Tao Upanishad #108

Love is the food of the soul. Love is the energy of the Paramatman hidden within the soul. Love is the path that leads from the soul to the Paramatman dwelling in the soul.

He who lives without it, lives hungry. He who lives without it, lives famished. He who lives without it—let his body live well, let his mind live well—his soul remains as if dead. He has no experience of the soul. The soul, for him, is only a word—heard of, read about; but the word is utterly without meaning. For without love, no one has ever come to know who he is. Without love, man only wanders outside himself; he cannot arrive at his own home.

There is only one door for coming within—and that is love. Just as the body needs breath each moment; if breath is not there, the body’s connection to life breaks. Breath is a bridge. By it our body is linked to existence. Breath is not even seen; only its results are seen—that the man is alive. When breath departs, even then only the results are seen; the going of breath itself is not seen. One sees that the man is dead. Love is an even subtler breath, even more invisible; it is the link between the soul and the Paramatman. As breath has joined you between body and existence, in the same way only when the waves of love flow are you linked with the Paramatman. In that linking, for the first time, you come to know the reality of your being. Therefore there is no word more significant than love. There is no experience deeper than love.

What is love? And that which is so significant—how are we to understand it?

It is necessary to understand a little of the alchemy of love.

You recognize even your own face only because you have seen it in a mirror. Otherwise tell me—how would you recognize your own face? If you had never seen your face in a mirror, and, if by chance, you chanced upon yourself, you would not recognize yourself. How would you? Even to see oneself a mirror is needed.

Love is to see oneself in another’s eyes. There is no other way. When someone’s eyes are filled with longing for you; when some eyes look at you as if they would lay everything at your feet; when in some eyes you glimpse that without you the life hidden within those eyes would become a wilderness—that you are the greenness, you are the rain-clouds; without you all flowers would wither, without you only desert would remain—when in someone’s eyes you behold such dignity to your life, then for the first time you come to know that you are meaningful. You are not an accidental happening upon this earth; you are not an accident. For the first time you feel a sense of meaning; it appears that in this vast play you are significant, purposeful; that in this vast game you have a part; that this stage would be incomplete without you; that if you were not here something would be missing; at least one heart would be left a desert without you, at least in one heart all poetry would be lost without you; no veena would sing again. Looking into one person’s eyes, peering into his heart, for the first time you come to know your worth. Otherwise you would never know your value.

Accumulate as much wealth as you will—you will feel yourself futile. What is the essence of it? Rise to the highest posts—you will continue to know within that you are hollow, and that you have arrived at those posts by forcing your way. Therefore if you look from those posts into the eyes of people, you will feel that without you they would be far more delighted; that it is your presence that gives them pain; that your absence would be a great peace. If you have wealth and you look into people’s eyes, you will feel that you are their enemy; as if you have snatched something from them which, were you to move aside, would return to them.

Except through love, you will find yourself not only causeless, not only futile, but you will experience in thousands of eyes that you are an accident, that your being is an ill omen; that no one is filled with good fortune because of you, that because of you signs of misfortune are everywhere. Amid these signs of misfortune, among their shrieking, crying voices, you will be surrounded by a hell. And if your life appears infernal to you, understand this is the very cause.

Whosoever enters love, enters heaven. Other than love all heavens are imaginations, symbols. There is only one real heaven—and it is this: that you become so meaningful for someone that the other is ready to lose his life for you.

But you can become so meaningful only when you are ready to lose your life for the other. Love means to know something greater than life—for which even life can be sacrificed. So long as life is the greatest thing for you, so long you will remain poor. Life is only an opportunity—to attain that which is greater than life. Life is only a moment—for transcendence; a ladder by which you can climb. Life is not the temple, only the temple’s gate. Who could ever be fulfilled by the gate alone?

But how will you know the first glimpse? How will the first ray descend into your life by which you can experience that somewhere, because of your being, some good fortune has fructified?

This is a little subtle, delicate—place each step carefully.

When you descend into the love of someone—whoever it may be: a friend, a mother, a husband, a wife, a beloved, a lover, a child, a son, your cow, a tree standing in your garden, a rock lying by your door—it makes no difference, anyone—wherever the light of love falls, from that side responses begin to arise in that light. In the hour of love you do not remain alone; there is a companion, a fellow traveler. And someone considers you so valuable that he would give you his life; you consider someone so valuable that you would give your life. Surely you have come upon something greater than life before which life becomes a worthy offering. The note of love has descended into your life.

Only by circling through the other’s eyes, through the other’s mirror, do you receive your first news of who you are. Otherwise you are pebbles lying by the roadside. Only by passing through the medium of love do you, for the first time, come to know that you are a diamond. And when such a realization begins to arise, that you are valuable, here lies a great secret: the more you feel yourself valuable, the more valuable you begin to become. For ultimately you are the Paramatman; ultimately you are the quintessence of all life; ultimately your consciousness is the butter of the entire existence churned out. But only through love will you receive the first news that you have not been thrown here just like that. You are not here by accident. Some destiny is being fulfilled through you. Existence has a demand of you. Existence has wanted something from you. Existence has challenged you. Existence has created you here so that you may fulfill something.

Shop and market are not enough; someone else can do those. To gather wealth may be necessary, but it is not sufficient; because when you die, all of it will be left lying here. It is also necessary to earn something that death cannot erase. And I tell you, love is the only wealth that death cannot erase. Why? Because for the wealth of love you are prepared to give your life. The wealth for which you are ready to offer your life is greater than life. That which is greater than life is greater than death too, for death is but a part of life.

Only in the moments of love do you receive the first taste of being beyond life and death. If you are deprived of this—if you never come to know what love is—you came without cause, you went without cause; you learned nothing from life. You saw many flowers, but you could not obtain the fragrance. You saw many events, passed through much turmoil, lived in great hurry, traveled a long road, but could arrive nowhere. At the end of the journey you could not dwell in any temple; you died on the road; you remained a beggar of the road; you found no home, no place where you could become still, where you could be in bliss.

Love is a pause from the world. In the moment of love the world is lost. In the moment of love there is no market, no mathematics, no argument. In the moment of love, as if in this vast desert, an oasis appears, a small green lake! All around is the desert; in its midst you are dissolved in a lake. From that lake you receive news of larger lakes. From that green grove you get hints of vaster greenery. From that little rest you remember the Ultimate Rest.

Love is the training for prayer. And whoever has love, his fear is gone. He has nothing left worth fearing for. You are afraid because life is passing and you have earned no wealth of the essential. You are afraid because evening has begun, the time of the sun’s setting has come, birds have started returning to their homes—and you do not even know your own home. In fear you become flustered. Night is about to descend! Death has begun to arrive! And you are still on the road. You have arrived nowhere. Therefore the person in whose life the shadow of love is not, keeps trembling. He trembles as leaves tremble in a storm; or as monstrous waves arise in the ocean and a tiny boat trembles. So do you tremble.

Life has great tempests, mighty storms; and you have not even the anchor of love. The boat is very small. Life is full of struggle. The waves are terrible; and you have no key to go beyond life; not even one experience in which a ray has descended into your darkness that is not part of your darkness; in which some instrument has sounded in your heart which you have not played, which is not the work of your hands, which the Infinite has played.

Love has one specialty: you cannot do love; it happens, it happens; it descends, it descends. You can at most not create hindrance; when love happens, do not run away; when love happens, do not turn your back; when love happens, do not close your eyes. You can only avoid obstructing. But to make love happen—what else can you do? Nothing at all.

Therefore love is not music produced by your hands; the Vast places its fingers upon you. Yes, if you wish you can refuse to sound; if you wish you can remain stiff; you can stiffen so much that the Infinite’s fingers cannot create any note within you.

Thus we say love is madness, blindness; because one does not know from where it comes, or where it takes one. It is the call of the Unknown. Suddenly you feel—in a single instant—no logical arithmetic needs to be worked out: whether to love this person or not; nothing needs to be thought about: what in this person is love-worthy; no calculation is required. Suddenly, in a single instant—the barrier of time is not there—you find you are in love. Someone has played upon your heart, someone has touched the sleeping strings. That one could be a lover, could be a master, could be a friend; but the note of love is one. It makes no difference what relationship you form. But the happening is sudden. It is valuable to understand this. Because whatever you arrange will not be bigger than you; whatever you can do will be smaller than you; what can be done by you cannot take you beyond your life.

Therefore it often seems to me that love is more profound even than meditation; because meditation you begin—you do something. There are meditations that you do not begin; if you have understanding you will recognize them. But such meditations you will not recognize without love. Once you have let yourself be carried by the hands of the Infinite; once you have merely not resisted; where the winds wanted to take you, they took you; toward which side they wanted to make you fly, you flew—you did not say, “I want to go east, and this is a westward journey.” You did not say, “These are my expectations, these are my conditions.” You neither put conditions nor erected barriers—you silently surrendered, you flowed. If once you learn to flow in love, the key of meditation will also come into your hands. For that too is not a matter of doing—it is a matter of flowing.

By doing, what will you do? You alone will do it. From your ignorance only will your act arise. From your disease will your meditation arise. Your meditation will also be diseased. Your meditation will also be dark. Only if something comes from above you can there be light. And how will the preparation be for something to come from above?

Meditation is distant if love is not near. If love is near, meditation is very near. Therefore Lao Tzu, Jesus, Krishna all lay great emphasis upon love. That insistence is important.

What happens in the moment of love?

Two persons come so close that it no longer seems we are two; non-duality happens in the moment of love. It does not even seem that we have become one, and neither does it seem that we are two.

Kabir says: To say “one” is not right—wrong it will be; for one is not. To say “two” is an insult—and if I say two, it becomes a profanity.

In the moment of love you know for the first time—both two, and one. To say one is not right, for you are two; to say two is not right, for the note of love is playing as though two ends of a single wave. The instruments of these two hearts are not playing separately; it is one orchestra, they are playing together. There is a rhythm between them. Between the one, the being of two is experienced; between the two, the being of one is experienced. Love becomes a riddle; and the first news of the Ultimate Riddle arrives. And when you once allow someone to come so close, so close that danger can be…

Ordinarily we do not allow people to come close in life. Because closeness means leaving oneself in the other’s hands.

In the West, scientists have made a new discovery—the “territorial imperative.” They say every animal creates around itself a secure zone within which it does not allow anyone to enter. You can observe it. A monkey is sitting—go toward him slowly, very slowly. He will remain utterly unconcerned up to a limit. Suppose you have come ten feet close—he is unconcerned. But the moment you step within ten feet, he becomes alert: Now there is danger. You are coming so close—who knows whether you are friend or foe. Scientists say every animal has a boundary line. When one enters within it, he becomes alert and ready to fight.

Man has a similar boundary line. Suppose a woman is standing on the road—you go near her. Up to a certain limit she will take no notice. Suppose you are five feet away—she has no worry. But when you come within three feet, suddenly she becomes alert. Now she is prepared. Now you are coming within her boundary, where danger can be, where there is fear. Keep looking at a woman—scientists say up to three seconds she will not be restless; after three seconds she will consider you lewd. Three seconds is the boundary. So long is fine—one has to look in life that much. But beyond three seconds, now you are going beyond the boundary; now you are breaking the limits of civility, of etiquette.

Do you know the meaning of the word “luchcha”? Its meaning is: one who stares. It comes from “lochan,” the eye. From the same root comes “aalochak,” critic—he too stares. Hence there is not much difference between the lurker and the critic. From the standpoint of etymology both come from the same root. When does a man become a lurker? There is a boundary.

Scientists have studied closely. They say if a woman looks at you once, it is nothing; if she looks back again, there is danger. You went into a hotel—a woman is sitting eating; she looks at you once—fine; anyone looks once: who is coming? But if she looks a second time, be alert—she is curious about you. The boundary of danger has arrived.

Hence those who have played with many women learn many inner codes. They will never go near a woman who has looked only once. The woman who has looked a second time—that woman carries an invitation; she has said nothing, but she has given an invitation—unconsciously perhaps. This woman agrees; ties can be advanced further.

If you stand near a woman—if she is not curious about you, her waist will lean backward, as if she wants to move away from you. But if she is curious, she will lean forward, as though she wants to come closer. She herself does not know, but she is giving an invitation; she is saying to you that I am ready for you to come nearer.

There is danger. Because as soon as someone comes close, the other begins to take possession of your solitude. Your privacy ends; your intimacy is no longer intimate—another has entered. Now he will know your bad as well as your good. One must keep a distance—so we remain good, and we hide the bad. One who comes near will also see the bad; you will be revealed in your spontaneous reality. You are afraid; that is not your showable form, not fit to be told.

As in houses you have a drawing room which you decorate—so too you have a drawing room of the personality which you decorate. You take guests only so far, not further. For within is the reality of your life. One who has hidden so much in the inner house—illness, anger, hatred, violence, enmity, aversion, jealousy, envy—he will allow no one to come near. He will be afraid that if someone comes close he will know all this; he will enter the inner chambers. And there you yourself are afraid to go; to take another there is even further. You yourself turn your back upon that place. You yourself fear to look there, for there is so much rubbish, so much dirt, so much stench.

There is only one obstruction to love: you are afraid of yourself—and perhaps you will not allow another to come near. So everyone has created an armor around himself—and lives within that armor. He extends a hand outside that armor of iron—shakes another’s hand and then withdraws it within. From within the same armor he smiles a little; from within the same armor he looks.

But until someone comes outside your armor, love cannot happen. Love means: to make the other so much your own that nothing remains to be hidden; to consider the other so much your own that as if he is you—now what is there to hide! If you hide anything from your lover, there is still distance in your love—whatever that hiding be. If you have opened everything before your lover—everything, unconditionally, hiding nothing—only then will that event happen in your life that is called love.

Otherwise you have prepared your security. Even from the lover you have hidden many things. And the amusing thing is: often it happens that you tell to strangers what you have hidden from your lovers. Traveling in a train, some random fellow meets you—you tell him what you have never told your mother, your father, your wife. Why? Because there is no danger from a stranger—after a short while you will get down at your station, he will go somewhere else. There is no give-and-take with him. But with those with whom there is a twenty-four-hour give-and-take—you must hide from them; there is danger from them.

It is a psychological fact that people make deep confessions with strangers, but hide from those who are close. Because the stranger does not know your name and place, nor is he interested in you. He listens because—well, it is a journey; sitting together, let it be heard. Otherwise you keep hiding.

Mulla Nasruddin was going on a journey. As husbands know, he said to his wife that there is very urgent work; I hope to finish it in three days. It is a matter of business; if it is not finished and it takes longer, I will drop you a card from there telling you how long I must stay further. The wife said, Don’t worry. I took the card from your coat and read it. I found the card that says you are not returning for fifteen days. And this is no business trip.

Husband and wife, friends, fathers and sons—each is hiding much from the other. In that hiding love dies, because love desires no secrecy. Love wants openness, love wants spontaneity, love wants open sky.

Therefore you can stop love, but you cannot bring it. Just as someone shuts his door—the sun will continue to shine outside, but it cannot enter within. You cannot bring the sun in; you can only open the door—if the sun is, it will enter within. No one can produce love. Love descends from the Paramatman. Love is the light of the Paramatman. You can only either hide inside with the doors shut, or leave the doors open so that whenever love wishes it may come in.

But there is fear, there is dread. And the vicious circle is: the more you are afraid, the less love can come—you will keep your doors closed; and the more you keep your doors closed, the more afraid you will become. This is a vicious circle. To cross beyond it is very difficult—for where to begin? The more you shut yourself inside, the less love can come; the more you become frightened. Because love alone is fearlessness. Only in love do you first know—there is no death.

Lovers die, love does not die. The lovers were forms—love was what took form. I will not remain, you will not remain; but what is happening between us will remain. That will continue to happen. The banks are lost—the river remains. The knower and known are lost—knowing remains. Lover and beloved are lost—love remains. Love alone takes countless forms—the lover and the beloved, the knower and the known.

Paramatman is the energy of life; that remains. All forms arise and dissolve. You will remain afraid until you have known love; because in love for the first time you will perceive: let death come—nothing will be erased. If it has to come today, let it come today—for what had to be attained is attained. One moment of love is greater than thousands of lives lived without love. One moment of love is infinite. If you have known love even for a single moment, you can say to death, Now come, now there is no hindrance; what had to happen has happened, what had to be attained has been attained. I have known that Samadhi which is beyond death; now you may come; now by your coming nothing at all will be erased.

Only a lover dies at ease; because death can do nothing to him. He has seen his own image through the beloved—an image of the deathless; and he has also seen the beloved’s image—an image of the deathless. Within you is the immortal; death is only outside. Love will give you the opportunity that your within may blossom; that your within may become a flower—and you can see.

Love gives fearlessness.

Now the difficulty is—from where to begin? You will remain afraid, love will not happen; love will not happen, you will become more afraid; the more afraid you become, the more you will secure yourself; the possibility of love happening will end completely. From where to begin?

Courage is needed; audacity is needed. Let it be granted that there is fear—still open the door. Without opening the door you cannot become fearless. Therefore do not wait till you become fearless and then open the door—for then you will never be able to open it. Open the door. Open it with trembling hands. With a trembling chest, open it. Every hair may be afraid—still open the door. Hence I say, it is audacity. In spite of fear, the door must be opened. If you put the condition that when I become fearless then I will open the door, now I am very afraid; if I open the door who knows who may enter! What winds, what storms may come in! For now I am safe in my house. Then your security will become your grave. Then you will never be able to open the door.

A small child learns to walk. He does not say that I will walk only when all fear of falling is removed. If little children were to say this, no one in the world would ever walk. Little children are very audacious. The little child begins to walk without fear. And he knows his hands and feet are trembling, he is tottering, he needs support—yet he wants, do not give me support. The mother supports him, the child wants to leave it; because support is humiliation. And how long will one walk with support? How far can one go? Support is a loan. How long can one lean upon another? The little child moves his hand away—no; he tries by himself.

It is a very significant event to watch a little child walking. There is no more significant event in life until you set out on the journey of the soul. For then a new gait begins—not of the body now, but of the soul. Again you totter. Look at the little child! He lifts his foot, fears, steadies himself, trembling; yet he tries to walk. He does not say that I will walk only when I can walk properly. Then how will these feet learn to walk properly? When? The child walks, falls.

I am not saying that you will not fall. You will. Because no one can walk all at once. Walking is an art that comes slowly. The child will fall, knees will break, blood will flow. But this will create no hindrance. It will create a challenge—the child will try even more to walk. If the child were as intelligent as you, once his knees broke he would lie down in bed and say—enough, I will not do this again. No—if the knees break, the attraction increases; the challenge brings juice. The child takes no worry for his broken knees; he walks again and again. He falls many times—countless times. But one day he stands on his own feet. The day the child stands upon his own feet, the pride on his face is worth seeing. So small, so weak, helpless—and yet he stands upon his feet. The pride has no comparison.

Such pride comes once again when one attains Buddhahood. Then a small lamp shines with such pride as if it would make great suns look pale. Under the Bodhi tree, when Buddha became enlightened, at that moment all suns went pale. That day a tiny drop made the ocean look small. That day this vast existence, despite its vastness, became smaller than Buddhahood. Because a child again stood upon his own feet; a child again came of age. Existence, through Buddha, again tasted the juice of maturity; again the bliss of awakening!

Hence the stories say: the whole sky resounded with infinite instruments; gods danced; gods bowed at Buddha’s feet. For whenever someone attains Buddhahood, the whole existence fills with celebration; because existence is like a mother. As a mother is filled with such rejoicing on the first day her child stands and begins to walk on his own, such rejoicing spreads upon every flower, every leaf, every particle. These stories only indicate this. Are there any gods somewhere? Someone playing instruments? Is there some Brahma somewhere who comes and bows at Buddha’s feet? No—these are indicators; poetic symbols. But they have said something great.

When you stand upon the feet of the soul; when you become your own lamp. Buddha said: Appo deepo bhava—be a lamp unto yourself.

From where to begin? Granted there is fear, accept that there is fear; but put fear aside and rise. Granted that you will fall—it is certain that you will fall; no one has ever walked without falling. Many times you will be hurt; many times you will wander; mistakes will happen. Mistakes happen only to those who attempt to walk; to those who do not walk, no mistakes occur. Thus in my account there is only one mistake—and that is not walking. You become like a lump of clay—sitting, doing nothing. Then you are deprived of bliss. You will never be able to attain the immortal.

Rise! Fear is there—acknowledge it. In spite of fear, endeavor to stand. Fear is there—open the door. There is danger—granted; a friend may come, an enemy may also come. But to lose the friend out of fear of the enemy is a great mistake. To live shut inside the house for fear of storms, is as if you never lived at all—remained in a grave and died. The grave is very secure; and life is insecure. Audacity is needed. Slowly the steps begin to steady. And when the steps are steady, all fear vanishes.

Love is the only armor. There is no other armor, no other security. And whatever arrangements you make for security will all prove false. The securities made by your hands will not carry you beyond death. Death will break all securities.

I have heard: there was a robbery at Mulla Nasruddin’s house. People thought he was looted. And in trying to save, Mulla was badly beaten too—beaten so that he was near death in the hospital. When a little consciousness returned, he wrote a letter to his wife who had gone to another village: Do not panic. Consider it a matter of coincidence and good fortune that only a day earlier I had deposited everything in the bank’s safe deposit. Nothing has gone. There was nothing to take away—except my life, nothing at all has been lost. For he is dying—and dying. Except life, nothing else is lost!

At the time of death you will also find that other than life nothing has been lost. All is safe, all stored in lockers, deposited in banks; only you yourself are lost! But what will you do with that deposit? If you save everything while losing life—what have you saved? Even if everything is lost but life can be saved—save that. This is what I am calling audacity.

Let us understand Lao Tzu’s words:

“If one forsakes love and fearlessness…”

And both are two facets of the same coin. On this side love, on that side fearlessness; when love comes, fearlessness follows behind.

“If one forsakes love and fearlessness, forsakes temperance and reserve power, forsakes following behind and rushes ahead, he is doomed.”

Lao Tzu is saying: Whoever has abandoned love is destroyed. And you have abandoned love and saved everything else. In your cleverness you have abandoned love and saved everything else. In your cleverness you have lost all. Whoever abandons love—his destruction is certain. For he is deprived of the very food of life.

In the West scientists have made many discoveries; among them is one related to love. After many experiments they found this…

In Egypt there was an experiment in an orphanage. They divided the orphanage into two sections—two hundred children on one side, two hundred on the other. To the two hundred in the first section they gave all food, clothing, facilities—except love. The nurse would come, give milk—but no personal contact, no smile; hard, mechanical. Doctors would come, treat—but impersonal; no personal relationship was to be made with the children. No patting, no hugging. This was one section—all scientific facilities. In the second section the same facilities were given, but personal relationships were nurtured. The doctor would come and smile, sit and speak a few words, sometimes hug a child. The nurse would come and pat, sometimes lift a child and toss him playfully.

What was experienced after three months was this: the children of the first section shriveled. Food was complete, medical care complete—but the life-stream dried up. In the first section the children fell ill three times more. Almost all children were ill; healthy children slowly disappeared. All two hundred slowly became afflicted with one disease or another. In the second section the children gradually came out of all illnesses. And if an illness came, it would not persist. In the first section if an illness came, it would not leave. Everything was the same; only the element of love had been removed. And what love? Not some special love—only a little patting, a little talking with the child. But it was experienced that those children in the second section were receiving something invisible which the first section was not.

At Harvard University in America they were experimenting with baby monkeys. On one side they made a mother monkey entirely of wires. From her breasts the baby could drink milk, but only wires—cold wires—so that when the baby came to drink there would be no warmth from the mother, no heat; he would drink milk. And they made another mother upon whose wires a warm blanket was put, and within whom a small electric bulb glowed to create a little warmth. The babies who drank milk there remained healthy. There was no love, but the babies were under an illusion—the illusion at least that the mother is warm. And the babies who drank milk at the cold mother—though the same milk—slowly began to wither. Then they placed both mothers in one room and all babies also there. The babies would drink milk from the cold mother and then, clinging, sleep—every baby clinging—to the blanket mother. There was a little warmth there, a little life, a little heat. And the touch of the blanket gave a semblance of mother. But is this a mother?

At Harvard they found that if the child has even the notion that on the other side there is some sensitivity, the child receives life. The mother gives not only milk; with the milk she gives something more. That “more” is invisible—and it is the thread of life. That “more” is love.

The more love there is in your life, the more you will find yourself vibrant. The less love, the more you will feel poor, dilapidated, withered; somehow dragging along, no movement. You are not a river that can reach the ocean; your feet do not even lift. Somewhere you will be lost in some desert.

Hence Lao Tzu says: those who have abandoned love in life—and once love is abandoned, fearlessness is abandoned; and those who have not learned the art of the middle way, who keep oscillating to extremes; and those who have drunk the poison of ambition; who are not willing to remain behind and are possessed by the madness to rush ahead—their destruction is certain.

“If one forsakes love and fearlessness, forsakes restraint and reserve power, forsakes following behind and rushes in front, he is doomed!”

There is no way to save him. His destruction is absolutely certain. For love saves you when there is attack; in the hour of attack it is love that will be your victory. When someone assaults you, love saves you.

Try to understand this.

First: if you are very full of love, the possibility of attack ends ninety-nine percent out of a hundred. If you are giving love, you are already dissolving the other’s desire to attack. Yet mad people exist. Even for Buddha there were people who threw stones. For Jesus there were people who, in the end, crucified him. For Socrates there were people who gave him poison.

So even if you are filled with love to the brim, ninety-nine percent only is the chance reduced; because on the other side there are hearts so diseased, filled with more hate than you are with love. There are stone hearts too. There are such sick ones that because of your love they will attack you. It will be beyond their tolerance that someone lives in such love. You will appear an enemy to them. Ninety-nine percent your love will remove the possibility of attack upon you. The one percent that remains—if in that moment your heart is filled with love, then that alone is your protection; no other protection can be.

A mad elephant was let loose upon Buddha. It was a great surprise that the mad elephant came and halted before Buddha.

In the West there is a great thinker: José Delgado. He did an experiment with a bull. He implanted electrodes into the bull’s brain and with a small transistor radio could send signals to those inner wires.

In the brain there are centers: a center for anger, a center for hate, a center for love, a center for attack, a center for fear; the brain has all the centers. Scientists have discovered them. If an electric current is passed into them, the center upon which the current is applied becomes active. Now there is a way that while you are sitting utterly silent, if a particular spot on your skull is impacted, you will be filled with rage at once, for from there the poison of anger floods your body.

Delgado implanted two electrodes into a ferocious bull—one over anger and one over fear. And he held in his hand a small two-button radio. Thousands gathered to see this experiment—because it could become the most dangerous. About a hundred steps away stood the bull—terrible. Delgado pressed one button—no one knew what he was doing with his hand—he had pressed the anger button. As the bull is enflamed when shown a red flag—that is nothing; for as soon as the current pulsed through its anger center, the bull went absolutely mad. It charged. A single man stood before it. It ran with such insane speed that the thousands gathered thought: this man is finished. This experiment—and such a mad bull—there is no way to save oneself. And Delgado had no sword in his hand, no means—only a small transistor radio, which no one could even see, hidden in his palm. People stood breathless. And just two steps before him the bull arrived—and Delgado pressed the fear button. There it froze as if a massive wall had suddenly arisen before it. Two steps! One more moment and its horns would have penetrated Delgado’s chest. It began to tremble with fear.

The experiment Delgado did has not been done again. But around the lives of those in whom love has been, such experiments have happened by themselves many times.

It happened in Buddha’s life—the mad elephant was let loose. If you can understand me—what Delgado did with instruments, Buddha did only by his feeling. To say “did” is not right, for Buddha is simply full of love. The mad elephant came charging. The life-energy flowing from Buddha is love; it strikes at the love center of that elephant, as Delgado’s current strikes a center. Love too is electricity; love too is a very subtle energy. Buddha’s heart is brimming with love; around him love is showering. The elephant suddenly came and halted. And not only halted—for it was not halted by some device—it bent and placed its head at Buddha’s feet.

Who saved him? Love is armor.

But man is more dangerous than elephants. An elephant, even mad, is not as mad as man—not even as mad as a normal man. For Jesus remained full of love and people crucified him. There is no comparison to man’s blindness. Man is unparalleled. No animal can compete with the animality of man. Devadatta, who had let loose the mad elephant, was Buddha’s cousin. Upon him Buddha’s love did not work. The mad elephant halted. Devadatta devised new plots; throughout his life he tried to kill Buddha. Once he pushed a boulder from a mountain. Perhaps that boulder too moved aside from the path so as to miss Buddha—for Buddha was not killed. Rocks too are not as rocky as the human heart.

Man is a unique phenomenon. If he rises, he is like the Paramatman; if he falls, stones are not enough—he falls below them. If he falls he creates the exact hell; if he rises, heaven surrounds him. Man is stretched from one end to the other. The last animality and the last divinity are both possible in man. Man is a ladder whose one end is set in the last earth—in hell—and the other end in the sky.

“If one forsakes love and fearlessness, forsakes temperance and reserve power, forsakes following behind and rushes ahead, he is doomed. For love conquers in attack.”

If you no longer have love, you have no protection. You are utterly helpless then. And you are doing the opposite—you are gathering other devices of protection because of which love cannot enter within. And love is the only protection. Because of your fear you have driven out your only protection.

Drop fear! Be courageous! Take a step into love! There is nothing to lose. Everything is to be gained.

“And in defense it is impenetrable.”

Whosoever has love, his defense is impenetrable. Granted that people hung Jesus upon the cross and erased his body; yet they could not enter into Jesus’ inner being. Jesus remained impenetrable—for even in the last moment Jesus said, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing. Jesus’ love remained unbroken. Jesus’ heart did not waver even a little, not a trace of anger arose, not even a possibility of poison. Exactly at the moment of being killed, Jesus’ compassion remained undefeated, unconquerable, impenetrable.

Thus Lao Tzu says, “Those whom Heaven wishes to save from destruction, it arms them with the armor of love.”

This is only a manner of speaking. Better to understand it this way: Those who wish to be saved, they arm themselves with love. Heaven only cooperates; it supports whatsoever you choose. Heaven is cooperation. The Paramatman consents—you become whatsoever you wish. If you want to fall into hell, the hand of the Paramatman will support you too—for he will not destroy your freedom. The Paramatman will not forcibly raise you into heaven. For has anyone ever gone to heaven by force? If you were forcibly sent to heaven, heaven would feel like a prison. For compulsion is bondage. Even if you go to hell in freedom, it will feel like heaven—you have chosen it.

The Paramatman forces no one. Existence is cooperation, and supreme freedom. What you wish to be, existence says—we are ready to walk with you there. If you wish to make your life a tomb, existence will gather bricks for the tomb; it will give strength to your hands so that you can close every crevice, every door. If you wish to rise into heaven, existence will place ladders, spread welcome at your feet; existence will spread its eyelashes so that you may come—welcome. But existence does not obstruct your freedom.

Man is supremely free. This is his dignity—and his misfortune as well. Dignity—because nothing is greater than freedom. Therefore for centuries we have spoken of Moksha. Dignity—because man can rise to the ultimate peak beyond which there is nothing; he can become the highest summit—Gaurishankar. And misfortune—because by freedom he can journey to hells too. The entire game is in your hands! You will not be able to complain against anyone else. If you go to hell—it is because of you; if you are miserable—it is because of you; if you are blissful—it will be because of you. If you wish you can become the very image of sorrow—no one will hinder. If you wish you can become the statue of Samadhi-bliss—the entire existence will support you. In every case existence consents; wherever you go, it agrees to go.

Remember this. It is only Lao Tzu’s manner to say: those whom Heaven wishes to save from destruction, it arms them with the armor of love. The whole meaning is only this: Only those are saved who become available to the armor of love.

These are Lao Tzu’s three treasures. Love—the first treasure; protect it, save it. Many storms will come in life, there will be possibilities of extinguishing that small lamp; you must protect it, for it alone is the wealth of life. Whatever happens, do not lose love.

And you lose it very quickly. One man deceives you and you say: our faith in humanity is lost. Your faith in humanity is lost? One man deceived you, and your faith in all humanity is lost? As if you were only waiting to lose your faith. Why not say: one man deceived—what has that to do with humanity!

If you want to protect love, even if all humanity deceives you and one man remains who did not deceive—you will still maintain your trust that one man is still there. One man is enough to save trust—if you want to save trust. Otherwise one man is enough to destroy it. You fail once—and you settle down in that failure as your home: that’s it, we failed; there is no essence in life!

The Zen fakir Zenerin has said: When autumn comes, and leaves fall from the trees, and trees become naked—be careful then; do not say that all life is desolate. For this is only the preparation for spring. And when a water bubble bursts, do not say that all life is a water bubble. Do not be in a hurry to gather negation.

In this land negation is tremendous. It has utterly killed your love. The whole world is maya. All pleasures are pain. All is momentary. There is no essence. By this you have not attained the Paramatman; by this you have drowned in dreadful melancholy. By this you have not risen above; by this your boat has become laden with stones, and the journey has become difficult. Because of this, the bliss of the Paramatman has not descended into your life; only the world’s sadness has thickened. The peace that is the shadow of bliss has not arisen around you; rather, the peace that is the shadow of the cremation ground has arisen. You have become peaceful like a burning ghat—sad, tired, defeated.

No—if one man deceives you, do not lose faith in humanity. And if you understand rightly—even this man who deceived you does not become whole through this one act; there are millions of acts in his life. A man does millions of things in life; one of his acts deceived—why do you lose faith because of his millions of other acts? In this moment he deceived—but the future is always open; in the next moment he can change. Why hasten to judge?

And the one who deceives—even he does not live entirely in deception; he cannot. Even the most habitual liar sometimes speaks truth. Even the most dishonest sometimes is honest. Why do you make his dishonesty the basis?

I am not saying you should be cheated; I am saying: do not let your love die. Love is a very small lamp—and there are many winds. On every side there are winds to blow it out. And if you yourself assist in blowing it out—who will save your lamp?

Whatever the situation, whatever the person, whatever the people around you, whatever the family, whatever the relatives—keep one thing in mind: in spite of all that, protect the lamp of love. For by it you will be saved. Their deceits are like dreams, lines drawn on water—they are made and are erased. Someone took four coins from your pocket—what is made or marred? After a little while you yourself would have taken them out; another hand did the work. Thank him and move on.

Jesus has said: If someone snatches your coat, give him your shirt too—but save love. If someone says to you: carry this burden for a mile—go two miles with him; for perhaps he is a shy man, he wanted two miles and said only one. But save love. For he who loves will know the Paramatman. For the Paramatman is love.

If you save only one thing in life, nothing else needs your concern. Leave worry for the Paramatman, leave worry for liberation; if the lamp of love is saved, all will be saved. You have saved the very foundation, the base. Building is not difficult then.

But without a foundation you build the mansion—and the foundation is missing. Today or tomorrow the mansion falls. And in its falling you suffer terrible pain. For in its fall your whole labor, all your energy, your whole life is wasted.

Love is the only impenetrable security; save it.

And one who lives in love—this is a great wonder, that life’s arithmetic is chained together in many ways—one who lives in love is always balanced. There is a balance in his life. In anger balance is lost. For in anger you do what should not be done. In anger you do what you will repent. No one has ever repented because of love. And if you have repented because of love, know that it was not love—it must have been passion, attachment, greed, lust; not love. Love knows no repentance. Love has no remorse.

Love gives a balance. Because love gives your personality a sweetness, an unctuousness. Love spreads a gentle peace, a rasa, into every fiber. Because of that rasa you begin to be saved from extremes. For if you go to the extreme, the rasa breaks. Because of that rasa you do not go to extremes.

A lover walks as a pregnant woman walks—so he moves in life. For she cannot run; she knows she is carrying another life; if she runs there can be a miscarriage. Have you ever observed how a pregnant woman walks? She has something to protect; she walks with care. There is a dignity in her gait, a treasure; within her is hidden someone more important than herself—for whose birth she is ready to endure any pain; for whose birth she may be willing even to lose her life. The lover too lives so; within him a lamp is burning—something to protect.

There is an old tale. A sannyasin said to Emperor Janaka: I cannot believe that in all these entanglements—kingdom, palace, wealth, enemies, friends, court, politics, diplomacy, courtesans, dance and music, wine—amidst all this you can remain supremely knowing. I cannot believe it. For we could not, even living in huts. We stood naked in forests and still could not be free of the world—how then will you? You stand in the very middle of the world.

Without answering, Janaka ordered two soldiers: Seize this sannyasin! The sannyasin was frightened—he said: This is too much! We thought you were very compassionate and wise; you too have turned out to be an ordinary emperor. But Janaka paid no attention and said: Tonight the most beautiful courtesan of the city will dance at the palace; the pavilion outside will resound with her dance. There is no woman more beautiful than her. The dance will go on; courtiers will sit; music will be—revelry all night. You must do one thing. These two soldiers will walk on either side of you with naked swords; and in your hand there will be a bowl—filled to the brim with oil, so full that not one drop more can be poured in—and carefully you must take seven rounds. If even a single drop of oil falls, these swords will cut your neck at once.

The sannyasin was trapped—what to do! And at least this man is giving an opportunity to take seven rounds—he could just have had him killed. So there is a chance—perhaps try. The beautiful woman’s dance began. First she threw off her ornaments; then she began to throw off her garments; then she became utterly naked. The music was very sweet. The attraction was very deep. People sat spellbound. Such a silence as should be in temples—but it exists only in brothels. Two naked swords and the poor sannyasin trapped between them.

Now you can imagine—even a householder might manage; a sannyasin! The attraction for woman in the mind of a sannyasin is never in the mind of a householder. As great as hunger is for a starving man, so great is the attraction for a sannyasin. If the man lived in a brothel, he could have done the task easily—there would be no hindrance. But the sannyasin had seen naked women in dreams; when he sat to meditate they appeared. Today, in life, the first chance had come to see one glimpse. And there was no obstacle—the whole event was happening right by his side. Voices began to be heard: she has thrown off her ornaments. The soldiers walking on both sides began to talk: Ah! she has thrown off her clothes! Ah! she is utterly naked! And he is guarding his lamp so that not a drop of oil falls. He completed seven rounds—without a single drop of oil falling.

The emperor called him and said: Understood? One who has something to protect—let the whole world dance all around, it makes no difference. You had to save your life; even when the courtesan became naked your eye did not go that way. These soldiers were making juicy remarks—these were my signals to tempt you—and both were speaking from either side; and you were trapped between them; yet you did not lose attention, you kept your attention upon your bowl. It was brimful; even the most skillful person would be in difficulty. There were seven long rounds. A single drop could have fallen—your neck would have been cut. You had to save your life.

Janaka said: I too have something to protect.

And when you have something to protect—that alone protects you. When love is within someone—you protect love; love protects you. You guard love; love guards you. Save love. Balance will come from love—because there is something to protect. You will not go to extremes.

And one who has known love begins to laugh at ambition. For ambition arises from the absence of love. Those in whose life love is not, want to get wealth. Wealth is a substitute. Love did not come—no eyes said, “Blessed that you are”; no hands touched and said, “Even petals are not so soft”; no one embraced and said, “You are my very soul—the world would be empty without you.” No one sang songs for you. No one played a veena. No one danced around you in ecstasy. Now a gap remains. So you try—let there be money so people may say, Yes, you are something. You have so much wealth as no one else has. Let a post be obtained—let you become president, prime minister—so that the whole world may say: Yes, you have proved that you are something.

In my knowing, those whose love has failed are the ones who enter politics. Those whose love has failed are the ones who run after wealth. Those whose love has failed desire fame. These are substitutes, fillers. But remember—there is no substitute for love. In the end you might earn wealth, sit on the greatest chair—and within you will find the same emptiness. For love can only be fulfilled by love—by nothing else. Only love can quench the thirst for love.

Think a little: someone is thirsty—he asks for water; you give him currency notes. Someone is thirsty—he asks for water; you say we will make you president. He will say, I want water. For water nothing substitutes. If for ordinary thirst there is no substitute, will there be a substitute for the thirst of love? There is no substitute.

Therefore whoever has protected love—his balance becomes steady. Whoever has balance steady—he never enters the race to be ahead. You will not be able to persuade him.

Let me end with a story of Chuang Tzu.

Chuang Tzu is sitting by a pond, fishing. The emperor has sent his ministers: The king desires that you come and be the prime minister. Chuang Tzu sits. He does not even raise his eyes from the fish. He holds his rod steadily. He does not even look at the ministers. He says only this: Do you see that turtle over there at the edge? In the mud a turtle is wagging its tail, enjoying itself, in bliss. A turtle’s joy is in the mud. Do you see that turtle? They looked and said: We understood nothing—what has this to do with the turtle?

Chuang Tzu said: I have heard that in the emperor’s palace there is a three-thousand-year-old dead turtle, gilded in gold. It is worshiped; it is a state emblem. I ask you this: If you tell this turtle, Come to the palace—we will gild you with gold; you will be worshiped for thousands of years; emperors will bow to you—will this turtle prefer to go there or to wag its tail in the mud?

The ministers said: The turtle will prefer to wag its tail in the mud. What essence is there in dying? What essence in being gilded with gold? What essence in being worshiped?

Chuang Tzu said: Go. Tell the emperor that I too prefer to wag my tail in the mud. If a turtle is so wise, am I more foolish than it? I am content in my bliss! I have no need for your palaces, your thrones, your rank and prestige.

One who is intoxicated in love needs nothing else. Love fulfills; the race drops. And one whose ambition has dropped—his mind drops. Mind is ambition. One whose ambition has fallen becomes no-mind. And in that very moment the doors open that have been closed since always—and you discover, the Lord stands at the door. The Lord has always stood at the door, but your gaze was elsewhere. When you are filled with love, steeped in balance, free of ambition—then no curtain remains; all curtains are lifted.

Long have you raced in the race for thrones—covered with many kinds of gold. And each time gold built a grave; it did not give the music of life nor the Samadhi of life. Now it is time—you should awaken.

Kabir says: If you can awaken—awaken.

Enough for today.