Tao Upanishad #107

When eyes have grown accustomed to darkness, light itself appears like darkness. You have lived only in the dark; if, today, suddenly the sun arrives at your door, its dazzle will force your eyes to close. To understand light, a journey into light is needed, the taste of light, a training in living with light.

Many set out to search for Paramatma, but even if Paramatma meets you on the road—and often he does—you will not recognize him. How will you recognize him? He is utterly other than all that you have known up to now. With the knowledge you have accumulated so far, you cannot recognize Paramatma at all.

There are only two ways. If you cling to your knowledge, then even if Paramatma stands in front of you, you will not see him. The other way: if you drop your knowledge, then even if Paramatma is not in front of you, you will see him everywhere. Your grip on knowledge has made you blind.

That is why whenever the flame of Paramatma descends into a person, we fail to recognize him. Otherwise, what need was there to crucify Jesus? And those who crucified Jesus, they too were under the illusion that they were seekers and lovers of God. Not only this—they felt that Jesus was an enemy of God.

They could not recognize Jesus; how then will they recognize God? Jesus is but a ray of Him—if even the ray was not recognized, then when the whole sun stands before you, you will become utterly blind. You will see nothing but darkness.

Hence, the wise often appear supremely unwise among the ignorant. Consider it like this: you are all blind, and by some mistake a one-eyed man is born among you. Then all the blind will either gouge out his eye—because they will not tolerate it—and their logic will be: have you ever heard that a man with an eye exists? Surely some error has occurred in nature. Man is blind; the eye is where some mistake has happened.

This has been our conduct with the wise. We worship them when they are dead—because we understand the language of death. The language of life, we know nothing of. When we bury them in graves, then our flowers of worship become eloquent, our lamps of adoration begin to burn. For now we can understand: in the grave is only death, and that we do understand. In the grave there is only darkness; we are accustomed to darkness. We have lived only in death; we have never known life. Life has remained in our hopes, in our dreams, but we have never had any direct taste of it. We have lived trembling, surrounded by death, frightened of death. We can understand death. Hence, as soon as a wise man dies, thousands become engaged in worshiping his grave; temples and mosques are raised; gurdwaras are built. And while the wise man is alive, people only throw stones; people only slander.

The arithmetic is clear. While the wise man is alive, there is no harmony between you and him. You dwell in darkness; he brings news of light. This word you have never heard. Even if you have heard the word, you have never experienced the mystery behind it. He comes from an unknown land; he speaks strange things. And to trust those things is dangerous—dangerous because if you trust them, your well-arranged slavery will fall to pieces; your well-arranged darkness… In the dark you have built your house. You have decorated the darkness; you have adorned it richly. You have forgotten that it is darkness. You have studded your chains with diamonds and rubies and begun to think of them as ornaments. You have taken death to be life.

If you listen to the wise, there is danger. The danger is that he will upset you. He will break your whole arrangement. All the foundations of your security will shake. And the mansion you have built with great effort for lives upon lives—if you hear even one word of the wise, you will find it is a house of sand—now it falls, now it falls. You have built a house of cards. Within it you feel very happy. If it is found to be a house of cards, how will you remain happy? Then you will have to set out in search of another, a real home. And the journey is arduous. Of thousands who start, perhaps one arrives.

So the simplest protection for your ignorance is to declare the wise man a fool, a madman. This is your device to save yourself. When you call the wise a fool, you protect your own foolishness. When you call the wise mad, you protect your own madness. For between the two, only one can be right, not both. If Buddha is right, if Christ is right, if I am right—then you are wrong. And there can be no compromise here. Either I am right, or you are right. There can be no compromise between the wise and the ignorant. What compromise? How will you mix darkness and light? Have you ever tried?

They say oil cannot be mixed with water. Perhaps some trick could even mix oil with water, but how will you mix light into darkness? Darkness is the absence of light; how can absence be mixed with presence? When there is light, there can be no darkness; when there is darkness, there can be no light. They can only remain apart. There is no compromise between them.

Only one way: if you agree to listen to the wise; if even for a moment you give a chance—open a little window in your heart—then you will be in difficulty. Because all the houses you built will prove false; all your arrangements will be futile. All your adornments are placed in a paper house. That house will fall. It is already falling. That house is about to catch fire. It is already aflame. If you listen to the wise, you will have to leave these toy-houses and come out. He invites you to the open sky. He calls you to freedom. His gesture is towards the supreme moksha. Fear arises. To go into the unknown frightens. He calls you onto paths you have never walked; invites you onto ways you have never touched. And there is no map of those ways to reassure you. No one has ever completely known those ways to draw maps of them.

No maps of Paramatma can ever be made. For He is not some inert object; He is dynamic—transforming every moment, ever moving from fullness to fuller still. Only the courageous can come on this expedition. Then what will you do with your fear? How will you hide your cowardice? For even to accept, "I am a coward," causes pain; even to admit, "I am ignorant," wounds the ego deeply.

Therefore whoever knocks on your door bearing a message of knowing, strikes your ego. Whoever comes to share knowledge with you, just that person appears to you as an enemy. Because if you receive knowledge, it implies you were ignorant. If you accept his invitation, it implies all your journeys up to now were futile; among them there was no pilgrimage—you only wandered. To accept a guru means: to drop the ego of countless births.

Very difficult. The ego looks for reasoning. The ego says, this man seems foolish.

I have heard a Sufi tale: A man was in search of the Perfect Master. For twenty years he sought. Who knows how many masters he visited—but always he found some fault. In every master some shortcoming appeared. If a master laughed, he thought, can this be a master? Masters are serious—we even have the phrase "guru-seriousness." This one laughs like worldly people! Another master was utterly indifferent, even sad. He said, can this be a master in whose face there is not even a glimmer of bliss? Everywhere he found something. One master fasted; he thought, this is self-violence. Another ate well; he thought, this is pure indulgence. After twenty years of many masters, he could not find the Perfect Master.

After twenty years he grew tired. Death began to approach, so he loosened his standards a little: I am nearing death; now even eighteen or nineteen will do—if not twenty. When he relaxed his criteria, he found a master who appeared perfect. He tested thoroughly from all sides and entrusted himself.

One morning, he bowed at the master’s feet and said, I was seeking the Perfect Master; I wandered twenty years; at last I have found you; my journey is complete. Are you the Perfect Master? The master said, if I say I am, that would become the reason I am not. If I say I am not, then since I myself say I am not, where is the question? But since you have asked, I do not know whether I am the Perfect Master or not—but such is my reputation; people say so. People say this is a Perfect Master. The seeker said, fine—I am tired of searching, and you have also frightened me. Enough of search; death is near; I am ready to accept. I was seeking the Perfect Master; I have found you; please accept me as a disciple.

The master said, that is a little difficult.

The seeker asked, why difficult? I am close to death.

What have I to do with your death? I am in search of the Perfect Disciple.

The ego has many colors, many forms. And the ego always finds faults everywhere. The ego seeks faults for an inner, unconscious reason: to find consolation for itself. You are afraid: if a guru is truly found, then you will have to transform. And the mind does not want to transform. The mind lives in habits, in fixed mechanical routines; the path of least resistance is its way. Change would bring great trouble—everything would have to change. The unconscious keeps seeking ways to say, no, this is not a guru; this is not a guru; this is not knowledge. Thus you keep yourself safe. When you declare, this is not a guru, in truth you are saying: once again I have escaped the bother of being a disciple.

To be a disciple is very difficult. There is nothing more difficult in this world. For to be a disciple means: I have taken the support of another—unconditionally; not with the hope of gaining, but trusting in love. Not lured by an ambition to reach somewhere; rather, someone has awakened a veena within me, has birthed a new music in my being, and my feet, as if bound, begin to follow. As a snake begins to dance hearing the flute, so on seeing the guru, the true guru, the disciple loses his self-consciousness. He loses his stiffness, his sense of being. A distant flute begins to play; a call from the unknown arrives—without asking, Where am I going? Where are you taking me? Because there is no way to tell. If asked—there is no way to tell. Only by going is it known; only by being is it become. About that destination, nothing can be said. You will go, you will know, you will see—only then. In some deep moment of trust, the disciple’s journey begins.

Disciple means: one who is ready to learn. And who is ready to learn?

Only one who has realized that, up to now, despite all self-effort, he has learned nothing. Only one who has felt the pain of his own ignorance. Only one who has seen the deep darkness of his heart. Only one who has seen: I am only entangling my life, not unraveling it—and the more I try to set it right, the more entangled it becomes. In such a moment of pain, in such a state of anguish, seeing one’s whole situation, understanding the futility of one’s journey, discipleship is born. Then one becomes ready to learn.

And one who is ready to learn must leave his ego and his self-importance, because the ego will not allow learning. The ego will not allow change. The ego never agrees to place anyone above itself. Crores refuse God for this very reason—not because they know for certain that God does not exist. How could they know?

Sometimes atheists come to me. They say, there is no God. I ask them, have you searched? Have you explored everything? Have you looked into every nook and cranny of existence? Is there nowhere left to search? If you have seen all and have not found God, then I can understand. But how much have you searched? Until you measure the whole existence atom by atom, you have no right to declare there is no God. Because the portion that remains—who knows, He may be there! And what remains is vast. What is known is as good as nothing; what remains has no end.

Thus the atheist often thinks he is logical, but he is not. Here logic fails entirely. Without searching you say, He is not! This is blindness. Search; then, if you do not find, say so.

But the atheist’s real issue is not searching. When he says, there is no God, what is he truly saying? He is saying: I cannot allow anyone to be above me. If God is, then something is above me. The ego denies God. There is a deep conflict between ego and God. Either you save the ego, or you attain God. You cannot do both together. And if you try to do both, you will go insane, not liberated.

In these sutras Lao Tzu is saying very profound things.

The first profound thing he says is: "The whole world says my teaching (Tao) greatly resembles folly. Because it is great, therefore it resembles folly."

You recognize the petty; you have no acquaintance with the great. Your language belongs to the petty. When it comes to the great, your language runs into obstacles. Either you become silent—and then the great can fill you within, and a little taste touches your chest—or if you go on talking, whatever is said about the great will appear like foolishness. That is why the supreme wise have often appeared mad. And you are the crowd. If you are the one to decide, who will listen to a wise man? You all have the right to vote—you can cast your vote and decide: this man is mad. Because what he says is larger than your mind. Either you agree to drop the mind—then these things can be understood—or if you cling to the mind, these things are so vast. It is as if someone tries to hold the ocean in a palm, or to seize the sky in a fist—and, failing, says, the sky does not exist.

Great truths have one difficulty: they are paradoxical. Small truths are logical. The logic of small matters is simple, straightforward. As the matter becomes vast, it becomes ever more alogical—for the vast is beyond logic. In ordinary life, night is separate, day is separate; birth is separate, death is separate. In the vast, both are together—birth also is within it, death also is within it. There you cannot keep birth and death apart. Your habit of dividing becomes useless there. There the indivisible dwells. There death is hidden in birth, and birth is hidden in death. There death is one face of birth, and birth is one costume of death. All opposites fall away there. And where opposites fall away, the difficulty begins.

The Upanishads say: God is nearer than the nearest, farther than the farthest.

You will say, this is madness. Either near or far—I can understand that. If far, say far; if near, say near. But you say both: nearer than the nearest, farther than the farthest. The mind of logic falls into doubt. What to do? The logical mind says: what is far is far; what is near is near. How can it be both?

Yet God is exactly so: nearer than the nearest, farther than the farthest. And those who have known are compelled to say so. They too wish to speak in your language, but then what they say becomes unjust to God. If they speak as He is, the prison-house of your language breaks.

The Upanishads are right. For He is nearer than the nearest—none is nearer. You are not even as close to yourself as He is to you—for the heartbeat of your heart is He. Kabir has said: in the breath of all breaths, your Beloved is within you. He is hidden in you. To say near is already too far. To say near is not right, for even in "near" there is a gap. You sit near me, yet there is distance. Come closer; the gap lessens, but remains. Embrace me—the gap becomes almost nothing, but even the almost-nothing is still a gap. Near is also far. That God is nearer than near—this is the supreme truth.

But then why do you not find Him? If He is so near, you should have found Him. If He is so near, how could He be lost? If He is so near, why does wandering continue?

Hence the wise say: farther than the farthest. To say it more clearly: God is very near you, but you are very far from God. Yet this too is alogical. You will say, if God is near to us, we must be near to Him. God is in you; you are—but you are far from God. You are not in God. Your distance is infinite.

The vaster the matter, the more alogical it becomes. And when it becomes alogical, the logical mind says: this is all foolish talk. And you will not find a greater "fool" than Lao Tzu—he outstrips even the Upanishads. No one has been as paradoxical, as contradictory, as he. I am trying to surpass him; success is difficult; there seems to be no way. There is no place left to be more paradoxical than Lao Tzu.

Ask Lao Tzu, how will we find God? He says: try to get Him and you will lose Him—do not try, even by mistake. In trying people have gone astray. That which is already attained—does anyone reach it by trying? Yet you will still ask: then what should we do? He says: if you do, you miss. The way to attain is not to seek. The way towards Him is to sit—do not even rise. If you walk, you will wander away; if you walk, you will go far—He was near. Where are you going? Let not only the body sit, let the mind sit too; let there be no movement left within you—and you will find Him. To say "you will find" is not right—you will suddenly laugh and say: that which was always found, how did I miss it? How did this impossible happen? By what miracle did I miss that which was awake within me, which was hidden in the seeker, which was the very heart of the seeker?

To understand more precisely: Lao Tzu says, precisely because He is near, He appears far. Precisely because He is near, you missed Him. Like the fish of the ocean missing the ocean—how will it ever know the ocean? To know, some distance is needed. The fish is born in the ocean, grows up in it, lives in it, dies in it. How will the fish know the ocean? Sometimes it happens: a fisherman catches the fish in his net, lifts it from the sea, throws it on the shore. Then for the first time the fish comes to know what the ocean is! By losing, one comes to know; by being, one does not.

But with God, there is a greater difficulty: He has no shore. And many fishermen have thrown their nets—I too am doing the same. Even if the fish are caught, there is no way to fling them upon a shore—there is no shore! God is a shoreless ocean.

Therefore you do not know Him, for He is too close. You do not know Him because He is hidden in you. Kabir says, the musk is hidden in the navel of the deer, yet the deer runs through the forest seeking it. The fragrance is within, yet the deer goes mad and searches far and wide. He becomes bloodied, colliding, running. A scent seems to be calling from somewhere, some deep attraction pulling like a magnet—and the musk is within, in the navel. The sac has ripened, the fragrance is wafting out.

You go about seeking God in places—Kashi, Kailash, Kaaba—while the musk is in your own girdle. The fragrance of life that reaches you is coming from within you; but you hear the echo outside.

There is a Greek tale: a very beautiful youth, Narcissus. He was so beautiful he fell in love with himself. In a lake he caught sight of his own reflection—there were no mirrors then—an ancient story. He saw his shadow in the water—so beautiful! The youth must have been truly beautiful. Then many maidens cast arrows of love at him—none could succeed, for the image he had once seen in the lake, he never found such a beauty again. He wandered, seeking that person he had seen hidden in the water. For hours, days, months he sat upon the bank, gazing fixedly. If he leapt into the water the reflection vanished; he dived and searched and found nothing. There was nothing there—only a reflection. With his leap it vanished. They say Narcissus went mad. Lake, mirror, reflection; jumping in, searching; he forgot eating and drinking; he roamed forests and mountains; the hills resounded with his voice.

The story of Narcissus is your story. That which you seek is hidden within you.

It may be that in someone’s eyes, as in a lake, you glimpsed your reflection. It may be you saw your reflection in someone’s face. It may be that sometimes in the sweetness of music the hint flashed. One morning, at sunrise—in the silence of the sky, in the chirping of birds, in the blooming of a rose—you found a mirror. But whatever you have seen, heard, found outside—every seeker’s discovery is one: it is hidden within you.

Ask Lao Tzu, where should we seek? He says, if you seek anywhere, you will get into trouble. Do not seek—stop. Stop absolutely. And you will find. Non-doing is the royal road to attainment. Lao Tzu says, dissolve—and you will be. If you insist on being, you will be annihilated—and badly. If you want to succeed, drop the very desire to succeed; if you want fulfillment, do not carry the lust to be fulfilled. All desires are fulfilled the very moment desire drops. In a mind filled with desirelessness, that supreme mystery descends; the dance of the supreme mystery begins. The clouds of bliss gather around one who has no craving.

Your trouble is that even in saying "no desire," you have a desire. You go to Lao Tzu because you desire. You listen to Lao Tzu thinking, perhaps by listening to him, bliss will come. You go to the wise out of greed. And the wise say: you will come to us only when you have no greed at all.

A great obstacle. Between guru and disciple there is a profound struggle—the greatest battle in the world. And if the disciple wins, it will be his defeat. If the disciple is defeated, that will be his victory.

All this is paradox. So when Lao Tzu spoke these things and uttered the first line of the Tao Te Ching—that that which can be said is not the Truth—and then began speaking, if people felt that Lao Tzu’s teaching greatly resembles folly, it is not surprising.

It was you who felt so. Nothing changes; only the stage of the drama changes. The actors are the same, the audience the same; the story is the same. Like the Ram Lila enacted in every village—the story is the same; the stage differs; the forms of Rama and Sita differ; but the tale is the same. The essence is the same. What you did with Lao Tzu, you will do with me. What Lao Tzu wanted to do with you, that is what I want to do with you. The story is the same. There is not much difference. Only the form, the color, the names differ; the inner current is one.

My words will also appear like folly to you. If you fall in love with me, perhaps you will not say it—but deep within, your reasoning will wriggle: why are you getting into these matters? The mind cannot understand these things.

Lao Tzu says, "Because it is great—this teaching—therefore it resembles folly."

This deserves to be understood. For, in one sense, the wise becomes like the idiot—the circle is complete. Have you ever seen an idiot? I do not mean a fool; I mean an idiot—one who cannot think at all. The wise also loses thinking. The difference is great; the resemblance also is great. If you measure only by thought, both the idiot and the wise will appear similar. The idiot sits dull like a stone—no turmoil within. The wise also sits—but not like a stone. He is tremendously dynamic, flowing; a constant current of consciousness moves—but there is no thought.

So if you measure by thought, the wise and the idiot will appear the same. If you measure by consciousness, they are two opposite poles. The idiot has no consciousness; the wise has supreme consciousness. The idiot is below thought; the wise is above thought; but both are beyond thought. You are in the middle where the storm of thoughts rages. Below you is the idiot—there is no storm.

Therefore the idiot sometimes appears very happy—happier than you. For he has no worry, no thought. The idiot is like an animal. He is happier than you—no doubt. To be miserable requires much thinking; to weave misery, much thought is needed. The more thoughtful a man is, the more the net of misery he spreads.

The saints have said: better than all are the idiots whom the ways of the world do not touch.

The world goes on its way; but in the idiot, nothing enters. He cares not—eats, drinks, and sleeps. The wise too—eats, drinks, and sleeps. But the idiot is filled with darkness; the wise is filled with light. In the idiot thoughts do not arise because there is not even a glimmer of light. In the wise thoughts do not arise because light is complete—no corner of darkness remains. The idiot is perfect from the side of darkness; the wise is perfect from the side of light; you are in the middle. Therefore you are in great misfortune.

In the middle there will always be misfortune, because there is pull, there is tension. One side, idiocy pulls: come to this shore! Why be troubled? Sometimes you get drunk and become idiotic. That is why intoxicants have such power in the world—they are ways to become idiotic. Idiocy pulls: return to the old shore! Standing on the bridge, you are very disturbed, restless, uneasy.

But no one can return. In life there is no way back. At most, for an hour or two you fall back; then you must return. The way is only forward. The wise call you forward: come! They also say: do not linger on the bridge.

Akbar built Fatehpur Sikri—a new city, a new capital—built with great effort; millions of rupees were spent. Then Akbar asked his pundits, courtiers, nine jewels: search the literature of the world for one saying to inscribe over the gateway of Fatehpur Sikri. A very precious saying was found—the saying of Jesus: the inscription upon the gate reads, "This world is like a bridge; pass over it, go beyond it, but do not build your house upon it."

A bridge means: between two shores. Whoever is on the bridge will always be in tension. The state in which you are is not a state—it is a disease. Hence you are restless. The animal is not restless. God is not restless. Man is restlessness. He will remain so, pulled by two extremes. Either fall and be an animal—sometimes in sex, sometimes in drink; the same thing happens—you fall back into the animal world; for a little while, peace comes.

But only for a little while—momentary. That is why your pleasures are momentary. Momentary simply means: you are happy only when you become idiotic. And idiocy you can sustain only for moments, and even for that the chemistry of your body must be altered—sex alters it, overeating alters it; alcohol or LSD alters it. If body chemistry changes, you become an animal for a little while again—then you are a part of blind, idiotic nature.

If you become unconscious, you are like the idiot. If you become utterly alert, sainthood happens. In sainthood there is no thought—the journey is complete. The idiot also has no thought—the journey has not even begun. The idiot is a kind of emptiness—an absence. Sainthood is a kind of fullness. Both share one quality: each is complete. The idiot, complete in his idiocy; the saint, complete in his fullness. Therefore, to worldly people, saints often appear either deranged or idiotic.

Keep this sutra in mind.

Either your consciousness sinks totally into darkness—you become utterly unconscious—then you can have happiness. Or your consciousness becomes wholly conscious—every bit of unconsciousness dissolved, every stupor broken, every sleep fallen away—you become a flaming lamp of supreme consciousness—then you can be immersed in bliss.

And remember, there is no way to go back—try as much as you like. Going back is like someone jumping into the air from the ground—a moment he is aloft; the next moment he falls back to the ground. From the state of your mind you cannot go back; nature neither accepts nor knows the way back. How will the young become a child again? How will the old become young again? There is no going back—only forward. Life is growth, continuous growth—its consummation is in Paramatma.

"The whole world says: my teaching resembles folly. Because it is great, therefore it resembles folly. And if it did not resemble folly, it would long ago have become petty indeed."

And it is great—and will always seem so. Had it not been great, it would have become trivial long ago. Understand this too. Why do great teachings remain forever fresh? Why can you not make them stale? It has been twenty-five centuries since Buddha; twenty-five centuries since Lao Tzu. Twenty-five centuries—and time has not been able to gather even a little dust upon them. Who knows how many emperors came and went, how many wars, how many revolutions; society changed—ways of life, civilization, culture changed. Today nothing is as it was in Lao Tzu’s time. Yet Lao Tzu is exactly as he was—fresh as morning dew, like a newly bloomed flower, just bathed. Time cannot lay dust upon great principles.

Small principles are temporal; great principles are eternal, Sanatan. Small principles come and go. Great principles neither come nor go. What Lao Tzu is saying existed even before Lao Tzu. He gave it voice again. What I say to you has always existed. I am giving it voice again. Neither Lao Tzu has anything of his own in this, nor I.

Great teachings are eternal, Sanatan. No one brought them; no one can take them away. Yes, it can happen that when a person appears who makes his heart a medium, who turns his very breath into a flute, then those teachings again begin to resonate, to hum their song afresh. Teachings always are; they search for a person who will remain open so they can flow through him.

Dharma is no one’s property. Hence I say: dharma is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain, nor Buddhist; dharma is Sanatan. Sometimes the flute sang on the lips of Christ—that did not make the song Christian. The singer is one. Sometimes notes resounded on the lips of Lao Tzu—that did not make the song different by the lips. Sometimes Mahavira, sometimes Buddha, sometimes Krishna. Forms change; expression changes; the essence, the soul is the same.

Keep this in mind. To become a Christian is very easy; to become religious is very difficult. To become a Hindu is utterly simple—free; you need do nothing. By accident you were born in a Hindu home—you became Hindu. To be religious is a great revolution. One who settles for the cheap is deprived of the precious. Do not settle for the cheap. To be Hindu is not so easy, nor Muslim, nor Christian, as you think. Born in a Christian home, you become Christian? What has birth to do with religion? Religion is that which has neither birth nor death. Why link religion to your birth and death?

To be religious is a decision taken in a very conscious state—not birth. You must search; you must rise from your stupor; you must awaken. Only by awakening can you be religious. Asleep, remain Hindu, Muslim, Christian—nothing will change. In temples and mosques people sleep. Sect is a kind of deep sleep. If you wish to awaken, you must seek the Sanatan.

Yes, the day you understand the Sanatan, you will hear its echoes in temples and mosques, churches and gurdwaras—everywhere. No one reaches dharma through sect, but one who becomes religious understands all sects. No one reaches Truth through scripture, but one who has tasted even a little of Truth, in all scriptures the same taste is experienced. You must become the witness. Only by becoming religious can you become a witness. Becoming religious, all scriptures will be true by your witness—they will be true because you say so. If even one person becomes religious, Krishna, Christ, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Mahavira all incarnate again through that person—for again he draws the unknown into the dark corners of your earth; he makes those lost notes resound again.

Lao Tzu says, "And if it did not resemble folly…"

So great principles will always seem like folly. And only those can travel on the path of great principles who have the courage to be foolish. If you insist on being very clever, then you must be satisfied with the petty. Among the very clever you will not find a fool anywhere. Do not display too much cleverness, otherwise you will miss wisdom. The first wisdom is the courage to be foolish. The courage to be ignorant is the first step towards knowing.

Whom are you deceiving?

You have gathered a little rubbish—words heard here and there; things heard in the marketplace; advice from parents; talk of teachers at school—all gathered together. But it has no value.

Mulla Nasruddin was a teacher in a school. As teachers in schools often do, he would sit with a newspaper over his face and take a nap. The boys caught him sleeping many times. Finally they said, you do not let us sleep, and you snore! He said, I do not snore. While you are all busy, I go on journeys to heaven; I meet gods and goddesses; I have darshan of God; that is where I bring knowledge for you every day.

One day Nasruddin awoke in between—a fly was buzzing around him. He saw a boy right before him snoring. He woke him. But the boys had become skilled; people learn—if the guru is so knowledgeable, the boys too become knowledgeable. The boy said, do not think I was sleeping; I went to heaven. Nasruddin became a little worried. He asked, what did you see there? The boy said, what did I see? I asked all the gods and goddesses whether Mulla Nasruddin comes here. They said, we have never even heard the name.

Neither guru knows, nor do parents know anything; no one has gone to that heaven; no one has known that moksha; and they go on teaching you. They teach every child. When I was small they would take me to the temple and say, bow down! I asked, if you know for sure, I am ready to bow; I trust you. But I suspect you do not know. It seems your parents made you bow, you are making me bow. If you are certain, I will bow in trust. My father was an honest man. He said, then we will bow, you need not. It has become our habit; not bowing would be troublesome. Now you take care of yourself—but do not ask such difficult questions.

Learned from parents; from school; from books; from propaganda around—this you take as knowledge. Whom are you deceiving? You are deceiving only yourself.

A pundit went to a village. He was a great scholar. A poor farmer took him in a small horse-cart; there was to be a yajna in the village. A fly circled around the horse’s head, and sometimes around the pundit’s head. The pundit was a chatterbox—as scholars are. The road was long; to make conversation, he asked the rustic, what is the name of this fly? The scholar’s curiosity is only about names: what is the name of God? the name of the fly?

The villager said, this fly’s name is ghud-makkhi—horse-fly. Horse-fly? What does that mean? The villager said, it circles the heads of horses, mules, donkeys—hence horse-fly. The pundit said, do you mean to say I am a horse? The villager said, no, you are certainly not a horse; nor do you look like one. The pundit became more uneasy: do you take me for a mule? The villager said, no, you are not a mule either; your face shows you are not. The pundit said, then only one alternative is left—do you take me for a donkey? The villager looked him up and down and said, no, you are not a donkey, nor do you look like one—but it is difficult to deceive a horse-fly.

Whom are you deceiving? It is difficult to deceive even a horse-fly; and you set out to deceive Paramatma, existence. Your scholarship is worth two pennies. The sooner you carry it to the garbage heap, the better.

Lao Tzu says, if to the fools these supreme principles did not appear like folly, they would have become trivial long ago. Their freshness lies in this: that even today, Lao Tzu is as difficult to understand as ever. Lao Tzu is as "senseless" as ever—and will always remain so. For the Truth he speaks of has the very nature of senselessness. Its nature is mystery. Those who have understood their ignorance may become ready to understand, but those who have taken their ignorance to be knowledge— for them it will always appear like folly.

Lao Tzu says, "I have three treasures."

This is the essence, the extract, the clarified butter of Lao Tzu’s teaching.

"I have three treasures; guard them, and keep them safe. The first is love; the second is never too much; the third is: never be the first in the world."

Understand. Love. Lao Tzu does not say prayer—because you cannot pray yet. You have not known love yet; prayer is a far-off thing. If you pray now without having loved, your prayer will be false—because the truth of prayer comes from love.

People come to me and ask, is there not some way to save ourselves from love and go straight into prayer?

How will you go into prayer while saving yourself from love? If love were a ladder, we could take a leap to the next rung. Love is not a ladder; love is the very life of prayer. If love were a ladder, we could jump to another step. But love is not a ladder—love is the essential soul of prayer. And when you want to avoid love, you will want to avoid prayer too. Though it is easier to deceive in prayer; harder in love. That is why people ask if there is some way to avoid love.

You do prayer in the temple—but where will you learn its taste?

If you have known love in life, the doors of the temple will open. One who has known love will, today or tomorrow, knock at the temple’s door—because having found so much nectar in love, how much more will there be in prayer! Love itself will draw you. If a drop gave so much, how much will the ocean give! If love is the drop, the bindu, prayer is the ocean, the sindhu.

And love is available. For love, no theology is needed, no shastra. No guru is needed. Love is given to you by Paramatma himself. It is immense compassion that He has given the essential; if you open it, your path will open. You already have the instrument.

Jesus has a famous saying: Love! And through love you will know God. Because love is God. He did not say: love God so that you can know God. He said: Love! And you will know God. Because God is love.

So forget God for a while—understand love: what it is. In that very understanding, prayer begins to reveal itself. The profundity of love becomes prayer.

Love is the meeting of two persons; the moment where two put their egos aside; where they do not meet through the ego, but after removing it. Love is the surrender of two persons to each other. Love is trust. Love is this kind of longing: although the bodies will be two, the soul will be one.

And love is training. If you have not loved—and you have invented a thousand ways to avoid loving. You invented marriage to avoid love—just as sects were invented to avoid religion, marriage was invented to avoid love. Love has been cut—hence clever, cunning societies do not let children love; parents decide. Parents consider everything except love: money, family, status, prestige—everything is considered, except love. And that is why child marriage persisted—because if young people become youths, you will not be able to avoid love; love will intrude.

And love disturbs all economics. Love is a dangerous formula—love does not know who is a sweeper and who is a Brahmin; love does not know who is Hindu and who is Muslim. Love knows only the language of love. It knows nothing else. Love knows no sect. That is why I said marriage and sect run parallel. Love knows neither poor nor rich; the rich may fall in love with the poor; the poor with a queen. Love is risky—where it will take you, no one knows.

So cut love. Child marriage was invented so that there would be no possibility of love. Then, living together from childhood, a kind of attachment develops between a man and a woman that is not love. It is like the attachment between brother and sister—born of living together. In that attachment there is neither storm nor whirlwind.

That attachment is formal. It arises if you live long with anyone: a companionship grows, a liking is formed. If he is absent, there is a sense of emptiness; if present, a sense of relief. But there is neither storm in it, nor does the soul ever surge in such a way that songs begin to rain; no tempest shakes your walls, no earthquake rocks your house. No ecstasy, no moment of Samadhi comes. Only a social arrangement continues, the household goes on.

Love is very dangerous—dangerous like sannyas. Marriage is a social institution; love is Paramatma’s invitation. Society has arranged its own order, because with love society is troubled. Where love will take you, no one knows; by what paths it will lead, no one knows; what outcome will come—nothing is known. Love’s path cannot be measured.

You have been deprived of love. And because of this deprivation, there is a lack in your life. Without love no one can be fulfilled. You may live, but half-dead—dragging yourself like a burden. Only love can fulfill. Because where two meet and egos drop, in that moment a third also becomes present—whose name is Paramatma. Wherever the ego drops, there God enters—that is the door.

If two have truly loved…

Truly loving means loving after putting egos aside—not through the medium of ego. If love happens through ego, you do not love the other; through the other you love only yourself. You are not caring for the other—you are exploiting the other. You are not protecting the other—you are using the other. The other becomes a tool, a thing—not a person.

When the ego is in between, it turns living persons into objects. Wife and husband become like things; they use each other. There is no thrill; no flower blooms; no fragrance spreads. Wherever anyone brings in the ego, possession enters; ownership, grasping, claim over the other; quarrel, conflict, tactics, cunning—all politics enters.

But when egos are put aside, and two persons meet as two flames come close and suddenly become one—at that moment, in this world, a gap opens through which Paramatma peeks. Love is the first experience of God.

But love has been withheld. Therefore you remain unfulfilled, restless, troubled. Something is missing; something lacks. You cannot even say what it is. Even with money, the lack remains. Position, prestige—you still feel lack. You do not know what is lacking. Like a thirsty man whose thirst has been made to be forgotten—he piles up wealth, yet the lack remains; because the need was water, not money. These thirsty ones, whose thirst has been forgotten, from whose hands the thread of love has been snatched, who have been given false institutions in its place—the arithmetic of marriage instead of the poetry of love—these people go to temples and mosques, bend their knees and pray.

They feel perhaps their lack will be completed by prayer—or by yoga, or by meditation. Let me tell you: the priests of religion, the authorities of temples and mosques, understood this truth long ago—that only if people are deprived of love will crowds remain in temples and mosques; otherwise not. Because when love is not found, they will ask for prayer. If love descends into the world, temples and mosques, priests and pundits will disappear by themselves. Your heart will become the temple.

This is the greatest dangerous conspiracy against man: his thread of love has been cut. Then he will, bound, come to the temple—if not today, tomorrow. He will have to come, feeling that something is lacking which the world does not fulfill, so seek beyond the world.

The day love is totally free in the world, with no hindrance or obstacle, and love becomes one’s own decision—not parents’, not family’s, not society’s, not any politics’—the day love arises from within, the day the inner heart blooms—on that day people will bid farewell to temples and mosques on their own. Love’s temple is temple enough; no other temple is needed. Then prayer will arise. When love ripens, the fragrance that rises from the ripened love is prayer.

When two become so immersed in each other that they become one, then for the first time the thought arises: if by two becoming one such boundless bliss has arisen, oh that I might become one with the Infinite! For the first time the idea arises: when drop meets drop and such joy showers, what must happen when the drop meets the ocean! Love gives the taste; it gives the power to move into prayer; it gives the courage, the daring to take steps towards prayer.

But since you avoid love, you have become cowardly; your daring is lost.

Lao Tzu says, I have three treasures to give you.

"The first is love; the second is never too much."

Lao Tzu does not speak of God or prayer—because he says: if the seed is given, the rest will happen on its own. Plant the seed; the sprout will come; the tree will grow; shade will be abundant; flowers will bloom; fruit will arrive—this all will happen by itself. You take care of the seed. Hence he speaks of love, not of prayer; not of God.

Many feel that Lao Tzu is an atheist.

Lao Tzu is supremely theist. Those who sit in temples and mosques are the atheists. Their conspiracy is deep and dangerous. They have blocked your life in such a way; they have burnt your seed. Then whatever you do is false. Such is my sense: whoever’s love is false, his whole life will be false. If you cannot be true even in love, in what else will you be true? If you cannot be true and authentic with your beloved, will you be true with your customer? In the market? In society? When you are false with the nearest—when you smile at your wife because you "should"; when you press your father’s feet because you "should"; when you stand before the guru because you "should"—then everything is lost. Those nearest matters that touch the heart—if they are false, how will the far be true?

If love becomes true, truth will begin to spread everywhere in your life. Love will make you larger, expansive. Slowly, if you taste the nectar in loving one person, you will begin to love others too. You will love human beings—the wave of love will keep expanding—you will love plants, stones. Now the question is not whom to love; you will know the secret: loving is bliss. Whom you love is not the question. You will forget who the beloved is; rivers, streams, mountains—all will become beloved.

As when a stone is thrown into a lake—first a small ripple arises, then it spreads farther and farther to the distant shores—so when two fall in love, the first pebble falls into the lake of love; then it keeps spreading. Then you love family, society, humanity, animals, plants, birds, waterfalls, mountains—ever widening. The day your love pervades all, suddenly you find yourself standing before God.

When love ripens, the fragrance that rises is prayer. When prayer becomes complete, God stands at the door. You cannot find Him. You just love—and He comes by himself. Where will you go to find Him? You do not even know His address.

And beware: if you go seeking Him, you may become part of some conspiracy—for in Kashi and Kaaba there are headquarters of conspiracy. You will get entangled there. There, people will persuade you that love is sin—drop love and pray. They are very skilled; their game is deep. They have been pouring this poison on your mind for so long that you too will find their talk appealing: that love is attachment, clinging.

Prayer is also attachment and clinging. And God is the supreme attachment—for life is connected. We are not isolated here; we are all joined, together. Your being and my being are like two waves; beneath, the sea is one. And one wave meets another. The preparation for meeting is love; the experience of having met lifts you into prayer; and when prayer becomes full, you open your eyes and find God standing at the door. He was always standing there—you were not ready. You must be ready.

So Lao Tzu says: the first formula, love; the first treasure, love. The second is never too much.

This too must be understood. For man’s mind lives in extremes. Either you do one extreme or the other.

Recently a young man came from England. He believed in fasting; he had made fasting his sadhana. His body had become weak and thin; energy had become depleted. I told him: if you want to die, that is another matter—fast with enjoyment. But life cannot go this way. And if energy is so depleted, how will you meditate? Energy is needed—and for meditation, much energy is needed—for it is no small event. If you are preparing for such a revolution, a great fuel is needed. If you have decided to burn the whole forest, a spark will not do; a conflagration is needed. You have set out on the journey of meditation—if you are weary even before starting, how will you take a step?

It was hard for him to understand, yet he tried. On the third day he came and said, you have put me in trouble—I overate. Now my stomach hurts; I am in misery.

One who fasts—if you make him break the fast—will overeat. In fact, those who overeat are the ones who fast. There is a relationship between them. Wherever overeating becomes prevalent, fasting sects arise. In America there is a great craze now: fast! For every problem, fasting works. If there is illness—fast; if a woman wants to be beautiful—fast; to shape the body—fast; to be healthy—fast. For everything: fast. America is at a stage of plenty. A similar stage came in India; at that time the Jains arose. Twenty-five centuries ago India was as prosperous as America—great wealth and comfort. People say rivers of milk and curds flowed. When there is ample food, people eat; immediately fasting becomes important.

Have you noticed? When a poor person’s religious festival comes, he feasts; when a rich person’s religious festival comes, he fasts. A strange thing—but the arithmetic is clear. Muslims are poor; all year they somehow manage. Hindus are poor; they somehow get by. But when a festival comes—Diwali—the poor man buys sweets. He worships Lakshmi; on Janmashtami, Krishna is born—this is a festive moment: eat, drink, make merry. Eid comes—invite friends. Muslims are poor; they cannot change clothes daily; on Eid they wear new clothes. The religious day is a day of festivity.

But when a Jain’s festival comes, he keeps the Paryushan fasts. All year long the festival continues—overeating continues—so on the religious day something different must be done; he starves. And by starving, the taste lost through the year returns.

Thus in Paryushan the Jains do not eat—but in imagination they think of food; they pray that ten days somehow pass—and they make lists of what to eat after the fast. Its "benefit" is that taste returns; nothing more.

He who is saved from extremes is wise. Neither fasting nor overeating: right food—just what the body needs, no more, no less. Both extremes are diseases. Health is the middle point; health is balance.

Either people sleep too much, or not at all. Either they work too much, or leave all work. No, it will not do. How long can you stretch an extreme? It cannot become a style of life. If you fast, how many days can you live? If you overeat, how many days? Hunger kills; overeating kills.

If you want the essence of life, then somewhere in the middle: right, balanced—just what is needed. Sleep as much as needed; eat as much as needed; work as much as needed; rest as much as needed. And each person must find his own balance, for there can be no fixed category or dogma—people differ.

Old men come to me: sleep does not come. How much comes? They say, three or four hours. For an old man, three or four hours are enough. A child is born—he sleeps twenty hours. Will you sleep twenty hours when you die? At birth, twenty hours are needed because great construction is going on in the child’s body; if he is awake, construction is hindered. In the womb, he sleeps twenty-four hours—because any awakening would hinder.

Whenever your body is tired and reconstruction is needed, sleep is useful. That is why physicians say: if there is illness and sleep does not come, that is more dangerous than the illness; first bring sleep, then we shall worry about the illness—half the illness will be cured in sleep. When you are awake, you hinder; your energy flows outwards. When you sleep, energy moves in circles within—reconstruction happens.

An old man is dying—reconstruction has long ceased; things are breaking, cells are dying; whatever is gone is not rebuilt. His sleep has decreased—it is natural. He should not expect more sleep: in youth he slept eight hours—then, youth slept eight hours; you did not. In childhood you slept twenty hours—not you, childhood slept.

And in each person, every day, change goes on. So one must remain alert and maintain balance. Whoever makes rigid rules will always be imbalanced—because you are changing every day. A rule made in childhood—what will you do in youth? One made in youth—what in old age? No—you must search for balance afresh every day.

Like a tightrope walker: he does not balance once and then walk—he balances at every step. Each step is new; each movement is new; the old balancing will not work in the new moment. In hand he keeps a staff: if he leans left even a little, instantly he tilts the staff to the right; if to the right, he tilts to the left—thus, between right and left he dynamically maintains balance.

Between the extremes you too must dynamically maintain balance. Life is the journey of a tightrope walker. On both sides are ditches. Fall here—ditch; fall there—abyss. Exactly in the middle, fine as a sword’s edge, is the path.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: never too much—of anything.

No one else can fix a rule for you. Now, Vinoba rises at three in the morning; so, in his ashram, everyone must rise at three. This is madness. Vinoba is old; he goes to bed at eight; it suits his body—fine, that is his rule. Therefore you will find everyone in his ashram yawning the whole day, eyes closing, troubled. Rising at Brahma-muhurta, the whole day is an attack of sleep.

One man came to me. He had read Swami Sivananda’s books. There it is written: to sleep more than four hours is a sign of Tamas. He was thirty-two—young. He began to sleep four hours. Since Tamas must be dropped, he resolved. But then Tamas covered the whole day. Earlier he slept seven hours—Tamas for seven hours. Now twenty-four hours of Tamas. When he saw Tamas increasing, he read Sivananda more carefully: if Tamas does not decrease, it means you eat too much. So he reduced to one meal a day. With two wings—weakness and sleepiness—he began the journey to God: hungry all day and fantasizing about food; thirsty for sleep and yawning all day.

He came to me. I asked: is the book finished, or is there more? If there is more, hurry—otherwise you will be finished. Did you see Sivananda’s body—his photos? Does he look like a faster? Two men had to lift him by the arms to make him walk. First see the photo, then read the book.

People do not live with awareness. They grab anything. How did Sivananda die? By cerebral hemorrhage. If Stalin dies so, it is understandable. But a sannyasin dying of cerebral hemorrhage means tremendous inner tension, disturbance. If a politician dies so—appropriate. If a sannyasin dies so—astonishing.

Be aware; listen, understand; recognize your life; take your steps gently, one by one. And be careful not to fall into extremes.

So I told that gentleman: start sleeping seven hours.

If Paramatma had thought Tamas unnecessary, He would not have made it. Rest is needed; there is nothing blameworthy in Tamas. It is blameworthy only when it is excessive. If someone sleeps all day, then blameworthy—not because of Tamas, but because of excess. Otherwise Tamas is needed; Tamas is the principle of rest; Rajas is the principle of effort. When both are balanced, the light of Sattva is kindled in your life. Understand the triangle: at the base, Tamas and Rajas; at the top, Sattva. When Tamas and Rajas balance, the tone of Sattva begins to arise within you. Sattva means ultimate balance. Hence Lao Tzu says: in the world, never too much.

"And the third: never be the first in the world."

That very race deprives people of God.

It happened that I was traveling with a politician friend. He himself was driving the car. We were going from Jabalpur to Allahabad. Somewhere on the way I felt we had taken a wrong turn. I checked the milestones—we were heading towards Chhatarpur. That is a different road. I told him, you have forgotten. He said, I have not. A man took his car past mine—he is going to Chhatarpur. Until I pass him, I cannot go to Allahabad. Two hours it took. Finally, he passed that car. Only then did he find peace.

In two hours we returned, because going to Allahabad was essential. But life is not so simple. In life the roads are not so clear as Chhatarpur and Allahabad; they are complex. And you cannot return—gone is gone. Yet that is what you all have been doing.

You see someone with a car; now you too must have one. You forget whether you needed it—or because he has it, the need has been created! You stake your life to get a car. Meanwhile someone builds a bigger house—how can you remain in a smaller one? You start building a larger house. Meanwhile someone marries a film actress. The road keeps lengthening. You must overtake others.

In the end you find whether others have been left behind or not—you are ruined. You never reached where you were meant to go; your destiny remained unfulfilled. Everyone lured you; everyone blocked your path; everyone pushed you aside; everyone suggested roads to you.

You have a destiny. You are not here meaningless; you are here to become something. Something is to flower through your life. There is a consummation in you. Your consciousness is moving towards a certain path. How many obstacles you put in the way! So the path is lost; you start becoming something else.

Therefore Lao Tzu gives the third treasure: never be concerned with being first.

"The third is: never be the first in the world."

Do not even try. If you make this your deepest faith—that I am not in competition with anyone; that with no one am I running the race of ambition—only then will you attain your destiny. Otherwise it is difficult. There are four billion people around—great jostling. Each is at his own thing.

Mulla Nasruddin went to the mosque one day. It was Ramadan and the whole village’s Muslims were gathered. When all knelt for namaz, the tail of Nasruddin’s coat was lifted from behind—his pajama’s cord showing. The man behind, it did not look good, gave a tug and set it right. The coat of the man in front of him was all right; he too gave a tug. The man before him asked, why? He said, do not ask me; the man behind started it. We are only imitating. What the secret is, we do not know—but there must be something; otherwise why would he do it?

Everywhere you are being swayed. Anyone can persuade you about anything. Thousands of currents press on your mind from all sides; all are pulling you their way. This is a great marketplace—many shopkeepers. All call you: come here! If you are not careful, you will be lost in this bazaar. Many have been lost. Be careful! Recognize your need and fulfill it. Recognize your own necessity and fulfill it—not in competition with others, because their competition will lead you onto a wrong path. Recognize yourself and pass through this crowded market protecting yourself. There is only one formula for protection: drop the urge to be first. If you agree to be the last, only then will you attain your destiny.

Jesus said: those who are first in this world will be last in my kingdom, and those who are last will be first.

To stand at the end is a great secret. He who stands last is not eager for competition. One ready to be last—the world does not even bother him. No one pulls his leg—he is already at the end. Where will they throw him? He sits at the very last place—where will you chase him from there?

They say when Lao Tzu went anywhere, if there was a gathering, he would sit at the very back, where shoes are taken off. Someone asked, Lao Tzu, why do you sit here?

He said, from here no one ever chases you away. I have seen great embarrassment for those who sit first—on thrones. The moment they sit on thrones, someone or other is already prepared to pull their legs. They were prepared even before; you pushed and shoved to reach there—what you did to others, that is what they want to do to you.

There is only one secret to live peacefully in this world and to fulfill your destiny—to attain the meaning for which God gave you birth: let your poetry pour, sing your song, let your dance come to completion—one way only: drop ambition; drop competition. Live your life. Why imitate another’s life? Let the other go where he wants—that is his joy; that will be his path. Why do you trail behind him?

If someone has a passion to build houses, let him. If you are happy in your hut, why enter a useless race? The race will take time, will take energy, will take life. And whatever you get will never satisfy—because you never desired it in the first place. That is why there is such dissatisfaction. If you do not get, you suffer; if you get, you find it has no essence—because it was never your longing.

Suppose a man plays the flute—very well; people praise him. Their praise catches you; your ego says, we shall play better. Perhaps with effort you could—but if playing the flute is not part of your life, then even the day you play well you will find nothing is gained—time is wasted.

Never fall into imitation. Competition leads to imitation; it leads to following. Then you are deprived of your own nature—estranged from it. The ambitious man is always alienated from his nature; he wanders everywhere except within himself. He never comes home, knocks at every door—and in the end finds that the grave is near; there is no strength to return, no time left.

And until you complete your destiny—this is the fundamental rule of life—you will be thrown again and again into the circle of birth and death. You are here to pass beyond something; you have been sent to know, to learn, to mature. Only when you mature will you be taken up.

Jesus said: as a fisherman casts a net, so every day God casts His net. The fisherman catches fish; he chooses the worthy and throws the rest back into the sea. So God casts His net; many are caught; few are chosen—only those whose destiny is complete, who have found the fragrance of their life, whose flower has bloomed.

You go to the temple to offer flowers—do you know its meaning? It has nothing to do with outer flowers. You must bloom, become a flower—that is the symbol of your destiny’s fulfillment. Only then will you be received upon the altar.

"Through love man attains fearlessness. By not doing too much, one has an amplitude of reserve power. And by not presuming to be first in the world, one can develop one’s talent and let it mature."

And only when you mature will you be accepted. If the lamp of your worship is raw, it will not gain entry into God’s temple. If you can become that for which you were sent—that is enough—you will be lifted, chosen. It is not necessary that you become a great painter like Picasso to be chosen; not necessary that you become a poet like Kalidasa. That is not the question. Even if you stitch shoes, and if in stitching shoes you put your whole being, your total energy—and if even stitching shoes becomes your love and prayer—and if you accept shoe-stitching as a supreme blessing, not as a despair…

It happened that when Abraham Lincoln became President of America, people did not like it—he was not of noble birth; he was poor—in fact, the son of a cobbler. People were perturbed: a cobbler’s son as President! On the day he took the oath and gave his first address in the Senate, a man stood and said: Honorable Lincoln, do not forget that your father used to stitch my father’s shoes.

The whole Senate laughed derisively. But Lincoln’s reply was significant. He said, I do not understand why this was brought up today, but I thank you for it; in this moment I might have forgotten my father—you reminded me. And as far as I remember, I shall never be as good a President as my father was a cobbler.

That is the real arithmetic. Not President and cobbler as such—how good, how skillful!

Lincoln said, as far as I recall, your father never had a complaint about my father’s shoes. He was skillful, extraordinary—and he found his totality in being a cobbler. He was joyous. I will not be such a good President.

In the final account, what you did will not be asked—but how you did it. Not whether you amassed wealth, built mansions, painted great pictures, sculpted statues—but whether, in whatever you did, you found fulfillment. Did you return satisfied? Only one who returns satisfied becomes enthroned in the heart of God. Wherever you are, however you are—seek your destiny. Forget the other; he has nothing to do with you.

"Through love man attains fearlessness."

And until you attain love, fearlessness will not come. Without love, man trembles in fear—why? Because without love, in life nothing is visible but death. Only through the experience of love does the first glimpse of immortality arise—then fearlessness comes.

By not overdoing, one’s power gathers—an uncommon power accumulates; for he does not waste—neither to the right nor to the left. He is neither a Leftist nor a Rightist; he wastes nothing. He saves his power; so much energy gathers that the quantitative abundance brings a qualitative revolution. Heat water to a hundred degrees: it becomes steam. Ninety-nine—not yet; ninety-eight—not yet. Even at ninety-nine it will not become steam. Just one more degree—and suddenly the journey of water changes. As water it flowed downwards; as steam it rises upwards. The dimension is different. As water, it was visible; as steam, it becomes invisible. The dimension changes.

An organization of energy is needed within—an inexhaustible source. By its very presence—by its rising level, by its ever-growing store—a qualitative change arises in you. Science accepts a principle: every qualitative change comes through quantitative change. All revolutions—changes in quantity become transformations in quality. The same water at ninety-nine degrees is water; at a hundred it becomes steam.

You set out to attain God—great energy will be needed. The journey is great. Your wings must be strong. Do not run out midway. Restraint! Restraint means: save yourself from extremes.

Even your "ascetics" are extremists. Understand my meaning of restraint. You call restrained those who are extremists—leaving home; abandoning wife; not touching wealth; fasting; standing on head; lying on thorns—you say, what a restrained man!

This is not restraint—it is your disease standing on its head—shirshasana. It is you, upside down. The restrained man is in the middle. In him there is no harshness of extremity; there is the sweetness of the middle. The restrained man is cheerful; neither sad, nor laughing maniacally—cheerful: a natural cheerfulness, a gentle smile, a sweetness.

Your "ascetics" are harsh. Such harshness cannot be in the middle. You chase money; they chase renunciation. You run after women; they run from women—but the movement is the same; only the direction differs. If you are obsessed with how to eat more, they are obsessed with how to eat less.

Between the two extremes, somewhere is hidden restraint.

By not overdoing, energy is conserved; restraint becomes available. And by saving oneself from the audacity of being first in the world—from that madness—one becomes silent. All his restlessness is gone. In that silence, he gently begins to move towards inner maturity. When the outer race ceases, energy sets out on the inner journey. Perhaps he will no longer carve other statues—but his own statue is carved. Perhaps the world will not even know when he lived and when he departed. Perhaps his footsteps will not be heard. Not all Buddhas are known; many depart quietly, unnoticed—because you cannot recognize them. He stands so at the very end, at the last; he makes no claim. As the Zen masters say: he becomes so utterly ordinary that no one recognizes him. For recognition too, banners are needed—flags, noise. One who is ready to be the last stands outside the world.

If you ask me, I call this sannyas. Going to the Himalayas will not make you a sannyasin—there, too, the competition continues: someone Sivananda, someone Akhandananda—so-and-so is still ahead; someone has become Shankaracharya and sits on a math—we have not reached there. There too politics continues. Shankaracharyas stand in courts, litigating: who is the real Shankaracharya?

Wherever you run, it will not help. If you must run, run to be last. Accept yourself as you are. Do not enter competition; do not run anyone’s race. Then you will find your spontaneous nature slowly unfolding. You will attain maturity, density, the inner center. One who has left outer competition—his inner journey begins.

These three treasures, says Lao Tzu, keep them safe. Guard them. They are worth saving. Whoever has saved them has saved all. Whoever has lost them will live a beggar and die a beggar. I too tell you: do not be beggars; do not die beggars; do not live like beggars. You are born to be emperors—that is your birthright.

Enough for today.