Tao Upanishad #109

There is a great difference between knowledge and knowledge.

There is a kind of knowing that erases you utterly; within, a deep peace remains, a dense silence. All sounds are lost, all thoughts melt away; what remains is the music of silence. Knowledge that leads you into this void is a different knowledge altogether. Lao Tzu calls this ignorance. For if what you call knowledge is really knowledge, then what Lao Tzu calls knowledge deserves to be called ignorance. Because there nothing remains to be known, not even the knower remains. The very fuss of knowing disappears. Such a perfect emptiness arises as a cloudless sky. Thoughts are like clouds. They are not the sky; they are an upsurge within the sky. Where there are no thoughts, how can there be knowledge?

Hence Lao Tzu calls it ignorance.

You may, if you like, call it supreme knowledge. Do not get entangled in the word. And Lao Tzu’s word is exactly right. Ignorance means: no ripple of knowing remains; there is an absence of knowing. And where knowing is utterly effaced, only there does the real capacity to know arise for the first time. For in that emptiness the touchstone for truth appears; in that inner vacancy the Divine, the Paramatman, descends. It is at the very door that has become silent within that the Beloved knocks. As long as there is inner clamor it will not let Him enter. And as long as the sky within is filled with clouds, how will you ever know the inner sky?

The second kind is what we ordinarily call knowledge. It does not arise from any inner emptiness; on the contrary, it arises from words, doctrines, scriptures, with which you cram yourself. This stuffed‑fullness we too call knowledge.

So, there is knowledge of emptiness, and there is knowledge as stuffing of words. As when the sky is so covered with clouds that no patch of blue is seen anywhere. In the same way, when layers upon layers of information pile up within you, you appear to be very knowledgeable—and yet none is more ignorant than you. You know much and know nothing. This is the state. If you wish to explain, you can explain a lot; scriptures sit by heart upon your tongue, but in your life that fragrance does not arise which should arise in the life of the wise. What you possess are dead words. You have gathered a cemetery and corpses. You have not reached the original source where knowing is born within. You have collected the rubbish lying by the roadside. What others left as leftovers you have hoarded. The words may be beautiful—of Buddha, of Mahavira, of Krishna, of Christ—it makes no difference. From borrowed goods you will never attain the Real.

Lao Tzu says: such knowledge is dangerous, because it becomes a wall between you and your reality. And through this knowledge you will slowly forget that you are ignorant. And this is the greatest misfortune. The man who forgets that he is ignorant loses the path to knowledge forever. If the memory of ignorance remains, you will continue the pilgrimage of search. You will make efforts, rise, walk, devise some means.

If you get the idea that you already know… And how easily this idea arrives! You read the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Gita; the idea comes: I have known. You begin to repeat stale words like parrots, you cram them; your rote becomes perfectly arranged; there is no slip in your recitation. You repeat the very words Krishna spoke. How could Krishna make a slip? You do not. Because Krishna spoke for the first time; there was no rehearsal. You have rehearsed a thousand times—rehearsal upon rehearsal. If Krishna were to speak the Gita again, it would be vastly different. How would he remember what he told Arjuna! Great transformations would have occurred. Arjuna would have changed; Krishna would have changed; the situation would be new. If Krishna spoke the Gita again, it would hardly tally with your Gita. But the Gita you have memorized will never change. The world will change, the Ganga will flow on, but your Gita will become fixed and inert. Your Gita will be dead. Life changes; life is a moment‑to‑moment flow.

The pundit’s knowledge is not knowledge; it is a counterfeit of knowledge. Lao Tzu says: better to be ignorant than to be a pundit. At least the ignorant has possibility. The pundit has even closed possibility. The pundit is in the condition of a sick man who gets the idea that he is healthy; he reads books on health, fills himself with talk of health, and imagines he is healthy because he knows so much about health.

But by knowing about health, does one become healthy? The way to health is something else; not through knowledge about health. Health is a living process, not information. Otherwise doctors would never fall ill. Doctors also fall ill. They know a lot about health—so what?

Information does not bring health. Information will not bring the experience of the soul either. But information stands like a wall. Information is the false reflection of knowledge, a counterfeit coin. It looks exactly like the genuine. And for those who have never seen the genuine, the predicament is clear: how will they recognize the fake?

So what is the criterion by which you will understand that your knowledge is false? There is only one criterion: if your knowledge gives you peace, know it is true. If your knowledge makes you more restless, know it is false. Logic will not decide it; only the health within you, the clarity within you, the peace within you will decide.

Lao Tzu says the ignorant is better. The ignorant will be humble and say, I do not know, I am ready to learn. The ignorant will be eager to be a disciple. The so‑called knowledgeable will not wish to be a disciple. He became a guru even before being a disciple. He has already known; now he is ready to make others know. But what he has known is not life. For at his feet you will find no whisper of life; in his eyes no shadow of life; near his heart no heartbeat of life. You will find him dead from every side. But he has amassed a huge collection of information. He has gathered “knowledge” like coins.

Such knowledge is like when you have seen the Queen of England shaking hands with people. The whole point of shaking hands is that two bodies come near, skins touch, boundaries break a little; the borders of two people come close, a little warmth flows, a little current of love passes; a little exchange of energy through the hands. That is the purpose of a handshake. But the Queen of England shakes hands wearing gloves. Then there is no need to shake hands—because the glove will not let it happen. The glove is there precisely so that some ordinary person does not actually touch the Queen’s hand! Better to stop handshakes altogether. But the handshake continues and the glove stands in between.

Between the “learned” and life a glove comes. Wherever he goes, his knowledge stands as a screen before life. On the surface it seems he is also shaking hands, but deep within the two bodies never come near. If the learned man passes by a tree, the glove remains.

There was a mahatma, very renowned. He once stayed with me as a guest, and I took him for a morning walk. He was as a pundit should be: I have not met a thing he did not know. He knew even such trifles that one wonders what use they are. When I took him into the forest there was not a single tree whose name he didn’t know. I pointed out wild birds; there was not one whose name he didn’t know. And with the name the matter was settled. I said to him, Look, how beautifully the sun’s ray is falling on that bird! He said, Bird? That is a roller. Have you never seen a roller? Or, Listen, how sweetly this little bird sings! He said, A sparrow. Have you never heard a sparrow? Whatever you told him, he instantly produced information. And when only information is there, when you have already “recognized” the sparrow, who will listen to her song? And if it is a roller, why get stirred now? The name brings satisfaction. At times the roller’s throat shines in the sun with such inexpressible beauty! But I never saw a glimmer in his eyes. He was a walking computer. Tell him anything and he would instantly pronounce its name.

People think giving a name is knowledge. What relation has a word to the roller? The roller does not even know that his name is “roller.” The rose does not even know that its name is “rose.” The moment you say, This is a rose, the doors close. What need remains? You already know; you even know its name. What is left to know?

In the word “rose” there is neither gul nor ab—no fragrance, no glow. The rose does not end with the word “rose”; it begins there. If you take the word as the end, you will be deprived. You will live in life, but a screen of words will surround you. Through words you will approach the rose, the roller, the sun—and you will miss them all. And through the same words you will approach yourself.

So if I would say to that gentleman, Meditate sometime! he would say, What is there to meditate? The Vedas and Upanishads have already declared there is Atman within; the matter is settled.

That the Vedas and Upanishads have settled it does not settle it for you. Because the rishis of the Vedas drank water, your thirst is not quenched. When you are thirsty you must drink yourself. You do not say: the rishis of the Upanishads drank their fill, why should we drink? The rishis loved; that does not stop you from loving. But if the Upanishads have said there is Atman within, what remains to search? They say, read the scripture rightly and you will know there is Atman within. This is what pundits have been doing. They feel as if the whole solution to life is in the book. In a book there can only be pointers, but the solution to life is only in life.

It so happened that Mulla Nasruddin was lecturing his son. The boy had just returned from a wrestling scuffle with a neighbor’s kid—lots of punching, clothes torn, blood on the face. Nasruddin thought this the right moment: when the iron is hot, strike. He said, Now you are growing up; you must learn civility and culture. The first maxim of culture is that quarrels should be settled peacefully. If you carry on fisticuffs in life, you will be in trouble. And what problem is there that cannot be resolved by sitting quietly with reason, argument, intelligence! I have read the Quran and the Vedas, said Nasruddin. Every problem, however great, can be solved by sitting in peace, understanding each other’s position and viewpoint.

The boy said, But this was such a problem that there was no other solution.

Nasruddin said, I cannot accept that. I have never seen such a problem. Tell me, what was the problem?

He said, Believe me, it was such a problem. He said he could knock me flat in four moves, and I said I could knock him flat in four moves. How can we settle that peacefully? There is only one way: try and see who can knock whom.

Life can only be resolved by living it. There is no other way to the solution of life. The second kind of knowledge gives you solutions without entering life. Those solutions are false, cheap. You have paid nothing for them. You lost nothing for them. You did not put yourself at stake. You brought them home free, in alms. If only life were that cheap! It is good that life is not so cheap; otherwise your Samadhi would be cheap, your attainment of the Divine would be for a pittance.

No; here you must walk on your own feet. There will be wandering, there will be error, you will fall. Many times you will rise, fall, rise, search. Here the road does not exist ready‑made, laid out by someone else. There is no highway prepared by the government for you to walk upon. Here, step by step, the path is created only by walking. Here as much as you walk, that much path appears.

Therefore truth is only for the daring. Cowards become pundits; the courageous attain wisdom. Punditry is the greatest cowardice—it is self‑deception.

Let us try to understand Lao Tzu’s sutra.

Those ancients who knew how to follow the Tao did not intend to make people knowledgeable; they wished to keep them ignorant.

It will sound quite absurd: that the wise wished to keep people ignorant?

Certainly. The wise in ancient times wished to keep people ignorant; and the wise even now, if you come upon one, will want to snatch your knowledge away. The true Master is he who steals your knowledge. If you go to a so‑called master and return a little more informed, know that he is not a Master, he is a teacher. A teacher imparts information; a Master takes it away. If a Master teaches anything, he teaches only one art: how to unlearn what you have learned. He cleans your slate.

You have scribbled your mind quite a bit; who knows what all you have written—useful, useless, with cause or without, relevant or irrelevant. Your mind is a scribbled slate upon which nothing is now clear—what you had written and what you were writing. You yourself cannot read what you have written upon the mind. If you look within, great confusion arises. As soon as people begin to meditate, they come to me and say: Great confusion is arising, great bewilderment is coming. Can confusion come from meditation? But meditation enables you to take a little look within. And within there is a store of confusion. What you have written on the slate of the mind is now hard to read.

Two incidents from Mulla Nasruddin’s life. One: a villager came and said, Write a letter for me, for you are the only literate man in the village. Nasruddin said, I cannot write because there is a lot of pain in my foot. The man said, What has foot pain to do with writing a letter? You are sitting fine. A letter is to be written by hand, not by foot. Nasruddin said, You don’t understand; the matter is a little complicated. I could write it—but to read it I would have to go to the next village. Who would read it here? And my foot hurts.

Second: another man had a letter written; Nasruddin wrote it all. Then he said, Read it back so I can be sure. Nasruddin read, My dear brother… and that was all he could read; again and again the same line. The man said, Why don’t you read further? Is that all that’s written? Nasruddin said, Look, writing is my job, not reading. I wrote it; my trouble ended. It is the trouble of those who want to read. The villager said, That’s true. And besides, it’s addressed to someone else; it is illegal to read another’s mail. Don’t involve me, said Nasruddin.

It is your mind. You wrote on it. You yourself cannot read what you wrote. Ninety percent of it you wrote in the unconscious—in stupor, in unawareness. Only a little was written in awareness; that too has all become muddled. Your dreams are written there, your waking is written there, your sleep is written there. You wrote sometimes after drinking wine; sometimes after meditating. All that has got mixed.

The first task of the true Master is to remove this trash. Before new seeds are sown, the gardener pulls out the old roots, throws away the weeds, cleans the soil. Only then are new seeds sown. Before real knowledge can dawn in you, the false knowledge you have learned, the weeds you have grown, must be removed. For weeds have a habit: if they remain, they hide even the seeds of the real. If you come to me as a pundit and want to preserve your punditry, then whatever I give you will also get lost in the trash of your punditry.

A pundit came to Kabir. He was learned, famous in Kashi. Kabir would teach anyone who came. But to that pundit he said, No, brother, don’t put me in trouble. The pundit said, You never refuse anyone, and I am a worthy vessel. I have seen even the unworthy come to you. And you refuse me? Kabir said, You know too much; on the soil of your mind so many weeds have grown that the seeds I sow will be lost. Do not put me in such a fix.

Kabir often said: A diamond lost in the mud. I will not cast a diamond into the mud. The mud will remain and the diamond will be lost further.

The Master cleans. Once your mind’s slate is wiped clean—neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Jain nor Christian nor Parsi remains—when your inner slate is blank, then knowledge does not have to be brought from outside. Within your weeds the seeds from which roses will arise are already lying hidden. But the weeds press them down badly. Roses need care; weeds do not. Weeds grow by themselves; you need not water them. They arrange for themselves. Cut the weeds once and they will return a thousand times. Their roots must be pulled out.

To pull out the roots Lao Tzu says the ancients had no intention to make people knowledgeable. For why sow weeds first and then pull them out? Better to keep the slate clean. Rather, they wished to keep them unsophisticated, innocent.

Ignorant means simple; ignorant means guileless; ignorant means childlike. Ignorant means virginal; ignorant means nothing unnecessary has entered the mind; one who does not know. The joy of living for one who does not know is of another order. For him everything is unexpected. Watch small children closely. A butterfly flits by and the child dances in such delight as even if you discovered Kubera’s treasure you would not dance so. What is the matter? What happens in the child’s consciousness? It is precisely what Lao Tzu calls ignorance. The child does not know. To one who does not know, every single thing is new. One who does not know has no past by which to measure. He cannot say, This is dew, this is a rose, this is a butterfly. The child knows nothing; there is no past experience. Because there is no experience, every moment the child experiences life anew.

Your past experience intrudes; knowledge stands in the way. You cannot imagine how vast the distance is. You may say to a small child running after a butterfly, Don’t run; it’s nothing, just a butterfly. But you do not know what you are saying. And children cannot understand you at all. For them a butterfly is a door to the unknown infinite! It is beyond their belief that such beauty exists in the world! The child is running. You think he is running after a butterfly; the child is running after the infinite and the unknown. Small children catch butterflies and tear them open to look inside. You think children are violent; you are mistaken. Children only want to peek into the unknown—what is hidden? They have nothing to do with violence. They want to see inside: What is it? What is the mystery? Why is this butterfly so beautiful? And how did it fly? Where is the source of its life?

The ignorant will be like a child. Ignorance here means that you are not taught those things which, once learned, put gloves upon your hands and upon life. When again someone attains sainthood, he becomes like a child.

It is told of Ramakrishna that he would become excited over little things, and this troubled people; disciples were uneasy. They wanted people to understand that he had gone beyond all things. Yet he became eager about little things. If his wife brought food, he would drop his discourse on Brahman. He would be explaining Brahman; news of the meal would come and he would immediately stand up, completely forgetting the discourse. He would peek into the plate first—What has been cooked! In the middle of discourse, the story goes, he would go into the kitchen and peek—What’s being prepared! His wife would say, Paramhansadev, this does not befit you. What will people say? If people come to know that while speaking of Brahman you go into the kitchen to see what is cooking, what will they say!

They could not understand Ramakrishna as a Paramahansa. They lived from knowledge of what a Ramakrishna should be—principles: such great men do not care for food! Such great men do not taste! But Ramakrishna had become childlike.

This childlikeness, this beauty of childhood—that is what Lao Tzu calls ignorance. Once upon a time more people on earth were like this. Then knowledge corrupted; Vedas and Qurans erased; man’s skull was filled with words—and the whole beauty of his life was destroyed. The thrill vanished. The dance was lost. The song was strangled in the throat. The heartbeat slowed and slowed and was lost. Only the skull’s clamor remained.

Lao Tzu says the path to truth is through the heart, not through the head. However much you think, you will not come near truth. How you live—in innocence, like a child—that alone brings you.

Ramakrishna had great difficulty, for he had been appointed priest at Dakshineshwar. A priest’s work is pundit’s work, and he was like a complete non‑pundit. At times he would even quarrel with Kali. Is it possible for a priest to quarrel? But a lover can. And without love what is worship? Sometimes he would quarrel a lot.

Once he became so angry he took up the sword and cried, Let it be resolved now, this very moment—knowledge now or I cut off my head. Enough is enough! They say that very day Ramakrishna attained knowledge. A sword was part of Kali’s adornment in the temple; he drew it from the scabbard. There was no one there; because no one could guess how long his worship would last. People would come for the opening bell and then leave. His worship would go on for hours, sometimes six hours. Who could sit that long, and who would listen to his “nonsense”—his conversations, questions and answers with the Mother? He pulled out the sword and said, Now it’s too much. I have done enough worship; today I put it all at stake. He raised the sword to his neck—and in a single instant everything changed. The sword fell from his hand; the temple vanished; Kali vanished; Ramakrishna vanished. For eighteen hours he had no consciousness. When he returned, tears were flowing and he was crying, Do not send me back now! Now that you have shown me, why send me back! Let me remain within. That day it happened.

No pundit has written anywhere: take up the sword and worship. And had it been written, and had you taken up the sword, it would have been formal, not from the heart. You would have known who was killing and who was being killed.

When Ramakrishna offered food to the goddess, he first tasted it himself and then offered it to Kali. The temple committee—the trustees—objected and summoned him, saying, This will not do. Ramakrishna said, Then keep your job. For when my mother cooked for me, she tasted it first before feeding me. If a mother tastes before giving to her child, then without tasting I cannot offer to God. Who knows whether it is fit to be given? Keep your post if you like.

In no scripture is it written: taste before offering to God. But in the scripture of the heart, that is exactly what is written. Love knows no rule, because love is the ultimate law. Worship is not a formal ritual; it is the effulgence of the heart. But it needs great simplicity. Ramakrishna was a very simple man—unlettered; he hadn’t passed even the second class. That much little knowledge. A rustic, knowing nothing—and in this century he left behind all the knowers. A villager outshone the greatest pundits.

A grain of the heart is more valuable than the sum of your intellect. A small ripple of feeling is greater than the vast ocean of your skull—because it is alive.

Lao Tzu says: those ancients who knew how to follow Tao had no intention of making people knowledgeable; they wished to keep them ignorant—because in their ignorance there was a certain dignity, a simplicity, a gentleness. In that ignorance there was the feeling of the heart. There was a grace which education has destroyed.

The greatest misery today is that people have become too educated. And all the so‑called sensible say: we need universal education. Not a single man should remain uneducated; everyone must be educated—whether they wish it or not, compulsory education. Leave nobody ignorant. And without any insight we go on educating man—and the net result is that man has rusted; he has lost all simplicity. He has become hard; he has lost all grace. He has not become wise; he has become cunning. Education makes one cunning. The educated becomes skilled at exploitation. He devises such strategies that he himself does not have to work and others work for him. The entire plan of the educated is that he should do nothing and exploit others.

The educated becomes clever about getting things without work—how to get without doing. And that is theft. What else is theft? Theft means: by some trick to get that for which we did not labor. How to extract money from another’s pocket without even putting your hand in—it becomes the educated man’s art.

And the educated becomes ambitious; he wants to reach the top. From his life love departs, because love does not fit into arithmetic—it disturbs arithmetic. From the educated man’s life, beauty, poetry, religion—all is lost. He is left only with accounts—mathematics and logic, the art of exploitation, and the fever of ambition. The educated is feverish.

D. H. Lawrence, who in this century was among the few who loved Lao Tzu, once gave a suggestion which I find very endearing: for a hundred years all universities, colleges, and schools should be closed. For a hundred years man should be left without education. Then the trash we have filled into man’s mind for ten thousand years will be wiped clean. As a farmer, after a few years of effort, leaves his field fallow so it may regain its strength—so too, if for a hundred years man were freed from education, people would return to the state of which Lao Tzu speaks. People would become simple; exploitation would fall away. Neither capitalism nor socialism would be needed. People would be a little contented. And there is enough to content everyone—no lack of water, no lack of food; the body can find shade.

But for ambition there is never enough. Ambition drives and drives; it exhausts and kills. One remains deprived of knowing life.

The reason is that it is difficult for people to remain in peace when knowledge becomes excessive.

As knowledge increases, peace is lost. The mind becomes crowded with thoughts. Even in sleep thoughts run on; upon waking they rush again. Such a storm of thoughts that peace is lost; to go within becomes difficult; to steer the boat on its journey becomes difficult.

And all our energy is spent trying to make people more knowledgeable. The more knowledgeable they become, the more dead they become.

You should visit a primitive village—by which I mean a place still beyond the government’s electricity, where no school has opened, no social reformers have reached, where leaders haven’t moved yet, where no news of revolution has arrived—a primal tribal village. There you will behold a different kind of human being—their body’s grace different, their life‑breath different, their rules of living different.

In the forests of Burma, psychologists are now studying a tribe and report that the tribe does not even remember any person ever having dreamt. No one dreams! People are so peaceful—why would they dream? Dreaming is a part of unrest. In that little tribe there has never been war, never a quarrel. Their way of being is different. We cannot sit together for two minutes without quarrelling; and our quarrels are so subtle.

There was a feud between Mulla Nasruddin and his village priest; at last it reached the court. The magistrate said, Both of you are sensible; why stir up needless trouble? Settle it yourselves. I don’t want two good men to be dragged to court. The priest agreed; Nasruddin also said, All right. As they were leaving the court, Nasruddin asked, So, what do you think of me now? Listen carefully. He asked, What do you think of me now? The priest said, The same as you think of me. Nasruddin turned back and said, See, he has started again! My thoughts about him are terrible! And he says he thinks the same of me. The quarrel began.

The civilized cannot live without quarrelling. In all their civility, culture is hidden strife. Because the unpeaceful cannot live without conflict. Even when he befriends, there is a sting of enmity in it. Even when he loves, there is the poison of hate. Even when he comes near, he remains pulled back.

That tribe never had a quarrel in history; none ever happened. If it can happen in one tribe, it can happen in the whole world. If in a few people, then in all. There is some basic error in our way of living.

And Lao Tzu says: with excess knowledge peace becomes impossible.

When a person is not peaceful, he throws his unrest upon others. He blames others and conflicts begin. Conflicts grow and become great wars. Religions fight, nations fight, races fight.

If we look at human history carefully, man has done nothing but wage wars. In three thousand years there have been about fifteen thousand wars. Historians have calculated that in three thousand years there are only a few days when nowhere some war was on; only a few days when nowhere war was raging. Otherwise, somewhere it is Vietnam, somewhere Cambodia, somewhere Kashmir, somewhere Israel. Always somewhere is war. The earth is always bleeding from some deep wound; the life of humanity is always writhing somewhere; a dagger is always lodged in some chest.

What is the cause? Can man not live in peace? Are the stars in the sky, the sun, the trees, the birds’ songs, the green of the earth—not enough to be content? Has the Divine given so little that we must fight? Can we not enjoy it? Can it not be that the energy we pour into wars be poured into the celebration of life? The power we waste in wars—nearly seventy percent of every nation’s strength goes into war; and of the remaining thirty percent, if you look closely, it goes to preventing domestic wars. Somewhere there is an agitation, somewhere a gherao, somewhere a disturbance. Man lives not a single moment without disturbance. He gives beautiful names to his disturbances: holy war, jihad, revolution, freedom. Fine names—but behind them there is only unrest, an urge to fight. Give us a pretext, any pretext, and we will fight.

If there is no pretext, we invent one. Hitler wrote in his autobiography: if you have no enemy, invent one; for without an enemy it is impossible to keep peace in a nation. If people do not fight outside, they will fight within. If India and Pakistan do not fight, then Indira and Jayaprakash will stir up trouble. So every politician tries to keep some external agitation going. As soon as it rages outside, there is no need for agitation inside.

Observe it carefully. In India when there was no Pakistan, Hindus and Muslims fought. Then you never heard that Hindi speakers and non‑Hindi speakers fought; that Maharashtrians and Gujaratis could fight; that Kannadigas and Maharashtrians could fight. Both were Hindus; there was no question of fighting. The fight was outside—between Hindus and Muslims. The unrest found vent there. Then came Partition; that vent closed. Now new devices are needed; unrest is there. So now Kannadiga and Maharashtrian fight, Hindi and non‑Hindi fight. Do not think that if this quarrel ends something will be solved. Suppose Gujarat is cut off completely; then Kutchis and Gujaratis will fight; Saurashtrians will fight Gujaratis. It makes no difference; keep dividing. As long as two persons remain, the fight will remain. And if only one remains, he will commit suicide. Where will the unrest go? It must come out somewhere. And Lao Tzu points to the root cause: you have filled people with so many ideas that their minds cannot be at peace.

Those who want to rule by knowledge are the nation’s curse. Those who do not want to rule by knowledge are the nation’s blessing.

These sound like inverted statements, but they are of immense truth.

Those who know these two principles also know the ancient standard. And to know the ancient standard always is called the mystic virtue. When the mystic virtue becomes clear, far‑reaching, and things return to their source—then, and only then, does the Grand Harmony arise.

Lao Tzu says: whoever understands these two— that in ignorance people are peaceful and in knowledge unpeaceful; that in ignorance they are simple, and with knowledge complex and cunning; that in ignorance they are innocent and in knowledge sly—whoever understands these two will also come upon the ancient standard. What is this ancient standard which Lao Tzu calls the mystic virtue? It is this: the ultimate goal of life is to find the very source of life; to reach exactly wherefrom you started. That is the ancient standard. The goal, the end, is not different from the beginning. Life is circular. The circle completes exactly where it began. The stars move in circles; the sun moves in a circle; the earth moves in a circle. Seasons come in a circle; childhood, youth, old age; birth and death move in a circle. All movement of life is circular. The mark of a circle is that things are fulfilled where they began. Which means: the first step turns out to be the last. After the whole journey you return home. This is the ancient standard.

Ordinarily, education, knowledge, punditry teach you that there is some goal to be attained that you do not have; some ambition to be fulfilled; to go in a straight line. Consider: a child is born—what does he bring? He comes empty‑handed. And when he dies, he dies empty‑handed. The same state returns. Whoever joins the two and understands that the whole play is in between—wealth comes and goes; victory and defeat; success and failure; gain and loss—but all is in the middle. In the end you return to where you began. Empty hands become empty again. Whoever understands this has understood the essence of the virtues of life; he has known the mystic virtue; he has recognized the unique standard. He will remember: today or tomorrow, the hands have to be empty. One who knows that in the end the hands will be empty will neither go mad in success nor become a corpse in failure; he will neither dance in success nor collapse in failure—because he knows in the end all will go. Only the hands will remain—empty hands. Coming and going will remain a play—without too much value.

But what does all education teach? It teaches not the circular but the linear. Today you have one rupee; tomorrow you should have two; the day after, three. Today ten thousand; tomorrow fifty thousand. You must go on increasing in a straight line. At death there should be crores; only then have you succeeded. Otherwise you failed. Ambition runs in a line, while life runs in a circle. Ambition says: since you are born, death should not be. Now live by all means; postpone dying till the last breath.

And in the West many devices have been discovered; many are hanging like vegetables in hospitals. Injections are given; they are “alive.” But their condition is no better than vegetables. They do not want to die—life has already gone. For life is circular. So now they hang—great suffering, great pain. They cannot let go; they do not have the courage to leave life. Every device is used to keep them somehow. There is no meaning in it, no use for them or others. They are a burden. Yet in hospitals someone’s legs are tied, someone’s hands are strapped, injections and oxygen are being given—prolongation by force.

This is the result of linear logic: Do not die. Once born, never die. Once reached the post, never step down. If there is no higher post, cling to the one obtained till the last breath. Money attained must be increased; keep moving in that line—without seeing that if ten thousand did not bring joy, how will ten lakhs bring it? If ten thousand brought so much sorrow, then ten lakhs will bring more. If with ten thousand you feel so defeated and tired, what will happen with ten lakhs!

Lao Tzu says the measure of life is to remember it is circular. Today you are young; you will not remain so. And when youth begins to go, do not cling. Give it a peaceful farewell—because the circle is turning back. The bird is returning to its nest. You will have to come home. If this sinks in, a virtue arises in your life which ordinary morality cannot give—born only of wisdom. Then when things come you will welcome them, and when they go you will welcome them. You will know: what comes will go. You will remain joyous when youth comes; you will remain joyous when youth departs. Because after the flood comes the ebb; after moonlit nights, dark nights come. And you will remember: in the end what will remain is what you were at the first—and that can never be lost. Why fear?

Empty hands will always be yours. Naked you were born, naked you will depart. You brought nothing, you take nothing. If this understanding deepens, a natural detachment arises—not by taking vows, but as a consequence of seeing.

Those who know these two principles also know the ancient standard; to know the ancient standard always is called the mystic virtue.

There are two kinds of virtue. One is the ordinary virtue we impose upon ourselves. Tell the truth—because it is taught, because fear has been instilled: if you do not speak truth you will fall into hell, you won’t get heaven. Fear and greed, education and conditioning. But this is not real virtue. If out of fear you speak truth, then truth is smaller than your fear. If out of greed you speak truth, then truth too is part of your greed. How can truth be a part of greed? How can truth be a part of fear? Truth is fearless, truth is beyond greed. All our teachings rest upon fear and greed.

Mystic virtue does not stand upon fear or greed; it stands upon understanding. You tried to understand life and found that nothing here can be kept, nor is anything worth keeping—so why lie? You were lying only to save something: a few more coins could be saved if you lied; if you spoke truth, a few more coins would be spent.

I asked Nasruddin’s boy his age. He said, First tell me the place—on the bus, on the train, or at home? Because on the bus I am four; at home I am six. So nothing is certain; it depends on the situation.

Save a few coins.

Nasruddin sat with his son in a train. The ticket collector asked, Age? He said, Four. The collector said, He looks seven. Nasruddin looked at the boy and said, What can I do! He worries too much already, so he appears so old. Otherwise he is only four. Because of worry he looks seven.

For a couple of coins man tells a lie. For a couple of coins he cheats; for a couple of coins he becomes violent. But one who realizes that he must return to the same place on the circle where he came from—that the fist must open—then the very coins for which he lied, cheated, committed violence, created enmity, will lie scattered, while what you did for those coins will become part of your consciousness; it will delude you birth after birth, return you again and again to the path of dishonesty, make you sow seeds of falsehood and temptation again and again.

Lao Tzu says: to understand the secret of life, first understand that all things return to their source. Where you came from, there you go. If you are here, do not take this world, this house, as more than an inn. You rest for a night, fine; in the morning, depart. If you carve your discipline upon the circle of life, you become religious.

Understand this; it is a matter of mathematics. If you construct life as a straight line, you are worldly; if you construct it as a circle, you are a sannyasin, you are religious. And each arithmetic has a different spread. The one who grows linearly says: if there are ten rupees, they should become eleven; if eleven, then twelve. The “ninety‑nine knot,” as we call it, is the arithmetic of the straight line.

You have surely heard the story: a barber massages the emperor’s hands and feet and is always delighted; his happiness has no end. He always finds the emperor tired and defeated. At last the emperor gathers courage and asks, What is your secret? Why are you so happy? He said, I don’t know; I find no reason to be unhappy. I am not very intelligent, so I cannot say much; but I am very happy. The emperor asked his vizier. The vizier said, I can tell the secret: he is not yet caught in the ninety‑nine knot. The king asked, What do you mean? The vizier said: put ninety‑nine gold coins in a bag and toss it into his hut.

That very night ninety‑nine coins were thrown into his house. He had been getting one coin a day from the palace—enough for the day. He ate and slept without worry; tomorrow he would massage again and get another coin. He was carefree; arithmetic had not been born. But ninety‑nine brought trouble. He counted ninety‑nine and thought: tomorrow I should fast; save one coin and make it a hundred. There is something in ninety‑nine that makes the mind want to complete it into a hundred at once. If you got ninety‑nine, the first thought would be: how to make it a hundred. Something feels incomplete—just one coin short! If it were more, one would think it’s difficult; but it’s only one coin.

So he decided to fast the next day; one day without food and he would save a coin and make it a hundred. He came to work—but a hungry man is sad. He pressed the emperor’s feet, but without heart. And as he pressed, within him the arithmetic ran: one will be saved and it will be a hundred. Remarkable! Who knows who dropped the ninety‑nine! The emperor asked, You seem a bit dull today. He said, Nothing really; it’s a religious fast. Fasting is praised in the scriptures.

The hundred was completed—but the race had begun. He thought: if ninety‑nine can become a hundred, why not a hundred and one? Now there was no way to stop. In a month he became ruined—withered. He fasted many times, ate cheap food, stopped buying milk and drank tea. Now he had to save.

Scientists say: in the human mind, wherever there is incompleteness, there is a deep urge to complete it. Not only in man; they observe it in animals too. Draw a circle with chalk for a monkey and leave it incomplete; the monkey will come and complete it. He too feels the itch of the incomplete.

But the trouble with a straight line is: it never completes. A circle can be completed; how will a straight line ever be? It just goes on. So from ninety‑nine to a hundred; from a hundred to a hundred and one—endless, infinite.

A month later the emperor said, You don’t understand; your condition is deteriorating. You are worse than me. He said, You are old and experienced; I am new and raw; I am in great trouble. My life has been taken by someone who dropped ninety‑nine coins in my house. Now to tell you the truth: I am not doing religious fasts. Free me somehow from the ninety‑nine.

An old tale: in a village there was a youth so strong and joyous—the son of a fakir; he begged and slept. When the king’s procession passed, he would hold the elephant’s tail and the elephant would stop. The king felt greatly insulted. This is too much! In the middle of the bazaar he stops my elephant! We can do nothing; we hang helplessly. He must be fixed. He consulted his ministers. They said, Give him some work. He is utterly empty, utterly carefree; he begs and sleeps; his energy does not get wasted. The king said, How to make him work? He won’t agree. They said, He will; give him a small task. They told him: you will get one rupee a day; light the lamp at the temple where you sleep every evening at exactly six—but remember, exactly at six. If ever you are late or early, you get no rupee. He said, What kind of thing is this!

But now the six o’clock got after him. He had never thought of a clock; kept no account of time; there was no need. Until now he lived as if there were no time. Now for the first time time entered his consciousness. The infinite is circular; time is linear. He began to worry. He would go to the clock tower in the market several times to check if it was six. Even at night he worried: what if it has turned six? You may say he was foolish—night has no six! But you too think of your office at night, the shop at night. He too thought of his “shop.” Though the shop was small, what difference does it make? He even stopped begging. The rupee was enough, so he ate and drank well. But six o’clock stuck like a thorn in his consciousness.

A month later the king’s procession passed. He grabbed the elephant’s tail and was dragged along. The elephant did not stop.

Life is a vast energy. If you are being dragged, it is only because you tried to make that vast energy linear rather than circular. Through wealth, politics, position, you try to go straight in a line where there is no end.

Buddha said: whatever begins also ends. He who knows this truth has known all. Then this world becomes maya—a dream that is today and will not be tomorrow. What remains is only that which you brought with birth—just that. And that alone is your treasure. It is enough. For therein the Paramatman hides. Nothing more is needed by anyone. What you need has been given. And in the race after what you do not need, you are losing what you have been given. This is the fundamental standard.

To know the ancient standard is the mystic virtue.

Then a fragrance of ethics will arise in your life—fragrance without the stink of greed or the stench of fear, a fragrance unearthly.

There are two kinds of moral men. One is moral by arithmetic. He fears the policeman, the court, lawsuits, hell, heaven: he is afraid. Remove his fear and he will be dishonest at once, a thief at once. His morality is not real; it is imposed by force.

The other is the religious man whose morality is born of understanding that there is nothing here to seize or save; however much you clutch, it will slip away. What is the essence of clutching what must slip? What is sure to vanish has in a sense already vanished. What will be snatched by death—if you give it yourself, that is sannyas. One who turns death into sannyas is supremely wise. Death will do it anyway; there will be no exception. If you see this, you will give willingly. You will say, All right—lines drawn on water—they cannot even be drawn; they are erased as they are drawn.

Who will go mad for this? Houses built of sand that a mere breeze topples—who will be crazy for them?

As soon as this standard begins to dawn upon you, Lao Tzu says: when the mystic virtue becomes clear and far‑reaching—

—you begin to see far that the meaning of life is circular—that the straight line turns afar and comes back to where it began—

—and things revert to their source—

—when you see every Ganga returning to Gangotri—

—then, and only then, does the Grand Harmony arise.

Then a music is born in your life, a rhythm you have never known. All unrest disappears; all tensions fall like dry leaves. An inner greenery arrives, a strange spring. Your deserts vanish. You become an oasis. Darkness dissolves. The inner lamp reveals itself in its full strength, radiant.

This ultimate harmony is what is called the Divine. Lao Tzu does not use the word “God,” because pundits have used it so much that the word is soiled, stale. They have corrupted it; their stench clings to it. So Lao Tzu does not use the word “God,” but he is speaking of that very Divine when he speaks of the supreme harmony.

The ancients who knew how to follow the Tao did not intend to enlighten the people, but to keep them ignorant. The reason it is difficult for the people to live in peace is because of too much knowledge. Those who seek to rule a country by knowledge are the nation’s curse. Those who seek not to rule a country by knowledge are the nation’s blessing. Those who know these two principles also know the ancient standard. And to know the ancient standard always is called the mystic virtue. When the mystic virtue becomes clear, far‑reaching, and things revert back to their source, then and then only emerges the Grand Harmony.

The Grand Harmony is born only then. That harmony is hidden within you. Stop moving in lines; shape your life as a circle—and instantly you will begin to hear the notes of the music hidden within you. Those notes are the notes of the Divine. They are the notes of emptiness, of liberation. An unending shower of flowers will descend within you—the bliss for which you beg from door to door. You have brought it with you. You are losing it because you are living in a wrong way. Your manner of living is linear. The real way of living can only be circular.

One who recognizes this ancient standard attains all that is worth attaining. It is already given. How you lost it—that is the great mystery. How you keep missing it—that is the wonder. It will not be found by knowledge; it will be found by wiping off knowledge. It will be found by living, not by knowing. By love, not by logic. The connection with it is through the heart. The whole endeavor is: how to come a little lower than the skull; how to begin to beat in the heart; how to think less and experience more. That is all. The distance is not great. Between head and heart the gap is very small. If you wish, you can cover it in a single step. And if you wish, you can wait for countless births. Your choice. The door is open this very moment. If you wish to postpone, that too is your choice. You can attain this very instant. Neither your past actions nor your past ignorance will stand in the way. There is no obstacle. For if we had to gain something we did not already have, there might be obstacles. What is to be gained is our very nature. What is to be attained is what we already are.

Enough for today.