Tao Upanishad #11

Ordinarily we think ignorance is evil, inauspicious; and that knowledge is auspicious in itself. Lao Tzu does not think so. Nor do the seers of the Upanishads think so. And no one on this earth who has attained supreme knowing has ever held such an opinion.
There is a sutra in the Upanishads: the ignorant wander in darkness; the learned wander in a great darkness.
Knowing alone, without being, is more dangerous than not knowing. The ignorant are humble. They know nothing. And the one who knows nothing has no ground on which to erect an ego. He does not even carry the illusion, “I know.” Hence there is no convenience available to strengthen the I. Understand this well: wealth does not fortify the ego as much, nor does position — information does. Nothing fills man with as much vanity, as much ego, as the notion “I know.”
Therefore it is difficult to find anyone more egoistic than pundits. And this too has happened: one puffed with the pride of knowledge is ready to beg on the streets, to live naked, to starve to death. He does not need palaces. He does not need royal thrones. But the one who “knows,” if he can gain prestige through it, is ready to renounce everything.
To drop wealth is easy; to drop position is easy. To drop information, to drop knowledge-as-accumulation, is extremely difficult. We can leave everything — family, the beloved — but what we “know,” that we cannot put down. Because it is our very life-breath. If what we know is taken away, we become a zero. Information is our entire wealth. It is our mind — the mind is the sum, the accumulation, of what we know. If what-we-know is removed, we are left empty, void, bare.
Just now I am looking at a Sufi book. Published for the first time — though it is a thousand years old. Many times in a thousand years it was thought to publish it; yet it could not be published. No publisher would agree to print it. Why? Because there is nothing written in it. Two hundred pages — blank! The book’s story is long. In Sufi hands it was given from generation to generation. And a history grew around who read it when and what he said about it. There is nothing to read in it. But when a Sufi master gave it to a disciple, whatever statement the disciple made after “reading,” that was collected.
Now it has been published. But even that publisher did not agree to print the book as-is. He said: first print all that has been said about it, so there is at least something to print. Two hundred pages blank — and nine pages in front printed with what people said about the book. Those nine pages are not a part of the book; they are remarks concerning it.
The man who first gave this book to his disciple said: Read it properly, for whatever is worth knowing, I have written in it — all that is worth knowing. The disciple opened it — nothing. He told his master, “There is nothing in it.” The master said: That means nothing is worth knowing. I have written in it whatever is worth knowing. And the day you become capable of reading this book, that day you will be free of all books.
Therefore its name is: The Book of the Books. There is nothing in it.
When the book was given to another disciple, he did not open it. The master said, Open it and read! He replied, “By reading nothing is ever attained; this I know. Nothing will be attained by reading this either.” The master said, “That is why I found you worthy to give this book to — because for those who are readers, it is of no use.” The tale says that that disciple never opened it all his life.
A very difficult matter — to have a book in your hands and never to open it, all your life. At death he handed it to his own disciple and said, “Remember, I have never read it. And my master gave it to me because he knew I had no curiosity to read — I had the longing to know. I pass it to you in the hope that you too will strive to know, not to read.”
What reading gives looks like knowledge; it is a deception — pseudo-knowledge. It appears to be knowledge, but it is not.
What Lao Tzu is saying is this: Those who know — now this is the wonderful part — those who know, they prevent people from knowing. Because they know that the easiest path to go astray is information.
This has happened in our own land — nowhere on earth as densely as here. As much as we know about truth in this country, no one else on earth knows; and as much as we live in untruth, no one else lives. Our information about religion — if you gather the knowledge of the whole world, still our side will weigh heavier. Yet adharma is easier for us than for any people on earth. What is the matter? Where has the mistake crept in? We ought to have been the most religious people in the world; our very lives should have radiated the light of truth; the aura of Paramatma should have been visible all around us. It is not visible. Yes, we talk about it the most. The tally of our talk about God is beyond calculation. But we have no acquaintance with God.
The very mistake Lao Tzu indicates has happened: information obstructs knowing. Lao Tzu’s disciple Chuang Tzu has said: If you want to know, beware of knowledge.
The sentence seems contradictory, self-opposed. Because Chuang Tzu says, If you want to know, beware of knowing! Why? If he had said, Don’t want to know, and beware of knowing, it would sound logical.
Chuang Tzu says: If you want to know, beware of information. Because the one who gains information is deprived of knowing.
Why? Because information is borrowed. Someone else has known. Ramakrishna says Paramatma is; Raman says Paramatma is. We heard, believed; and we too began to say, Paramatma is. This is information. We have not known. Someone else has known; it is borrowed.
And remember, knowing cannot be borrowed. In this world all things can be borrowed — one cannot borrow knowing. Everything can be obtained from others — one thing cannot be obtained from others: knowing. This is the difference between knowing and information. Knowing is one’s own; information is from another. Someone else says it. One listens to Kabir, to Nanak — what is heard becomes information. But information creates the illusion of knowledge. If we keep reciting it, repeating it again and again, we forget that it is not ours. By repetition it starts feeling as if I know.
I have heard that a case was brought against Nasruddin — theft. The magistrate was very strict; with great difficulty Nasruddin’s lawyer managed to save him. Outside the court the lawyer asked, “Now tell the truth, did you steal or not?” Nasruddin said, “Listening to you for months, even I have begun to suspect I did steal. You have convinced me so much! The magistrate was not persuaded — I was!”
Hear a thing often and there is difficulty — especially when you yourself repeat it. From childhood you repeat: God is, God is, God is. It mixes into the blood, into the bones; enters the muscles; speaks from every pore. Even before we were conscious we “knew” God is. Then, by repetition, we forget there ever was a moment when we asked, “Is there a God?” It seems I have always known God is.
Now this information is suicidal. If we already know God is, why go to seek? Why labor for what is already known? And so, while this nation ceaselessly discusses spirituality, it has become non-spiritual. If ever this country is to become truly religious, we shall have to drop — at a stroke — all scriptures. Once we are free of information, perhaps we can set out again on the search.
So Lao Tzu says: Those who know, save people from knowledge.
One reason to save them from “knowledge” is that it is borrowed. Lao Tzu is not speaking against that knowing which arises within, spontaneously. Properly understood, there is a great difference between the two. What is born within, one’s own, is less “knowledge” and more “knowing.” The inner is less accumulation and more awakening. What arises within does not collect like a storehouse; it grows as your very consciousness. What is gathered from outside accumulates like a heap; around you — you remain outside it. It doesn’t touch you. You stand apart from your pile of knowledge.
As if you are standing in your room and heaps of money are piled all around. So much money that you are submerged to your throat — up to your neck. Even so, you have not become money. You are still separate. With a jerk you could get out. And even when you are “inside,” you are outside. You are not money.
One kind of “knowledge” is collected from outside — around and around you — but not within. Whatever comes from without gathers like dust, like garments around you.
What is born within does not collect as accumulation; it grows as your consciousness. It is more knowing and less knowledge. It becomes your very awareness. It is not that you know more; rather you have a greater capacity to know.
Nanak or Kabir or Buddha or Lao Tzu do not “know more” in the scholarly sense. Any one of you could defeat them in an examination. They do not carry great information, but their capacity to know is immense. If you and they were to look into the same thing, they would know so much more than you. Put a stone between you: they will come to know Paramatma from that stone; you will not even know the stone. Perhaps you have more information about stones — but no depth. Information is superficial; knowing is intimate, penetrating.
Remember: if knowledge is piled around you, you will remain acquainted with things.
Bertrand Russell has made almost the same distinction — he calls one acquaintance and the other knowledge. Acquaintance accumulates with us; knowledge, in the deeper sense, does not accumulate — it transforms us. In knowledge and the knower there is no difference. In information and the informer there is a gap, a distance, a space.
Hence Lao Tzu says: those who know will save people from information. And they will save them so that they may someday enter that dimension where the event of knowing happens. Thus all the knowers have emphasized not knowledge but meditation. By meditation capacity grows to know; by knowledge only the stock grows.
Keep this difference in mind: stock and capacity.
Mahavira has said: on the day of supreme knowing, no knower remains, no known remains, no knowledge-as-information remains; only knowing remains. Neither is there someone behind it who knows, nor is there something ahead left to be known — just a knowing remains.
Like a mirror in which no reflection arises, because nothing stands before it; a mirror with no object, and yet the mirror remains. Better still to say, just a mirroring remains.
Mahavira says: when inner knowing truly arises in its totality, a person remains only as a capacity-to-know; information remains not at all. And remember, where information ends, the “knower” also ends.
Therefore take note of the second part of Lao Tzu’s emphasis: information strengthens the knower, and knowing dissolves the knower. This is the difference. The more you “know” as information, the more crystallized your I becomes. Your gait changes; your manner of speaking changes. A point within keeps standing — I know. As information increases, the I grows stronger.
The opposite happens when knowing arises from within — when the capacity to know is born. Then, delightfully, the I becomes more and more empty and dissolves. The very day the I dissolves totally, that which Mahavira calls knowledge-alone flowers.
This is the difference between the pundit and the knower.
Confucius once went to Lao Tzu and said, “Give me some instruction by which I may shape my life.” Lao Tzu said, “He who shapes his life by another’s knowledge goes astray. I will not become one who misleads you.”
Confucius had come from far away. He was among the cleverest of men — one who knows a great deal. He said, “I have come from afar — give me at least some knowledge.”
Lao Tzu said, “We do the work of taking away knowledge; we do not commit the crime of giving it.”
This will seem difficult. But in truth, in spiritual life the master does the work of snatching away knowledge. He shakes off all your information. First he makes you ignorant — so that you may move toward knowing. He cuts away your information and stands you where your utter ignorance is.
Truly, what do we know? If we ask honestly: do we know God? Yet we keep saying so — not only saying, we can fight, argue — about whether He is or is not. Do we know the Atman? Yet morning and evening we speak of it. Not only ordinary people — even politicians say their soul is speaking, the voice of the inner soul is arising. Empty words. Have you ever found any trace of a soul in your chest? Any touch of that which is called Atman? No touch, no contact, not a single ray. Yet we keep saying.
The master will first shake off all this information, cut it away bit by bit — to stand you where you actually are. Because the journey can only begin from where you are — not from where you think you are. If I must set out and I am sitting in this room, I must start from here. If I imagine I am sitting in the sky — I can imagine, but no journey can begin from that sky. I must take the first step from where I am. I think journeys begin from where I think I am; and if I insist on starting from that imagined place, I will never set out.
So the master first takes away knowledge — makes you ignorant. A great event! To come to the place where you can honestly say, “I am ignorant; I do not know; I know nothing.” If someone can reveal this truth to himself completely, he stands on the first step of the temple of knowing.
Thus Lao Tzu says: the knower, those who know, do not give people information — they take it away.
Therefore a real master will not seem pleasing. You go to a master to get something; a real master will take away even what you have. You go to satsang to hear some words so you can gossip about them; to gather some information so that in front of someone else you can enjoy being the guru; to stand stiff and show that you know.
Hence the real master feels very unpleasing. He cuts you everywhere. Whatever you “know,” there he shakes your roots. That is why going to a true master causes great trepidation — he will strip you naked, remove one garment after another; he will throw off all your coverings. He will leave you standing where you are.
It is very painful to stand where you are — he knows this. It is distasteful to recognize that I know nothing — he knows this too. But he also knows that without this, there can be no journey into the world of knowing. Lao Tzu is right.
Lao Tzu’s book never became very popular; his sayings did not spread widely. Because who is ready to become ignorant? We are all ready to become learned. Our universities, schools, colleges, our pundits and priests, our mahatmas and monks — all are distributing knowledge. And the irony is that the more knowledge is distributed, the more ignorance grows. There must be some mistake behind this knowledge. It is proving to increase ignorance rather than break it. So Lao Tzu’s words will feel difficult.
Along with this he says: “They strive to keep them free of bare knowledge and of desires.”
We have heard of being free of desires — even ordinary sadhus preach freedom from desire. So one might think there is nothing new in Lao Tzu’s statement.
No — even here there is something new. Lao Tzu holds that desires are not only of the world — desires for Moksha are desires too. Therefore the knower tries to keep people free of desires. If an ordinary sadhu were speaking, he would say “worldly desires”; that adjective would certainly be there. Meaning: there can be non-worldly desires too. When, in temples, sadhus go on explaining “Drop worldly desires,” their meaning is clear — there can be otherworldly desires. Surely: to attain Moksha, to have the vision of Paramatma, to be free of birth and death — these are “non-worldly” desires.
But to understand Lao Tzu you must understand this: desire is the world. There are no worldly desires — to be in desire is to be in the world. It is not that some desires can set a man free. Desire itself is bondage — whichever desire it may be, it makes no difference. There is no difference in the quality of desire.
I want wealth — what happens in my mind? Understand the mechanism. I want wealth. The wanting is now; wealth is not now. It will be in the future — tomorrow, the day after, someday. I am here now; wealth will be someday. My present being will be stretched toward that future — pulled, and filled with tension. The farther it is, the more the tension. If it will come a year from now, there will be a full year’s tension. My mind will have to stretch from today to a year ahead; and it will have to touch and grasp that future wealth in dream. This is what desire means.
Moksha is even farther. Paramatma seems even farther. If I am to attain Paramatma, one lifetime will not be enough; countless births will be needed. Then my arm of desire will have to stretch across countless births — to catch hold of God. I am stretched, taut. Desire means the process of tension.
Lao Tzu says: the knower frees people from desires — meaning he frees them from tension. He says, Be here — now. Forget tomorrow. Forget tomorrow’s wealth, tomorrow’s religion, tomorrow’s fame, tomorrow’s God. If anything of yours is in tomorrow, desire will remain; you will remain stretched. And as long as desire remains and you are taut, you will be bound — restless, afflicted, troubled. Lao Tzu says: “of desires” — he does not analyze which desires.
If you read ordinary religious texts you will immediately find a division: be free of which desires? — the bad ones! Fill yourself with good desires. Drop worldly desires; invite otherworldly desires. Give up gaining here; you will get nothing here. If you must gain, then in the other world! And they give a fine argument: here whatever you gain is momentary; what we tell you is eternal.
A great temptation — this is inciting greed. They say: you are foolish, running after wealth; we are wise, we run after religion. Even if you gain wealth you will lose it; but once we gain religion no one can take it away.
Between these two, is the difference one of cunning and calculation — or of desire? The second man who talks of the otherworld seems more cunning, more calculating. He says: what will you do with women here? Their beauty is now — and soon gone. In heaven there are apsaras — gain them! Their beauty never fades. The pleasures here? — momentary, like bubbles on water; touch them and they burst. We show you the path to eternal bliss. This mind which speaks so is lust-ridden. And the one who starts out on hearing this has already started out in lust.
Lao Tzu, without any condition, says: free of desires. Not “this desire,” but free of desire. No demand on tomorrow — life today! No reliance on tomorrow — live with today! No spreading of dreams into the future — be present in what is present now.
Desirelessness means to be present in the present. Freedom from cravings means to be where the now is. Desirelessness means: this moment is enough; I will not go outside this moment. I will live with what is. If there is sorrow, with sorrow; if happiness, with happiness. If darkness, then darkness; if light, light. If day, day; if night, night. I will live with what is now. I will not lose myself, beyond this, in the dreams of desire. This means: to live with truth, with fact; to live with what is.
Lao Tzu says: those who know free people of desires. They do not offer new desires. They do not say, Drop this desire and grasp another. What difference would that make?
But we find this very difficult. It seems easier when someone says, Drop wealth, catch hold of religion. It is painful a bit — yet he gives us something to hold. The goods change, but the fist does not open. In the fist we had held wealth; he says, Drop wealth, there is no essence in it. This is not too hard to understand — someday even the dullest man realizes there is no essence in wealth. Or does he? That wealth is without essence is understood even by the most unintelligent — if he has wealth. If not, that alone is the reason; not lack of intelligence. If there is no wealth, how will he realize it is worthless? But if he has wealth, even the stupid will see it is empty — nothing is gained. Then the mind itself wants to seek something else.
So when a preacher of new cravings says, Drop wealth, grasp religion, immediately you drop wealth and grasp wealth again — the fist is intact.
And remember: it takes no great intelligence to see that wealth is empty; but to see that “religion” — as an object of desire — is empty, requires great intelligence. The dullest will someday see that wealth is empty; even the wisest rarely see that “religion” as desire is also empty. In truth “empty” means: whatever forces you to clench your fist is empty. Because whatever you seize, you become its slave. The clenching itself is slavery.
When you clench your fist on something you think you have become the master — because your fist is yours, the thing is inside; you are the owner. But you do not know: you have become that thing’s slave. The thing can be without your fist; but your fist can no longer be without the thing. If someone takes the wealth from your fist, the wealth will not cry, “Why are you leaving me? You cause me pain!” But if your wealth is snatched away, your fist will weep; your life will wander and worry. Who then is the slave?
Whatever we clutch we accept as bondage. And whatever we want to get “tomorrow” destroys our today. And the irony: when tomorrow comes, we will still not be present to enjoy it. Because in the meantime we have been trained to live in tomorrow. When tomorrow comes, it becomes today; and we have never learned to live in today. Our constant practice is to live in tomorrow. This “today,” which we call today, was also tomorrow yesterday. As soon as it becomes today, it is useless for you — your mind has moved on to tomorrow.
This is a strange affair. Whenever tomorrow comes, it becomes today. And whenever it becomes today, you become unaware of it. Perhaps you waited for years, craved for years, prayed for years — and when it comes, you are not there. Because by years of prayer your mind has been conditioned — it can only ask for tomorrow. It will demand again.
We do this daily. It is as if a man’s eyes are faulty and he cannot see the near — only the distant. He sees a diamond lying far away and runs. But by the time he reaches it, the diamond has disappeared — his eyes can only see far; near he is blind. He again looks into the distance. And it never occurs to him that this is what has happened with every diamond — he runs again. All his life he runs. It never occurs to him that his eyes are fixed — beyond fifty feet he sees; within fifty feet there is a blind spot.
We all live in such a blind spot. What is today becomes darkness; our light falls on tomorrow. Tomorrow looks radiant — which is not. You can do nothing — only imagine its radiance, a dream. You can do nothing in tomorrow — because it is not. Man’s impotence, his emptiness, is because of this: nothing can be done in tomorrow, and you are never present in today. In today something can be done — but you are absent. In tomorrow nothing can be done — and you are always there. Hence life becomes empty.
This emptiness everyone feels — a hollowness, no fulfillment. Whatever we get turns stale; what comes into our hands seems fit to throw away. Whatever we find loses meaning.
Lao Tzu says: they free you from desires.
The knower does not say, “Become free of desires.” Note this too. Because if he says, Become free of desires, you will immediately ask, Why? For what? Then he must tell you: for Moksha, for eternal bliss, for Paramatma, for heaven. Then the net of desire starts. Whoever tells you, “Become free of desires,” will create a new desire — because you will ask, Why?
No — one like Lao Tzu does not say, “Be free of desire.” He simply exposes what desire is. He shows the fact of it. “Here it is.” He shows you the wall: if you try to go through this, your head will break. He does not say, Don’t break your head — because you will ask, Why not? He does not say, Don’t go through the wall — you will ask, Why not? Any temptation elsewhere?
Remember, he gives you no positive desire. He only says: Do this and this follows. That is the logic of Buddha’s speech. Someone asks Buddha, “What should we do?” Buddha says, “Don’t ask me that. Tell me what you want to do; I will tell you, If you do this, this will happen; if you do that, that will happen — nothing more. I do not say, Do this. I say: if you try to pass through the wall, the head breaks; if you go through the door, you pass without breaking your head. Then it is up to you. Go through the wall, or go through the door. I do not say, Don’t go through the wall.”
Do you see the difference? One way is to tell you positively, Do this! But whenever someone tells you positively, you ask, Why?
Hence the thinking of Lao Tzu or Buddha or Mahavira is, in a deep sense, negative. They say: If you fall into desire, suffering follows. They do not say: If you don’t fall into desire, happiness will come. If they say so, you will say, “Good — we want happiness. Tell us how.” And a new desire is created.
This is subtle — but understand it. That is why Buddha did not bring in God or Moksha. Lao Tzu also did not. When Lao Tzu’s thought first reached the West, people said, Why call this a religious scripture? There is no talk of Moksha, no talk of God, no talk of freedom from sin. What is this man talking?
People asked Buddha, “Is there a God?” Buddha remained silent. He said, Ask only what the world is. When they asked, “What will be in Moksha?” Buddha was silent. Later he had thirteen questions prepared and in any town he went, he had it announced that no one should ask these thirteen — because he would not answer them.
Buddha’s opponents spread the news that he does not answer because he does not know. If you know, answer. If you do not know, say so.
Now you can understand the sage’s difficulty. The knowing man’s difficulty has always been this: Buddha knows — and he will not answer. He will not even say that he knows. Because if he says “I know,” people will ask, “Then tell us how we can know.” Buddha says: I remain silent. I say nothing on these matters; I do not even say I know. Because even that will arouse lust in you — “If you know, then how can we?”
Buddha says: I do not describe the open sky; I only tell you why the chains are in your hands. Your hands are in chains — if I describe the free, open sky, you will dream of it while remaining in chains. Those dreams will not help you break them — they will become hindrances. There is even the danger that someone may dream so deeply in prison he forgets he is in prison. There is also the danger that in becoming excited and fevered to reach the sky he will lose the coolness needed to break the chains.
Buddha says: Don’t ask me of the sky. I will tell you why there are chains in your hands and what to do so they break. I do not say, Why you must break them. If you want to break them, here is the way, here the arrangement, here the method. In this way you can break them.
Lao Tzu says: they free you from desires. They do not go about saying: Be free of desires! To free you from desires they do something. Two things: they expose the nature of desire — here it is. And second, they live without desire themselves.
I said Confucius came to meet him. He returned very dejected. Lao Tzu had come to the door to see him off. Seeing him sad — he had walked miles — Lao Tzu said, “It does not feel good to see you so downcast.” Confucius said, “How could I not be? I came for instruction.” Lao Tzu said, “Go back and look at me once more, more deeply. If seeing me becomes instruction, you will not go empty-handed.”
A Buddha or a Lao Tzu is a living sermon.
Confucius looked back — yet it seems he was not instructed. He told his disciples on returning: “Everything went over my head; I could not understand. The man is wonderful — like a lion. One is afraid to stand near him. But whatever he said went above my head; I understood nothing. When I insisted, he said only: ‘Look at me.’”
It seems Confucius could not understand — for seeing too needs eyes. Confucius came to “take” knowledge — full of desire. Lao Tzu was present — here, now. Confucius lived in the future — something to gain by which the path ahead would open; some Moksha, some bliss, some treasure of experience. The man was standing before him, utterly present — Confucius had no eye for him. He wanted something from this man that would be useful in the future. How could he see Lao Tzu?
We too miss. Not only Confucius — we too. You could pass by a Buddha or a Lao Tzu or a Mahavira and there is only one chance in a hundred you would know.
Bahauddin was a Sufi fakir. In his city the richest man used to come to him and say, “You are the sun on earth! Darkness flees on seeing you!” Bahauddin laughed. Whenever he came, he spoke such words: “You are cool like the moon; like nectar.” Bahauddin laughed. One day when that man left, a disciple said, “It feels odd. He speaks so respectfully, and you laugh — it seems ill-mannered.”
Bahauddin took the disciple by the hand and said, Come. He changed only his cap and went to that rich man’s shop to buy goods. He bought and returned. On the way he said, “Did you see? It did not even occur to him that I am the sun. We talked fifteen minutes; he cheated me and gave me less goods. The disciple said, “He may have been busy.”
The next day again Bahauddin said, Come. He was a man of his own kind. Three hundred sixty-five days — the disciple grew worried and said, “Enough — I understand.” But Bahauddin dragged him daily to the shop in some guise and bought something. Meanwhile the rich man kept coming every few days: “You are the sun! You are nectar!” After a year Bahauddin said, “Stop your nonsense! For a full year I have come daily to your door. Forget the sun — you did not even see a lamp. You did not say even once, ‘You are a flickering lamp.’ You are lying. You only care that Bahauddin is a great man.”
If you meet Mahavira with a placard saying, “I am Mahavira,” you will immediately bow: “We met a Tirthankara.” Otherwise you will call the police: “A man is standing naked in Bombay — this is not right.”
Recently sannyasins had gathered here. One of my sannyasins loves to remain naked. Still we told him: in Bombay do not wander naked. Poor fellow wore a loincloth to come to Woodland. Trouble arose. Someone came to complain: “It is very odd — not right — that a man comes here wearing only a loincloth.” The amazing thing — the complainer himself was a Digambara Jain. I said, “If Mahavira came to Woodland, what would you do? This poor man at least wore a loincloth.” He said, “Mahavira is different.”
How will you recognize? Will he carry a signboard? How many recognized Mahavira in Mahavira’s time?
We too pass nearby and miss — because our eyes are fixed elsewhere. That which is nearest does not appear. Often because it is nearest it does not appear.
Lao Tzu says: they free you from desires — so that what is nearest, nearer than the nearest — Paramatma — may be seen. Lao Tzu does not say Moksha is not; he says, there cannot be desire for Moksha. He does not say Paramatma is not; he says, you cannot desire Paramatma. When no desire remains, what remains is Paramatma.
Buddha does not say there is no Moksha. He says: do not desire. Desire not even Moksha. Then you are in Moksha.
Understand the difference. You cannot make Moksha the object of your desire. Moksha cannot become the basis of your craving. It cannot be your target, your arrow of desire cannot be aimed at it. No — when you put down bow and arrow both, when all desire falls, you find you are in Moksha. In truth, you have always been in Moksha — but because of desire you wandered afar. Desire took you elsewhere. Moksha is here and Paramatma is here — near; desire is far. Therefore desire and God cannot meet. Desire is in the future; God is in the present. Desire is tomorrow; God is today.
Hence Lao Tzu says: they free you from knowledge and from desires.
“And where there are such people who are stuffed with information, they try, as much as possible, to prevent them from using such information.”
And what of those who are already filled with information? They will try to stop them — yet people are filled already. What then? They will try, as far as possible, to see that they do not act according to their information.
This is strange. All other saints strive to have people act according to what they explain. After sermons they say, “Do not leave what we explained here — do not let it enter one ear and leave by the other. Keep it safe and act on it. Swear you will live by what you understood.”
But Lao Tzu says: they try to prevent people from acting out their information. He says: let no one start to live according to his information. Because information is borrowed. To try to fly with other birds’ feathers leads to the same fate as the man who tries to act on borrowed knowledge.
Here is the fun: information has to be made into conduct; knowing becomes conduct by itself. That is the difference. Knowing does not have to be practiced; the moment you know, action begins of itself. You are not to practice it. If knowing too must be practiced, it is worth two pennies.
I know that if I put my hand in fire, it burns. If this is information, I will have to restrain my hand each time: “Don’t put it in the fire.” If it is knowing, will I need any effort? The hand simply will not go. There is nothing to think about. It is finished.
I know that if I drink poison I die — must I go to the temple to take a vow: “I swear I shall never drink poison”? If someone stands in a temple and vows, “I take a lifelong oath never to drink poison,” what will you think? That there is danger — someday he will drink it. He knows nothing — for if he did, would he need an oath?
All those who take vows, fasts, oaths — “I will do this; I will not do that” — are trying to live by information. Someone said anger is bad; you try not to be angry. Someone said lust is bad; you try not to be lustful.
Lao Tzu says: the knower tries, as far as possible, to keep people from acting on their information.
He can only try — there is no way to forcibly stop someone. He can only say: the pit is there; you will fall. But the man who has sworn to live by information slowly becomes false. A time may come when he is so entangled in his own conduct that he never realizes his whole conduct is false — counterfeit coins.
If a man has decided that anger is bad — by reading, hearing, understanding — from others — not by knowing (for by knowing there is no need to decide), then he will try. He who knows that anger is poison is outside anger. The knower will say: be angry — and know what it is. Don’t decide from scripture that anger is bad. He is not saying the scripture is wrong — the writer knew and wrote rightly. But the writer knew; the non-knower turns it into information and all is reversed.
The knower will say: whatever is, know it — live it — recognize it. What is bad will fall away; what is good will remain. The ignorant teacher says: leave the bad, hold the good. The wise teacher says: know what is bad and what is good. In knowing, what remains is good; what falls is bad. Bad is that which survives as information but collapses in knowing. Good is that which you need to try to bring into information, but which follows knowing like a shadow.
If you have ever truly known anything, you will understand me. But the difficulty is: we have known nothing; we have only heard.
How surprising! A man who has lived fifty years has been angry thousands of times — and yet he has not known anger. He still reads in books “Anger is bad,” and resolves to take an oath. What he could not come to know after thousands of angers — will he know from two printed words? That would be a miracle.
A thousand times I came to this house and did not know it is bad to enter — and now by reading a sentence I will know? And I will swear never to enter again. But the oath shows that the urge to enter remains. Against whom do we take an oath? Is anyone telling you, Be angry? The whole world tells you, Drop anger. There is no school training people to be angry. People are angry regardless; temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches all explain: Do not be angry.
I have heard: in a church a priest was instructing people: In any situation keep goodwill. A fly sat on his nose. He said, “For example, this fly sits on my nose, yet I do not consider it an enemy, nor do I swat it like an enemy. God made the fly — it too is his most beautiful creation.” Suddenly he cried, “Oh blast it! It’s not a fly — it’s a honeybee!”
All got messed up. It was not a fly. Yet the honeybee too was made by God. But the gentleman was preaching under the illusion of the fly.
Everywhere it is explained: do not be angry, do not do this, do not do that — and we do exactly that. Against whom then will we swear? The oath is against oneself. And an oath against oneself never lasts.
Remember: an oath always belongs to your weaker part. When you swear, you have divided yourself. And the part that swears is the weak, the minor. The strong part never needs to swear; it does its work without vows. You do not need to vow to continue to be angry; you do not need to vow never to rise at dawn.
No oath is needed. The major part of you goes on without oaths — it is ninety, ninety-nine percent. Why would it swear? Whenever you swear, the minor, weak part swears. How long will it stand before the strong? Not long. It will soon invent a trick to break the vow. “It is a honeybee, not a fly.” He was preaching for flies, not for bees.
I have heard: a Christian monk used to follow Jesus’ words strictly. A man slapped his cheek; he turned the other. The man was obstinate; he slapped the other with double force. The monk had not expected this — and Jesus has no instruction about the third cheek; there is no third cheek. So he slapped the man back. The man cried, “What are you doing? You forgot Jesus?” He said, “No, I have not forgotten. But there are only two cheeks, and there is no instruction for the third. I must use my own intelligence. My intelligence says: Now strike.”
This intelligence was present even when he was slapped twice. That is the real intelligence — his own. At the moment of crisis this alone works. The weak part lives only by words — heard or read — which sit in the head, and on their basis we swear and shape conduct.
Lao Tzu says: they prevent people from acting on their information. They say: do not live by information; come to knowing. Then living will happen by itself.
“When such a state of nonaction is attained, the order that arises is universal.”
Nonaction! Knowing is inactive. It is not a doing, it is a state. When inner knowing becomes available, it is a state — a state of light. Everything is filled with luminosity; one sees clearly. Darknesses have gone; no more smoke in the eyes; the vision is pure. Things become transparent. One sees clearly. It is a state — no doing in it. Even for conduct no doing is needed — from that state of light, that alone will move which is worthy of moving. Now steps will rise only where the temple is. Now the feet will not have to be dragged back from the brothel.
I have heard: one day Nasruddin took a vow never to set foot in the tavern. He was a strong-willed man; he swore. In the evening he went out. The tavern was ahead; he shut his eyes — “Impossible, I took the vow this very morning! Absolutely not.” He closed his eyes and ran fast. After fifty steps he stopped and said, “Bravo, Nasruddin — you are a man of resolution! You left the tavern fifty steps behind. Now come back — I will treat you.” He returned and drank — but now he is “treating” Nasruddin. This is all rationalization. He does not say, “I broke my vow; I am drinking.” “I fulfilled my vow — I walked fifty steps past. The one who could fulfill so much deserves some hospitality.”
Knowing is nonactive. Not even a ripple of practice is needed. Like still water with not even a wave — the river not even flowing — everything zero. Such is the state of knowing.
Lao Tzu says: when such a state of nonaction becomes available, then the order, the discipline that is formed is universal. There are no exceptions to it.
Three things: Knowing is a state of nonaction. It is not a question of doing, but of being. Not “What should I do?” but “What should I become?” — not, “What shall I do to get knowing?” but, “In what state shall I stand so that knowing arises?” What stance will make the vision simple, direct, pure? Not a matter of doing — of changing conduct, dropping theft and dishonesty. No — not a matter of dropping and picking. How shall I look at life? Vision. Do not worry about information — avoid it. Accept ignorance. Experience life. Do not wander in tomorrow through desires. Live awake — now, here. Then the inactive state begins to form — one becomes like a silent lake.
In that silence, all disorder drops of itself. It is not to be arranged — it drops. Whatever was wrong is left; no effort is needed to leave it. What seemed inauspicious in life is found suddenly not to be. As when a lamp is lit in darkness and darkness is not — you don’t have to remove it. The lamp burns — and darkness is not. Such is the order.
One order is organized — cultivated. Even a monkey can be made to sit with a stick so that he looks like the statue of Buddha. A monkey’s hands and legs can be arranged in lotus posture; if the stick stands before him, and he keeps opening his eyes to see it, he will continue to sit. But he has not become a Buddha. And many sit like monkeys in lotus posture — inside nothing happens. Some stick is there — some hell, some sin, death, suffering, illness — fear all around — so...
Someone asked Nasruddin, “Do you pray at night before sleeping?”
Nasruddin said, “Regularly — never miss.”
“And in the morning too?”
He said, “No, why? What is the need in the morning? I am afraid in the dark — not in the morning. At night I pray regularly. In the morning what is the need? We fear no one in the morning.”
From fear, prayer arises. With a stick in front, lotus posture is assumed. Eyes close, beads move. All out of fear.
Timurlane once summoned Nasruddin — Tamerlane was dangerous. He had heard Nasruddin was very famous — a great knower — and a strange knower at that. Knowers are always a bit strange — because there is no pattern for the knower. Timurlane said, “I hear you are a great knower!”
Nasruddin saw the naked sword. “If I say yes, what will you do? If I say no, what will you do?”
Tamerlane said, “What will I do? All say you are a knower. Are you a knower or not? If not, why have you never refuted it? Then I will have your head cut off. If yes, say yes.”
Nasruddin said, “Yes — I am. There is fear of losing my head.”
“Then what is the proof that you are a knower?”
Nasruddin looked down and said, “I can see hell.” Looking up he said, “I can see heaven — seven heavens.”
Tamerlane asked, “What is the secret of this seeing?”
Nasruddin said, “Only fear. I see nothing. You sit there with a sword — why get into needless trouble? Only fear! That is the basis of my knowledge — these seven hells and seven heavens I am seeing. Put down your sword and let us talk like men. Otherwise I am ready to describe whatever wonders you want — fear, what else? One has to save one’s life.”
Fear can make you do anything. Much of what you do is out of fear; life is filled with fear. No — the order that arises from fear is not order. Within, the volcano keeps boiling.
People like Lao Tzu say there is another order — a different quality of order. Another kind of regulation — another discipline. And it does not come from arrangement, is not imposed, not organized. Not due to fear, not due to desire, not due to temptation — but from the inactive light of knowing it happens by itself. And when such order appears, it is universal.
Universal means: then there is no contradiction anywhere. No exceptions. It is inexorable. In every situation it remains. As with the ocean: taste it anywhere, it is salty. So with one whose life is formed by knowing — taste him anywhere, at any time; wake him from sleep and ask; observe him in any situation and recognize — universal. His order is constant. There is no exception. There is no slipping of rule — because there is no rule.
Understand this well. You might think: the rule is so strong that there is no slipping. No — however strong the rule, slipping happens. Lao Tzu says: there is no slipping because there is no rule. How can it break? He has made no rule; from knowing, conduct has come. He has made no code; from knowing, grace has flowered. Not because of any temptation to speak truth — he can only speak truth, there is no other way.
Even to say “he can only speak truth” is not right. It is right to say: whatever is spoken is truth. Speaking and truth are no longer two. There is no possibility of untruth. Not because of a firm oath; not because of a firm decision. These are wrong words — used by the weak: “I have made a firm resolve to speak truth.” A firm resolve to speak truth? That means there must be a firm state within to speak untruth.
No — untruth has fallen; truth alone remains. What is spoken is truth; what is lived is auspicious; whatever happens is the beautiful. Therefore universal.
Enough for today; tomorrow we will take the next sutra.