the heart that it cannot bear it. With a little awareness, from thirty-five onward you would reduce your food yourself.

A child is born—he sleeps twenty hours a day. In the mother’s womb he sleeps twenty-four. His need is that great. While the body is being constructed, wakefulness interferes; in sleep the body is built more easily. Your consciousness disturbs the process.

That is why the physician insists on sleep when you are ill. As long as you remain awake, illness will not go—because your wakefulness doesn’t allow the body to settle down and repair itself. So the first prescription is: sleep—because the body repairs itself in sleep. Why? Because when you are awake you will fuss and meddle. As Lao Tzu says: “Those who do, spoil; by non-doing all is set right.” In sleep everything gets set right. You rise fresh in the morning. What does sleep mean? You were not there; you couldn’t meddle; you couldn’t “try” to fix anything; you couldn’t worry. You simply weren’t there. The body put itself in order. The body wants a holiday from you for a while—that is why sleep is needed.

In the womb the child sleeps twenty-four hours; the whole body is being formed. In youth it settles at seven or eight hours. In old age it stops at three or four hours, even two. Old men come to me. Some time ago, an eighty-year-old came, saying, “Whatever else, I can’t sleep; lack of sleep troubles me.” “How long do you sleep?” “Hardly two or three hours.” Now you are old; eighty years—two or three hours is more than enough. If you want to sleep twenty hours like a child, it’s impossible—you are no child. If you want to sleep seven or eight like a youth, that too is impossible.

The old man’s trouble is that he still thinks, “All my life I slept seven or eight hours; now only three—five hours less! Terrible!” He fails to see that he is on the descent—the time of going has come. Now there is no such need. In your body, things now break down; they are no longer built. Cells are not forming; they are departing. Whatever breaks within you now will not be reconstructed. When the work of building stops, sleep is not needed. Now the work is disintegrating. You may remain awake all night—no harm. But habit insists, “I used to sleep seven or eight hours! Now only two—how bad!”

So you cannot follow another, and you cannot make even your own rules valid forever. Life must be weighed every day. Circumstances change daily. Sometimes you are healthy—then you work more. Sometimes you are ill—then you rest more. You will have to keep your hand on your pulse twenty-four hours a day. Only then will you be “right.” The art of keeping your hand on your pulse is awareness. Let your response be attuned to the situation. No fixed groove of behavior helps, because the groove may be fixed, but you are changing every day.

It is like making clothes for a small child and wearing them for life. Now he runs about in tiny pants—ridiculous; he can’t even walk properly because the pants are too small. You will have to make new clothes every day; you will have to keep changing. Don’t be a “line-fakir,” a slave to lines. Let understanding be your guide. Thus no one else can decide for you—and you yourself cannot decide once and for all.

So I give you only one discipline: the discipline of awareness. I give you only one rule: live wakefully. That is enough. As the need of the moment arises, become that; flow into it. Don’t fight the situation; flow with it. Don’t try to be young in old age; don’t try to be old in youth. In childhood, be a child. When healthy, follow what health allows.

Except for man, all animals moment to moment regulate their sensitivity. If your dog is ill, he will refuse food. But even in illness you go on eating. You lack even the basic intelligence your dog has. If a dog feels unwell, he will immediately go and eat grass and vomit. Why? Because when the body is sick, even a little food is harmful. In illness, the body’s energy must be used to repair the body—not to digest food. Illness is an emergency. Food cannot be given now; digesting food consumes great energy.

That is why after eating you feel sleepy. The energy the brain was using is requisitioned by the stomach. The stomach says, “Now digestion is essential.” Everything else becomes secondary because food is life’s necessity—the belly is paramount. When the belly doesn’t need energy, it gives it to you to use anywhere; when it needs it, it pulls energy from everywhere. Hence after a meal you feel like lying down: the belly has pulled the power, the limbs are loose. After eating you cannot think well; sleep comes. Students know this in exam time: if you must study, don’t eat heavily; have tea, anything light—but don’t load the body with much food. Only then does the brain get energy—when the work of digestion is not on.

In illness no animal eats—except man. In health no animal fasts—except man. You won’t find a creature more foolish than man. To fast in health is as wrong as to eat in illness. But people follow rules. Jains have Paryushan; those are fixed days in the month of Bhadon. For ten days they will fast. Perhaps, if a hundred thousand people fast, by sheer coincidence two or four may find that those days suit their condition. The rest will suffer.

You will have to find your own Paryushan. Whenever in the year your condition is suited to fasting—then that is your Paryushan. There can be no fixed days. And there can be no one rule for everyone.

Even small children, swept up in zeal, fast during Paryushan—because they win praise: “What a marvelous child—so young and fasting! Grown-ups cannot do it, and he can!” In such foolish applause the child becomes foolish; out of vanity he fasts. A child has no need to fast at all; the old may need to. For a child, fasting can be harmful. Denying food for ten days can damage brain fibers permanently—never to be restored. But who keeps account of that? Who will explain to the uncomprehending what they are doing? The child has no need of fasting—none. The old can fast—it’s all right.

Life must be lived moment to moment. If you learn anything from me, learn this: life must be lived moment to moment, and each moment must be seen freshly. Your discipline must arise from that moment—and only for that moment. Do not swear for the next moment, because who knows what tomorrow will bring? Don’t decide today to fast tomorrow. When tomorrow comes, we will see. Don’t bind yourself with vows. If this morning you feel you shouldn’t eat, then don’t. But if by evening you feel like eating, then eat. If by midnight you feel like eating—eat. Rules are not the point.

By watching the state of your body, your mind, your life—watching, watching—you will discover one touchstone by which all gold is tested. That touchstone is awareness.

So I cannot tell you what your particular middle is. I can tell you how to find the middle. I can tell you: here is the touchstone—try yourself on it. The state of the middle is one of deep quiet, joy, and cheerfulness. There is no tension there. The body receives exactly what it needs and is satisfied. Give more, and restlessness arises. Give less, and pain remains. While eating, look for that point—subtle, very subtle—if you are very alert, you will find it—where you feel: neither overfull nor empty; the point of satiety has come—stop there. This point will be different every day, because your condition will be different every day.

So I tell you the definition of the point. And I say the same for your whole life. Today it may be that you need an hour of meditation; tomorrow, two. Today it may be needed in the morning; tomorrow, in the evening. Live by need. What use are fixed lines? People decide, “Every morning, for one hour, I will meditate.” It might be that when you wake your mind is so clear, so delighted, that to sit in a process will destroy that delight and clarity. When the mind is already joyous, why meditate? Meditation is already happening. Celebrate instead. Go outside and dance in the open sunlight. Sing with the birds. Harmonize with the trees. The mind is so joyful—why sit to meditate now? Meditation is medicine—for when the mind is disturbed. When the mind is sick, then seek the remedy. Drink water when thirsty; why drink by rule? You are not thirsty, but the rule says “drink,” so you drink. Meditation too—do it when you feel the thirst—when the mind’s restlessness is announcing the thirst—then meditate.

Sometimes it will happen in a moment; sometimes it will take two hours, sometimes three. It depends on how deep the disturbance is—the medicine must be used accordingly. Sometimes balance is restored in a flash; sometimes, before you even sit, the flame is lit. Sometimes it takes an hour. But if you have fixed a duration—“only this long”—you will miss. Occasionally it will fit by chance; mostly you will lose. Ninety-nine days will be wasted; once in a while, by coincidence, it will be right.

So I give you no fixed line; I give you only awareness: see when there is need. When there is, drop a thousand things. Meditation is the greatest thing, the greatest nourishment. Let the body go hungry once—no harm; do not let the soul go hungry. Meditation is the food of the soul. But only when there is hunger is food delightful.

This is the difficulty: those who have truly meditated say it brings great bliss. Those who have eaten when truly hungry know the flavor is incomparable. But you go on stuffing yourself as if your body were a bag to be filled; you never taste. When you hear someone say food has a marvelous taste, you cannot believe it. When a rishi says, “Food is Brahman,” how will you believe? You have never known hunger. Without hunger you cannot know the divine taste. In the desert, drinking water is bliss; each cool drop on the throat gives a fulfillment you could not imagine water could give.

It’s the same logic. Drink when thirst is intense; eat when hunger is intense; and when the mind is restless, dissatisfied, disturbed—then descend into meditation. It will take time to descend, because restlessness will obstruct, but that is the right moment and the right need.

And when the mind is already joyful, then don’t get entangled in the mechanics of meditation. Otherwise the joy that has come will be lost. The mind wants to dance; you force it into siddhasana. The mind wants to play the flute; you close your eyes and chant Ram-Ram. The mind longs to go out into nature, to be with the open sky, to whisper with trees, to hum with birds, to lie on the grass, to swim in the river—it longs for celebration; and you are forcing it to sit straight. No—be natural. Naturalness is the only sadhana. Natural means: allow what wants to happen in your being to happen; don’t pull in the opposite direction.

Certainly, working with me appears difficult. I increase your responsibility, because you will have to be awake from moment to moment. If I gave you fixed lines, it would be easy. But you will not get that from me. Many come to me seeking blind lines and then go away, because what I wanted to give was beyond their capacity to take. They came to become followers; I want them to become enlightened. They came ready to settle for small things—junk; I want to give them the treasure of the whole existence. It did not appeal to them; they could not see it. Their eyes had never seen such wealth. They thought, “There is nothing here,” because they didn’t get the trash they wanted.

All commands are trash; therefore I give you no commands. That is the difference between command and counsel. A command says: do exactly this—clear and direct. Counsel is indirect; we only stir the breeze; in that breeze you discover what is worth doing. We only give a glimpse; like a flash of lightning—everything becomes clear; now make your own road.

I want to give you eyes, not the stick of a blind man with which to grope your way. I don’t want to give you a map, because every map creates dependency. I don’t tell you, “Walk only like this; only then will you be good.” No—I want to awaken in you a quality of being: walk with awareness. Walk anywhere; on any path. Let any map be there—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist—figure out the maps yourself. I only want to give you awareness. And if you have awareness, any map will take you to liberation. If you lack awareness, all scriptures tied around your neck are stones—they will drown you and destroy you.

First thing: the lapse is not a small lapse; it is the greatest lapse. Because the very awareness you cultivated all along the way was lost at the end! It must never really have been cultivated properly; the journey just slipped by. You must have been carried along by pushes and pulls, by other reasons; you did not come near the goal through your own awareness.

This happens often. If you fall into the devotion of a guru, in the momentum of his wind you may reach close to the goal, but you cannot enter into the goal itself. You are carried by his surge, and you think you are going. The real proof appears only at the goal. Because a guru can take you to the gate; even the guru must be bid farewell at the final door. For within, only the solitary enters. There is no place for two there. “In That, two do not fit; the lane of love is extremely narrow.” The lane is very narrow—there even the guru cannot accompany you. At the threshold he too has to be left behind. Only then is it known whether you can go in or not. If you have come to the door by your own awareness, only then will you be able to enter; otherwise deep sleep will seize you. The guru departs—and your awareness departs with him.

Living near a guru, you will very often feel as if you too have awakened. For every particle of the air around an awakened one vibrates with the taste of awakening. Seeing your face in the guru’s mirror you will think you have become a soul-knower—but the beauty may belong to the mirror. The real knowing comes only at the final moment, when even the guru’s mirror is gone. Then do you still see your face? Does the glory you had known till now remain with you? It has happened again and again: in the guru’s wave many people reached the very shore. And just as they were about to land, they missed.

It is not a small lapse. It is the final test. It is like this: you watched the Ramkatha the whole night, and in the morning you ask, “Who is Sita to Ram?” Is that a small lapse? All night you watched the story of Ram—whose very center revolved around “Who is Sita to Ram?”—and in the morning you ask, “Who is Sita to Ram?” Your question is not a small lapse. The examination happened—you slept through it. You did not watch the Ramleela; you kept dozing. The very root was missed. And you say, a small lapse. It is this “small” question you are asking.

If, on reaching the goal, awareness is lost—if a doze takes you—it is not a small lapse; it is the greatest lapse. You failed in the examination. One who has truly cultivated awareness, on seeing the goal near, will begin to run, not merely walk. To sit down is impossible. The home for which one has waited for lifetimes has arrived. The one cherished in millions upon millions of dreams; the one desired in countless forms; the one sought even in mirages; even your wanderings were for that one—wherever you wandered, it was because you glimpsed some color of that. After such a long journey, today home has come close—will you feel tired? Will you think, “Let me rest a little”? Will you even remember rest? The beloved stands before you—will you race into an embrace, want to dissolve, drown—or will you want a little rest? Until now you were walking; now you will run. Until now there was “you”; now even you will not remain—only a single longing for union will remain. You will be no more. You will enter this mansion like a whirlwind, a storm. Not a moment more can be delayed now. So much delay has already been. So much wandering has already happened.

No, it is impossible that you sit at the door to rest. That could happen only if you had been propelled by someone else’s push. That is why the great gurus have said: beware of gurus. Small gurus merely say: never leave the guru. Small gurus—that is, those who are not gurus at all. For how can a guru be small? Guru means weighty, vast, of gravity. All great gurus have said this.

When Zarathustra was taking leave of his disciples, he said: “Now the last message—beware of Zarathustra!” The disciples said, “What kind of statement is this? To be wary of you? The one toward whom all our faith and love flow—why be wary of him?” Zarathustra said, “Precisely because of that I say—remember this; otherwise it is this very thing that will undo you.”

Be with a guru, be as near as possible, give him as much reverence as you can, as much love as you can—but still, be alert. Because at the final moment even the guru has to be left. Let not attachment become heavy; let not reverence turn into clinging; let not nearness become entanglement; let not this taste become the chains of dependence! For at the last moment this too must be let go. At the door, the guru will also be bid farewell. Up to there his need was.

If you have been carried by the guru’s push, you will feel, “It is a small lapse.” Otherwise, it is not small at all; it is the greatest lapse.

Second thing to understand: the more you grow, the more your responsibility grows; the more you develop, the more your accountability increases—and existence asks more and more of you.

Let me tell you a little story. It is a real incident.

In Bengal there was a very great artist, Avanindranath Tagore. He was Rabindranath’s uncle. In the last hundred years India has seen no painter like him. And his disciple—his greatest disciple—was Nandalal. A painter like him too is hard to find. One day it so happened: Rabindranath was sitting with Avanindranath, and Nandalal brought a painting—a portrait of Krishna. Rabindranath wrote in his memoirs: “I had never seen a more lovable picture of Krishna; it was unique. And I doubt whether even Avanindranath could have painted it.” But, he wrote, “it was not my place to speak. Avanindranath looked at the painting and threw it out onto the road, and said to Nandalal, ‘The patia folk painters of Bengal do better than you. Go, learn from them.’”

In Bengal there are patia painters—poor folk artists who, during Krishna Janmashtami, paint pictures of Krishna and sell them for two paise. That is the lowest rung of painting—what could be lower than that? They sell Krishna pictures for two paise.

Avanindranath said, “The patias of Bengal do better than you. Go, learn from them.”

Rabindranath felt deeply hurt. This was going too far. The painting was so marvelous—he had seen Avanindranath’s Krishnas too, but not as marvelous as this. And such harshness?

Nandalal touched his feet and left. And for three years there was no trace of him. His hostel room remained locked. After three years he returned—hard to recognize him. He had become almost a patia himself. He had no money at all; he wandered village to village seeking the patias, because the guru had said, “Go, learn from the patias!” He learned from them village to village. After three years he returned, placed his head at Avanindranath’s feet, and said, “You were right.”

Rabindranath wrote: “I asked, ‘What madness is this?’ I said to Avanindranath, ‘This is excessive.’ But Avanindranath said, ‘He is my finest disciple, and I know that perhaps even I could not have painted that picture. I have great expectations of him. Therefore I cannot let him off cheaply. If he were an ordinary painter, I would have praised him and sent him away. But my praise would have meant the end—matter closed. He can still be stretched; he can still be raised higher. His possibilities were still unspent. I cannot let him go quickly. I have great hope for him. If he were a small painter I would have said, “Fine, very good.” But his possibility is greater than his act.’”

Understand this well: the greater your possibility, the more you will be tested. The smaller the possibility, the sooner you will be let go. As the hour of God’s arrival approaches, the tightening increases; you are gripped more and more firmly. Because now you are approaching your ultimate possibility. Now all the examinations must be completed. You are reaching that beyond which there is no further going. You are reaching that beyond which there is no further growth. You are reaching the supreme peak, the summit of Kailash. Now every test must be passed. Now every fiber of your being must be tried. Now only pure gold must remain. Let no drowsiness remain in you; remain pure and aware. Let no trash remain in you. Now it is necessary to throw you into the final fire.

Therefore, if you miss even a little at the last stage, you are thrown right back to the first step. Because you are a person of great possibility—you had come to the very end. Your being is so precious that you somehow reached the door, which happens to one in millions, and only after millions of lives of running. To throw you back to the first step is fitting—do not mistake it for injustice. For the greater your possibility, the greater the expectation from you.

You are hardly passing through the hardships through which a Buddha or a Lao Tzu passes. The day you do, consider it a great fortune. You have no idea—because that story can neither be told nor is there a way to tell—what touchstones a Buddha passes through in the final moments; how many times he is thrown back; how many times he finds himself at the first step—again and again. This is necessary. Because if once you enter this final temple carrying some rubbish, then it will never leave you—there will be no way out. Therefore, the door of this temple opens only when you arrive absolutely pure.

Know this: the more precious a diamond, the more a hairline scratch drops its price by crores. A tiny scratch! On an ordinary diamond no one would even notice it. But on the Kohinoor, even a tiny scratch is worth crores of rupees. With that scratch, its price would be one thing; without it, quite another. A tiny scratch. You will say, “A tiny scratch!”—but the Kohinoor invites great expectation.

And when you are at God’s door, the soul you had taken to be a mere pebble and stone is arriving at the state of the Kohinoor. Now it is receiving the final radiance, the ultimate light. In this supreme light even the smallest flaw or defect will show. Your diamond is now going before the ultimate jeweler. Here there is no way to escape or to deceive. And the bigger the diamond, the farther it will be thrown—because the greater the need, and the expectation, for purity.

So first, do not call it a small lapse. If you convince yourself now that it is a small lapse, you increase the likelihood of committing it. You will commit it. Whatever we call “small” carries danger.

That is why Lao Tzu says: the sage does not consider anything small; he considers even the smallest thing big. Hence he never has to face any great difficulty.

Do not call it small. And don’t think this either: “Has all that labor gone to waste for a tiny lapse?” Understand this too. If you have taken sadhana as labor, you will never reach that temple. Only those reach who have taken sadhana as love.

There is a vast difference between labor and love. Labor is what you do unwillingly. Labor is what you do because you have to. Labor is what you would avoid if you could. Labor is compulsion, helplessness. Love? Love is what you want to do. Love is that even if you could avoid it, you would not want to. Love is not your helplessness, it is your freedom. Love is what you want to do again and again and never tire. If asked to do it a thousand times, you will do it a thousand and one.

As a child I loved physical exercise. When I first entered school, the teacher I got seems to have been the sworn enemy of exercise. He would punish us with squats. If I made some mistake, came late, he would say, “Do twenty-five squats.” I would do fifty instead.

He would say, “Are you crazy? I’m giving you punishment!”

I would tell him, “I relish it; you are giving punishment—we are exercising. And when you give me punishment, be generous; don’t hesitate with twenty-five.”

He would bang his head: “How do I punish this one!”

Labor is what you do out of compulsion; love is what you do out of joy and gratitude. Then even punishment does not remain punishment. And if you do sadhana as labor, the reward will not remain reward. Reward can turn into punishment; punishment can become reward.

An African sannyasin—a Hindu sannyasin—came to India on pilgrimage. He went to the Himalayas. He was climbing a mountain—blazing noon, sweat dripping. He had tied a bundle on his shoulder. It felt heavy. The higher he climbed, the heavier it seemed. And just ahead of him a girl was climbing with her little brother riding on her shoulder. Out of pity, out of love, he said to the girl, “Daughter, it must be very heavy.” The girl flared up: “You are carrying weight, Swamiji; this is my little brother!”

Even a little brother has weight—if you weigh him on scales, they will show it—but if you weigh him on the heart, the weight vanishes. The girl was right. And the sannyasin wrote in his memoirs: “That day, for the first time, I came to know that in love even weight dissolves, becomes weightless.”

Do not think of sadhana as labor. Sadhana is love. Do it in a mood of rejoicing. Do not walk as though forced to walk, somehow going along because, what to do, without walking we cannot reach. If there were a shortcut, we would take it; if a bribe would work, we would bribe our way into God’s temple; if there were a back door, we would slip in there. But alas, such a long journey has to be made.

If you take it as labor, remember: the “slight lapse” you speak of will certainly happen. Because one who labors, when he nears the goal, gets tired; he begins to rest. He closes his eyes and thinks, “Now the goal is here; what need to hurry? Let me rest a little now.”

Hence Lao Tzu says: many people go astray when they are near; at the last moment, when the door was about to open—that is when they miss.

Make the journey as love. This is a love-journey, not a labor-journey. Take each step with such love as if each step were the goal. Drop your worry about the goal. Be so delighted in walking that walking itself becomes the goal. If the means becomes like the end, you will never miss in the final moment. Because you had taken every step as the goal—then what question of getting tired on seeing the goal ahead? You were passing through the goal at every step. Make your sadhana into love.

That is why I say again and again: we have a term like yoga-bhrashta—one fallen from yoga—but we do not have a term like bhakti-bhrashta—one fallen from devotion. Because the yogi can stray even from the last stage. For the yogi treats it like labor, great exertion—as if doing a favor to existence. Because you stand on your head, as if you are obliging existence, making existence indebted: “Look how much I have done!” The yogi stands in this mood: “Look how much I have done—and still I have not received!” There is a complaint.

The lover has no complaint. Therefore one never falls from bhakti. It cannot happen—how can anyone fall from love? Love has no complaint. Love has only gratitude. Love says, “One like me, and I have come so near the goal so soon! I had to do nothing, and the goal arrived! Your grace is boundless. I did not even walk, and your door is before me! Was our walking even walking? We walked four steps—was that walking? Is that even worth mentioning?”

At God’s door the lover always says: “I did nothing, and your prasad poured down.” The yogi goes as a claimant; the lover goes asking, “What claim of mine? Even if it had not been given for lifetimes, what complaint could there be?” Complaint arises from ego; from labor; from austerity. Love has no complaint.

And remember: if you are to meet God, everything other than love is secondary. Go by love. Take the means to be the end: every step is arriving at Him. Go in a mood of grace-receiving. You are not making anyone indebted.

And the day you receive, remember: all who have received have said, “It is prasad, it is grace.” Why? Because what we did proves to be nothing in the end; it was nothing. What are you doing? What can you do? You fast, or stand on your head, or stand naked, or stand in the sun—what has that to do with meeting Him? What are you doing? The day He comes, the day His nectar showers upon you, will you think, “What we did paid the price; we came as rightful claimants”? That day, for the first time, you will see that you had no right at all. This has been given by His prasad, by His compassion.

As a claimant you will never enter that temple. Whenever you enter, it will be as a humble supplicant, as a humble lover. You will enter in gratitude.

Therefore I say: complete this journey dancing. Let not the marks of your sweat be left on this path—let the prints of your songs be left. At every step, let your gratitude be imprinted. Let not your sense of entitlement grow; let your humility deepen; become egoless. As the goal approaches, let that moment come when you are already gone—a wisp of smoke, faded away.

Only if the journey can be completed dancing will it be completed. Whoever has met that ultimate truth has met it dancing. Go laughing, go dancing, go singing, go in ecstasy. Do not bring up talk of labor. Talk of labor is absurd. Speak of love. Hum the tune of love. Then you will find that every step is the goal. And if in this love you drown even midstream, you will find the midstream itself is the shore.

Last question:

Both statements are the same. It is the sage who brings about reform; Lao Tzu has no quarrel with that. But the sage does not want to reform. From the one who does not want to do it, reform flowers. The one who wants to do it is precisely the one who cannot.

Lao Tzu is saying only this: if you want to reform someone, what does it mean? First, it means you have put yourself above. “I am the reformer!” Pride has arisen. In a sage there is nowhere any pride. A sage cannot place himself above. The sage is not—so where would he place himself? And when you say, “I want to reform,” you have placed the other below—condemned, sinful, wrong, bad. Can a sage ever condemn anyone? Could such a thought ever arise in a sage’s mind?

And where there is condemnation, there is no possibility of saintliness. The very moment you put the other down and condemn him, in that moment you close all doors of his transformation. Now the likelihood is that the lower you place that person, the lower he will fall; and the more you condemn, the more he will become worthy of condemnation. Why? Because the attitude you hold toward another begins to surround him from all sides.

If a person is thought bad by everyone, they are cooperating in his becoming bad. They are creating negative waves all around him. They will not let him step outside those waves. Even if he does something good, they will say, “Let the full story come out; he cannot do good. There must have been some bad motive behind it.” Or, “It may be he intended something bad and it turned out good. Looks like an accident.” Of the person you have labeled bad, you simply cannot see the good.

If you do not regard a bad person as bad, only then does the path of reform open. That is why the sage removes evil, but without calling the evil-doer evil. Therefore, for him, removing is not a doing at all. He even accepts the evil-doer, embraces him. In that very acceptance, for the first time the evil-doer remembers his own self-nature.

A thief comes to the sage; the sage accepts him. For the first time the thief becomes aware: “Can I too be worthy? Do I have this worthiness?” And the thief also realizes that when the sage has accepted him so simply, now stealing will become very difficult. The trust the sage has given him—this very trust becomes the greatest support for moving in the opposite direction of theft. This simple acceptance by the sage—there is transformation in this acceptance itself.

The sage does not condemn, and yet he transforms. The sage does not call one bad, and yet he transforms. The sage does not set out to change, and yet change happens. In the very being of the sage there is alchemy; his entire alchemy is in his presence. He reassures you that you are not bad. Who says you are bad? Who told you that you are bad?

This assurance lifts you up out of your pit. For the first time you receive your dignity. For the first time the feeling-knowledge of your own soul arises: “I am not bad.” And when such a simple being has accepted that I am not bad, now being bad becomes very difficult. How many times in life you wished people would not think you bad, but people kept thinking you bad. Today, for the first time, you have met a person who has not thought you bad. For the first time you have received your dignity, your honor. And when dignity is received from a sage, there is no comparison. The whole world on one side—the world’s praise and blame on one side—and on the other, a single glance of the sage, a single gesture of his acceptance is enough. For the first time you are drawn up out of your well, your abyss, your darkness. The sage takes you to his heart. In that very moment your change begins.

In his very phrase “just anyone” a condemnation is hidden. He is saying, “to anyone!” But who is “anyone”? He means riffraff, any Tom, Dick or Harry. Yet in this existence, is there anyone who is riffraff? Have you known such a man? Have you seen the petty anywhere here? And if you have seen the petty, it is in the smallness of your own vision; it is a veil over your eyes. Here, everyone is divine. Do not use the word “anyone” here at all. Here you are accepted in your ultimate dignity.

What have I to do with your history? Of what use is what you have done? My eye is only on your ultimate possibility. My gaze is on what you can be. What you are at the moment is of no concern to me. Why should I keep accounts of what you have been? What you will become—ultimately what you will become—one day, some moment, some hour, the sun that will arise within you: you may not yet know it, but I can already see it.

When a sage sees in a person that which is his ultimate peak, then through the sage the person too, for the first time, becomes aware of that ultimate peak. And that very awareness is transformation.

Krishna is not wrong; he is right when he says, “I will come.” He is right when he says, “I will transform evil and reveal good.” But the manner is the same; the way of doing is exactly what Lao Tzu speaks of.

A saint transforms, but in transforming he is not the doer. The saint changes you by a very unique device: by accepting you, by awakening in you the recognition of the ultimate summit of your being.

Buddha has said that in a past life he went to a buddha-like man. At that time he was ignorant. That buddha’s name was Virochan. “I was utterly ignorant,” Buddha says. “And when I went and touched Virochan’s feet, I could not even get up—I was astonished, I could not stop him, I was speechless, dumbfounded—because I saw that Virochan was touching my feet!

“I said to him, ‘What are you doing? By touching my feet you put me into more sin. I am very fallen; there is no worse man than I. I am in utter darkness. That I should touch your feet is understandable—why do you touch mine?’

“Virochan said, ‘I don’t know who you are; I only know what you can be. One day you will become a buddha. I touch your feet for that.’”

And Buddha has said, “That very day a revolution happened within me. That day my connection with what I had been broke, and a connection arose with what I could be. Virochan has touched my feet! The trust Virochan has given cannot be broken. The trust he has placed must be fulfilled. Virochan lit a lamp within me. Now, whatever happens, Virochan’s word must be made true. Virochan has touched my feet. The lamp has bent down and touched the feet of darkness—how long can darkness remain darkness?”

A saint transforms. His ways of changing are very unique. Virochan gave birth to the Buddha that very day. By touching his feet, Virochan awakened a sleeping man. In the entire life-journey of Buddha there is no event greater than this; all the rest is ordinary. This Virochan is the formula of revolution. In a single instant Virochan made Buddha utterly different—just by touching his feet. A small touch, and clay became gold.

By a touch alone saints turn clay into gold. And when a needle will do, only a fool picks up a sword. When it can happen without doing, to talk of doing is sheer madness.

Enough for today.