Tao Upanishad #110

In this century a very great psychologist, Alfred Adler, found the root source of all the entanglements of human life in the inferiority complex. The meaning of an inferiority complex is this: wherever you are in life, however you are, a pain remains constantly within that someone is ahead of you, someone has more than you, someone is above you. Its sting goes on hurting. That sting turns the inner life-breath into a wound. Then you cannot taste the juice of life; you are simply pained, miserable, and tormented by life.
If there were only one inferiority complex—even that would have been manageable. Perhaps we might have found some way. Adler used the phrase ‘inferiority complex’; I prefer the plural: ‘inferiorities complex.’ Because someone is more beautiful than you. Someone’s voice is a cuckoo—yours is not. Someone is taller than you; someone is healthier. Someone has more wealth; someone more knowledge; someone more renunciation. One can sing; one is a musician; one carves statues; one is a painter; one a sculptor. Millions and millions of people surround you, and every person has some gift. The Divine never creates anyone without a gift. And the one who carries an inferiority complex—his eyes go straight to the other’s gifts. Consciously or unconsciously, he is always weighing whether he is falling behind someone. So his eyes immediately catch in what he is behind. Then as many people as there are, just so many inferiorities pile on your back. You are almost encircled by a procession of inferiorities. A crowd presses upon you from all sides. You writhe within it. And there is no way out. For what will you do?
A man told me he was in great trouble. Two years ago he was sitting with his beloved on the seashore. A fellow came, flicked sand into his face with his foot, and began joking with his beloved. I asked, did you do anything? He said, what could I do? I was a hundred pounds; he was one hundred and fifty. Still, you must have done something? He said, I did this: from that day I dropped worrying about women. I enrolled in Hanuman’s akhada. I recite the Hanuman Chalisa and do push-ups and squats. In two years I too reached one hundred and fifty pounds. Then I found a woman, went to the seashore. I hadn’t even sat down when another fellow came, kicked sand into my eyes, and began joking with my beloved.
I said, now you could have done something.
He said, what could I do? I was one hundred and fifty; he was two hundred.
So what do you do now?
He said, now I still recite the Hanuman Chalisa; I still exercise in Hanuman’s akhada. But I’ve lost hope. Because if I reach two hundred pounds, who can guarantee that a two hundred and fifty-pounder won’t show up?
You can never come out of inferiority that way. How many people there are! How many different forms! How many different skills and capacities! You will be crushed beneath them. Adler found the basis of all human pain and anxiety in measuring oneself against the other.
As Adler went deeper he understood: why does man finally compare himself with anyone? What is the need? You are as you are; the other is as he is. Why do you take on this hindrance? Plants do not take it on. A small bush remains perfectly at ease under the biggest tree; it never thinks, this tree is so big. A small bird sings; let the greatest bird be perched—its song is not interrupted by the thought: I am so small, what song can I sing? First I must become big. Even grass brings forth flowers; it does not worry: under such great trees, are you mad to try to flower? First become big; then flower. No—there is no comparison in nature; only in the human mind.
Why comparison? Adler said: because you—and all humanity—are filled with a deep race. He calls it the will to power. How to become more powerful! Whether it be wealth, position, prestige, fame, skill—anything. How to become powerful, that is the basis of the entire human race. And when you want to be powerful you will discover that you are powerless. The more you desire power, the more you become aware of your impotence. Because everywhere you will meet the limits of your power. Even an Alexander, a Napoleon, a Hitler—come to their end. Their power meets its boundary. No one has ever reached a place where he could say, my thirst for power is fulfilled. What has never happened will never happen. And do not try to consider yourself the exception.
Lao Tzu is the path. Adler raised the question, clarified the entanglement, but even Adler could not see the way beyond it. Western psychology has no path. It is still entangled in understanding the problem. The problem itself has not yet been fully understood; to go beyond it is far away. How to go beyond? Adler’s suggestion goes only so far: do not desire the excessive; strive for what is ordinarily available.
But nothing is resolved by this. Where does excess begin? What is ordinary? What is ordinary for you may not be for me. What is ordinary for me may be excessive for you. A man can run fifteen miles in an hour; for him it is ordinary. If you run even five miles in an hour you will be in trouble. Who will decide? Where will it be decided what the ordinary is? Adler says: live within the average, then you will suffer less. But where is the average? How will you decide? And you are to decide—and you are the sick one. Your disease will decide what the average is. If someone were to ask you for a figure, how much money would satisfy you—how will you say? And if someone were to say, whatever figure you name, we are ready to give—then you will be in even greater difficulty. Ten thousand? The mind will say, why name ten when you could ask for twenty?
There is an ancient story. A youth was in search of truth. He had passed all the tests. He was sure the Master would say, now you may go into the world, now you are qualified. But the Master said, you have passed all tests; one last remains. And the last I cannot take; the nature of that test is such—you will understand later—that I must send you somewhere for it. The youth said, send me. He sent him to the emperor.
There was a rule in the town’s kingdom: whoever came first to the palace gate in the morning—whatever he asked, the emperor would grant. But people were happy, simple, and had not caught the fever of ambition. So none came at all. Many days passed when the emperor rose and found no one at the gate. People must have been of the state Lao Tzu speaks about, when the sickness of knowledge had not seized them.
But this youth had fallen ill with knowledge. He had passed all examinations. He was well-schooled. He thought, I must reach there at dawn, since I am going to the emperor. So from three in the night he stood at the gate lest someone else arrive earlier. No one came; no queue formed. At daybreak, the emperor came out; he was alone. He knew the emperor would ask, what do you want? So he kept thinking. Thinking and thinking, his head began to spin. The more he thought, the bigger the numbers grew. Is there any shortage of numbers!
The emperor came. He asked, what do you want? The youth said, I cannot decide. Would you be so kind as to take a round in the garden while I think a little more?
The emperor took a round and came back. The youth said, no, I will not be able to think. I am in great difficulty. The more I think the more I find it is less. My inner account has reached billions and trillions; yet I think, it may be that the emperor has still more. Whatever remains will gnaw at me my whole life. So now I have but one prayer: give me whatever you have—everything. Walk out wearing only the clothes on your body.
He thought the emperor would be flustered, would find some trick to escape. But the emperor became joyous. He lifted his hands to the sky and said, Paramatma, thank you! The man I was waiting for has come.
The boy grew a little nervous. He said, what is the matter? You seem very pleased! The emperor said, I am so tired of this palace, this empire, this harassment. No one comes to ask. And one cannot give by force. Now you have come from your own side; it is your great kindness. You go inside; I shall go out. The youth said, one more kindness: please take one more round, let me think once again. You gave me time; a little more! The emperor said, no, now you have already said it. But the youth caught hold of his feet. So the emperor said, as you wish. The emperor took another round and came back; he did not find the youth. He had told the gatekeeper: when the emperor himself is so eager to run away, why should I get stuck! He had run away.
Where will you decide? Only at ‘all’. And even after having all, there is no contentment. The emperor is happy to give. Even if you get everything, the well of inferiority will not fill; it is insatiable. It is a ravine without a bottom. The more you pour into it, the more it swallows. And the more you swallow, the more you will discover how inferior you are.
No, Adler has no solution. He says, with reasoning and a kind of intellectual maturity, everything will be set right. But nothing has been set right—not even in Adler’s own life. Adler was Freud’s disciple. But ambition seized him: if I remain a disciple, however great I become, Freud will remain the Master. He quarreled with the Master and separated. And then his whole life he tried to create a psychology apart. The very ambition he was going to resolve in others seized him. And between Freud and Adler there remained deep hostility.
He who cannot resolve his own—how will he resolve another’s?
There is a famous joke about Adler. He was speaking at a meeting, explaining his principle. He always said: those who have some defect become ambitious to compensate for that defect.
It is often observed: a one-eyed man becomes crafty. Ancient proverbs say, beware of the one-eyed. If a one-eyed man is met in the morning, it’s a bad omen—across the world. Why? Because the one-eyed has one eye less. How will he fill the lack? He must. He fills it with cunning—becomes more crafty. He tries to make one eye do the work of two. Craftiness is born. He becomes cunning. So you will not find a one-eyed man simple and straight; there will be something crooked in him. And the one-eyed will try in every way to defeat the two-eyed. For otherwise how will he prove superiority?
Adler used to say: those who did not walk properly in childhood, or those who walked late, become great runners later. Those who win Olympic races in the world were the very children who walked late. Because they have to make up the lack; they have to show the world: do not think we walk slowly—we have no competition. Adler was explaining this in a meeting. A man stood and said, then shall we understand that those who have some defect in the mind become psychologists?
In this joke there seems a little truth. For neither Freud, who gave birth to the psychology of this century, is healthy in mind, nor are his rivals Adler and Jung healthy. Mentally they all seem sick.
The East has the solution. Lao Tzu has the solution.
Lao Tzu says, the disease lies in the will to power. There is the whole illness. And unless that very desire drops, you will find no solution. At most you can arrange that some are a little less ill and some a little more. But the difference will be quantitative, not qualitative. Some will be ordinarily unhealthy; some extraordinarily unhealthy. But the difference will be of quantity, not of kind.
Lao Tzu says, there is another way altogether. It is to know the secret of the valley. When it rains, the mountains remain empty, the valleys fill—brimming full. What is the secret? The secret is: the valley is already empty. That which is empty is filled. The mountain is already full; it remains empty. If ego is the disease, then egolessness is the secret, the key.
As long as you weigh yourself against another and want to be ahead of another, you will find you are always behind. He who wants to be ahead will always find he is behind. He who competes will always find he has lost. But the one who consented to be behind—seeing, understanding through meditation this futile race of life—the one who stood at the back and said, I will not run to be ahead—Lao Tzu says, a unique miracle happens: those who run to be ahead become inferior, and those who stand behind have a superiority without limit.
In truth, the very moment you stand behind, as you are, you become superior; inferiority disappears. For when there is no comparison, how can you be inferior? Only if you weigh against someone can you be behind. If you do not weigh at all, if you stand back, the very last, you stand in yourself; you drop all struggle with your own hands and stand behind—how will you have any sense of inferiority now? The wound of inferiority will heal; and on the place of that wound, flowers of superiority begin to appear. Only those become superior who do not enter the race to be superior. And man becomes ever more inferior the more he runs in that race.
Now let us try to understand Lao Tzu’s words.
“How did the great river and the sea become the lords of the ravines and valleys? By being skilled in bending low, in remaining beneath.”
Their art is one: they know how to bend. To bend is the greatest art. In truth, the mark of life is the capacity to bend.
Look at the small child—how supple he is. Bend him as you like; it is as though there are no bones behind his limbs. But an old man becomes all bone. The suppleness is lost; bending ends; he becomes rigid. Paralysis approaches. An old man cannot bend in body. This is the sign that death is drawing near. For life flows where there is bending. And this is true not only of the body; it is equally true of the mind. The small child is always ready to bend in mind. That is why children are able to learn. The old man becomes unable to learn; the mind will not bend.
Go into a garden and ask the gardener. He will say: if you wish to bend a tree, to give it a certain shape, it can only be done when the plant is small and supple. When the plant becomes hard, then if you try to bend, branches will break. Sometimes a strong storm comes and big trees fall; little blades of grass survive. It should have been the reverse—that the weak, tiny grasses, in which no strength is seen, would be wiped out by the storm. The huge trees that touch the sky, whose branches spread vast nets, whose ego knows no boundary, who rise to dizzy heights, whose race is to touch sun and moon—they fall. The storm wipes them out. The grass knows a trick which the big tree has forgotten. The big tree has become stiff; it can break, it cannot bend.
Of the man with swagger we say: he is so stiff he can break, he cannot bend. And the training of all the egotists is this: better to break than to bend.
Lao Tzu’s teaching is wholly different. He says, what haste to break! What insistence on breaking! Why such eagerness for self-destruction? Bend—because only in bending will you be able to win over the storm. Whether you break or not—does the storm care for you? The storm will not even notice that you are broken. It will go its way. You will be destroyed pointlessly.
Become like a small blade of grass. The storm comes; the grass lies down on the ground. It keeps no stiffness; it raises no fuss at all. It does not even say, how can I do this—this is not right. Why are you making me bend? It raises no question. The storm comes; it bends with the storm. If the storm flows left, it goes left; if right, then right; to the south, to the south; to the north, to the north. Wherever the storm goes, the little blade of grass makes friends with the storm, cooperates. It does not stand in opposition; it flows with the current of the storm. And the blade that has learned the art of flowing in the storm—he rides the storm; the storm cannot destroy him. Let bigger and bigger tempests come—mighty cyclones arise—yet nothing can be done to this grass. It will fall asleep on the earth; the storm will pass.
Storms do not last forever; they come and go. When the storm is gone you will see big trees uprooted, their roots broken, their life-birds flown; the little grasses are once again gleaming—fresher than before. The storm merely dusted them; it could do nothing more.
Lao Tzu loves the art of bending. He says, when someone comes to bend you—bend beforehand. Do not even give him the chance to make the effort of bending you.
As when sometimes a small child wrestles with his father—what does the father do? He plays a little and then lies down; the child climbs on his chest. The child says, I won! The father’s glory lies in bending before the child. That is his superiority. The father who starts fighting with a small child—you will call him a fool. Fighting is foolishness; bending is awareness, understanding. And if the son can also taste that he has won—what is the harm? The deeper your understanding, the more you will give others the chance to win. He is still immature, still a child. There is flavor in winning. Let him win. That much struggle and resistance will lessen in your life. You will let everyone have the delight of winning.
And Lao Tzu says, in the end those who thought they had won will find that you won and they lost. The child will grow up someday. Then he will know how deep the father’s love was—that he chose to be defeated. The child will awaken someday and understand. Do not try to defeat the child, for you will break the possibility of growth in him. Only the childish fight. And the one who fights never truly wins. For once you acquire the habit of fighting, you will be in trouble.
There is a famous story in the life of Mulla Nasruddin: at the teahouse where he used to drink tea there was a mischievous boy. He would come and smack Mulla’s turban; it fell to the ground. Mulla would pick it up and tie it again. He never said anything to the boy—as if nothing had happened. Others in the teahouse often said: Nasruddin, this has gone too far. You are spoiling the boy. He has made it a rule; he comes every day. He does not come unless you do. And what is this! Give him a tight slap one day. Nasruddin said, wait—life itself will deliver him a slap.
Many days passed. People asked, when will life deliver the slap? Where is life? One day the moment came. An Afghan soldier came and sat in the teahouse where Nasruddin sat. He had tied a turban of the same color as Nasruddin’s. The boy could not see from behind. He smacked the turban. The Afghan drew his sword and cut off the boy’s head. Nasruddin said, do you see! A bad habit finally brings a bad result. Nothing of ours was harmed; the boy lost his life.
Even if the unwise wins, he will ultimately lose badly. Because the habit of winning has been acquired; the taste has been caught. The wise keeps losing; the wise does not set himself against existence. He does not swim against the current; he flows where the river flows. And the one who has learned to flow with the current—his energy is never wasted. Energy is wasted in swimming. Against the current, much energy is wasted. Because you have to fight the current. And sooner or later you will lose—you will get tired; then the current will carry you helplessly away. Then you will depart sad, pained, afflicted, defeated. But the one who flows with the current can never be defeated by the river. How will you defeat the one who has already accepted defeat? The one who has already sat at the very end—where else can you push him back? The one who makes no claim—how can you refute his claim? And the one who has never declared his ego—how can you hurt his ego?
Lao Tzu says ravines and valleys are filled by the seas and the great rivers. How did this happen? Because they are skilled in bending and in being low. The entire skill of the ocean is this: it is beneath. Even small streams are above it. The ocean is vast—and it is low. And the lower it is, the more its vastness grows. Because by being low, all streams have to come and fall into it. He who remains high will dry up. He who remains low—toward him all streams keep flowing.
In life, the East understood the secret of bending in many, many ways. And these many ways filled the Eastern soul with oceans and rivers.
Young men from the West come to me and ask, what use is there in bowing at the feet of the Master?
It is not a question of the Master’s feet—that is not the point. The point is: what is the gain in bowing? And the benefits of bowing are without end. Because only when you bow does something begin to flow into you. Not only do rivers pour into the sea because it lies below; when you bow low, infinite rivers of consciousness begin to flow toward you. And the one who truly bows at the Master’s feet…
Because the bowing of the head alone is not true bowing. It may be that you are bowing formally—because it is tradition in the home, because elders taught it, because it has always been done, so you bow. Because one should bow; it is duty, so you bow. Because, what will people say—so you bow. Because others are bowing—so you bow: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. So many are bowing—let me bow too. But this is not bowing. The head’s bow is not the bow of the ego.
If you bow from within, not out of formality, but understanding the key—that in bowing one receives, in bowing you become a hollow—then consciousness flows exactly as water flows. And when your consciousness, like a hollow, bows before someone, in that very instant the stream of consciousness begins.
So many come to me; so many bow. I can tell them apart: who bowed within and who only bowed the head. Because in true bowing something immediately begins to happen within me. If they bow mechanically, nothing happens within me. But as soon as someone truly bows, in that instant my energy begins to flow toward him.
Life is a flow of energy. Energy too seeks the lower bed—just like rivers. Discipleship means understanding this secret. And when you bow truly, as I experience, you too will experience. In that very instant you will find: something flows within you; it fills you; you become brimming. It will overflow the rim of your vessel—you will see it. And once you have tasted this, then you will learn to bow everywhere in life.
Another great secret: if you bow at the feet of a saint, you benefit. His energy flows toward you. If you bow at the feet of an un-saint, you still benefit. His energy, filled with stench, cannot flow toward you. Stench always wants to rise upward; it does not wish to go down. The un-saint’s personality is the personality of ego. If you wish to learn from the un-saint, go stiff. Then you will befriend him. Then you will remain alike; the tuning will match. If you go to the bad, go with ego. Only then will the bad relate to you. For bad means: two egos. If you bow at the feet of the bad, the bad cannot harm you. This is a great secret.
Therefore in the East we created a certain arithmetic: bowing at the feet was made natural. Bow at the feet of anyone—there is no hindrance in it. If the person is good, you will gain; if he is bad, you will be protected from his badness. A bad man can relate only to ego, not to egolessness. Those dimensions do not meet. If you go humbly and bow even at the feet of the devil, the devil cannot harm you.
There was a woman fakir, Rabia. In the Quran is the injunction: hate the devil. She had cut it out. Another fakir, Hasan, was a guest in her house. He saw the Quran and said, this is blasphemy! Which infidel has excised a verse? No correction can be made in the Quran.
Rabia said, I had to do it. Earlier everything was fine. But when I came to know the secret of bowing at the feet of Paramatma, when I came to know the secret of the love of Paramatma, then one more thing became clear: Paramatma is attained by love, and the devil is attained by hate. If you hate the devil, he will keep meeting you. If you maintain any relationship of ego with the devil, he will appear again and again. So Rabia said, now even if the devil stands before me, I bow at his feet as I bow at the feet of Paramatma. Now there is no difference left for me. And since this has happened, I am safe from the devil and Paramatma is flowing toward me.
So I do not tell you: bow only at the Master’s feet. That is one side. Bow even at the feet of the worst person—that is the other side. You will pass through such wondrous experiences that no account can fully measure them. Bow at the feet of a bad man, and suddenly you will find: his badness is disarmed in relation to you. If you do not bow at the feet of a bad man, then he remains bad in relation to you; but if you bow, then even the bad one becomes good for you—though he may be bad for the whole world. Therefore, do not set a condition—at whose feet to bow. Bowing is such alchemy—such a great alchemy—that wherever you bow there will be benefit.
And once the East understood the secret of bowing, the East began to bow everywhere—river, mountain, stone, tree—everywhere it bowed. Because then it found: in bowing one only gains; the more you bow, the more you receive. This is a little difficult, because there is no scientific method to prove it. But if you go to a tree and bow with humility and gratitude, the energy of the tree begins to flow toward you. And the energy of the tree is very pure. The tree has not yet become human; it has not yet become distorted. Not a single tree is mad. All trees are healthy. Among humans there are madmen; among animals a few in zoos; but among trees there are none. There the energy is very pure and green—fresh. Not only are the leaves green; a green current of energy flows within. If you bow, you will return refreshed; you will return new. A tree is a person. And he is very primal; therefore very pure. He is closer to the source; he has not yet set out on the journey. You have traveled far; you have gone very far. The mountains are even nearer. Rivers—everything. Once the East found the key, it was not an ordinary key—it was the master key. With it all locks could be opened. With it there was protection from the bad; there was the inflow of the good; there were means to freshen life-energy.
Try it a little. At first you will feel it is great madness, to be bowing by a tree. But soon you will experience that something flows that refreshes your brain, that shakes off the inner dust. And once you understand the joy and delight of bowing, no one will be able to persuade you to stand stiff. For then you will know: stiffness is death; bending is life. Suppleness is the soul; to be without suppleness is inertia.
Lao Tzu says: “By being skilled in bending and remaining beneath.”
Learn to bend. But bending will happen only sometimes. Remain beneath twenty-four hours a day. Then you have learned the second thing: to be low. You found a Guru—you bowed. A tree came near—you bowed. You went to the river—you bowed. You will bow, and then stand again. Bowing is the beginning. And if by bowing now and then you receive so much, then the second step is to be low. Then bowing is not needed; you have made your being itself low. You become like a hollow. Then you need not bow again and again, moment to moment. You are like a hollow.
It happened that Junun, a great fakir of Egypt, was with his Master. He came daily and bowed daily. As many times as there were chances, he bowed. The Master would send him on some errand; when he returned he bowed again. The Master would say, bring water. He would bow while going, and bow while returning. Among the people and the other disciples it became a joke that Junun is mad. Bow once when you come—that’s enough. But to be with the Master all day and to keep bowing all day—this is madness. Then one day, after twenty years—twenty years Junun bowed in this way—people saw him come and sit silently before the Master, and he did not bow. People thought he had gone utterly mad now. Till now he did one extreme; now he is doing the other. The disciples asked the Master, has Junun gone totally mad? The Master said, no—the practice of bowing is complete. Now he is already bowed. Now there is no need to bow; he has attained the second state—he is low. You have to bow because you keep standing up again, you keep getting high again. That is why you must bow.
In Tibet there is a whole meditation experiment in which the disciple must bow a thousand times before the Master. Two thousand times, three thousand times, five thousand times. The Master sits in his room; the disciple is outside, doing his work. But in the day he must make five thousand full prostrations toward the Master. What is the secret of bowing five thousand times? So much attention accumulates through bowing that nothing else is required. Only this must be remembered: five thousand bows a day. It is not necessary that the Master’s feet be there; the disciple can be a mile or two away; but toward the direction of the Master he keeps bowing. He has nothing to do with the Master; the Master is only a pretext. The real thing is bowing. The Master is a peg; any peg will do. Bowing has to be hung upon it.
Western people have remained in great difficulty because they do not understand.
Look: a Hindu is doing Surya Namaskar before the sun. What will happen by bowing to the sun? That is not the question. It is the art of bowing that is to be learned. The sun is good enough for it. Surya Namaskar is a deep meditative experiment. Not because of the sun—if you think it is because of the sun, you are mistaken—but because of bowing.
So the first step is: bow. Then the second step: become skilled in being beneath. Then the whole world will keep flowing toward you; your wealth will be without end. Pour out and give away as much as you like of the treasure of your bliss—it will only go on increasing. Because you have made yourself a hollow. The nectar is flowing. Both your hands keep emptying it; nothing will be lacking. The more you empty, the more you will receive—it will go on growing.
“Thus they became lords of the ravines and valleys. To be foremost among people, one must be as their follower.”
If you try to go ahead of people, they will push you back. People—meaning statues filled with ego, mad. If you try to go ahead, they will drag you back. If you try to be behind, they will lift you onto their heads. When you do not hurt their ego, they accept you; when you hurt their ego, their ego fills with revenge. And people are mad.
So Lao Tzu says, if you want truly to be ahead of people, the art is to fall behind. But understand this much: if you are falling behind in order to get ahead, you will miss. That is no good. Whom will you deceive? Do not understand it thus: if you want to get ahead, then fall behind. Because if the desire to get ahead remains and falling behind is only a means, then you are not falling behind at all.
A disciple of Bayazid said to him, I have read in your words and heard from you that if you renounce women, women will follow you; if you renounce wealth, the goddess of wealth will pursue you. It has been twenty years, and no one has come yet. Bayazid said, nor will they come—because you keep looking back. The goddess of wealth will not come; you cannot deceive her. You are looking back. You are deceiving only yourself.
If you want to be superior among people and therefore stand behind, you will never understand Lao Tzu. Yes—if you simply stand behind, you will become superior. That is a by-product, a result. The one who stands behind—people carry him upon their heads. Not because he desired it, but because the one who stands behind becomes superior. He has no desire to be superior. Hidden in standing behind is becoming superior. The desire to be superior is the desire of an inferior mind. He has dropped all inferiority; he has dropped it so totally that now he can stand behind everyone—in his majestic dignity. Now he holds his dignity within himself. Now there is no question of being ahead of anyone. Now he is within himself, supremely delighted. His lamp has been lit. Now he is superior. People will carry him upon their heads.
But do not stand behind with this desire—otherwise your lamp will remain unlit. You are not standing behind. You will keep waiting—when will people come, when will they carry me on their eyes? You will keep reading Lao Tzu’s book again and again—is there some mistake in my reading? Still people have not come! Still they have not carried me on their eyes! Time is passing! Life is being wasted!
“One must speak as their follower.”
Therefore the sage does not issue commands; he only offers counsel. Command is for emperors; it is their proprietorship. Counsel means only advice: accept it if you wish; if not, that is also fine. And the sage does not give advice unasked. It was Buddha’s rule that unless someone asked three times, he would not answer. Therefore it becomes difficult to read Buddha’s books. Because a man would ask three times, and then Buddha would answer three times. It becomes very long—the work becomes sixfold.
Someone asked Buddha, why do you wait for three times?
Buddha said, only the one who asks can receive. And the purpose of three askings is only this: that you truly wish to ask, not that you have come out of casual curiosity. Your life must be at stake; only then can counsel be given. Only when the receiver is ready can it be given. Only when the receiver is eager can it be given. Only when the receiver is thirsty can it be given.
And why do you answer three times?
Buddha said, however ready the receiver may be, he is asleep. Perhaps he will not hear the first time; he may hear the second. If not the second, perhaps the third.
Jesus told his disciples, if someone abuses you, forgive him seven times. A disciple asked, all right—then what on the eighth time? Having forgiven seven times, what then on the eighth? Jesus said, not seven times—seventy times. And if you ask, what on the seventy-eighth, I will say seven hundred and seventy times. Because then you have missed the point. Seven is only a symbol—of forgiving. Forgive: that is the meaning. Seven is said because you have no confidence.
There is a story about a Christian fakir. A man came and slapped him on one cheek. He offered the other, as Jesus taught: if someone strikes your left cheek, offer the right. That man too was wicked. He had read Jesus’ book. He said, you will not trick me. He slapped the right cheek as well. As soon as he slapped the right, the fakir leapt and mounted his chest. The man cried, what are you doing! Being a follower of Jesus—and this is what you do! He said, Jesus has said: when someone strikes the left, offer the right. But when someone strikes the right—he has said nothing further. And beyond the right, there is nothing. I am now free. I did what Jesus said—finished. Now you match me if you can.
You manage to get all principles out of the way, and very quickly you reveal yourself.
Do not make such a mistake. Do not stand last in order to be first. Otherwise you will repent heavily. Better you keep trying to be first, then at least you will not blame Lao Tzu’s book that you were trapped by its confusion and stood behind—no one came, no band played, no welcome ceremony happened.
“To be the leader among people, one must walk behind them.”
Remember, Lao Tzu is speaking of the result, not of desire. If you walk behind, you will suddenly find you have become the leader. This is the result of walking behind. No desire of yours is needed for it. If desire enters, Lao Tzu’s principle will not work. Because then you are not walking behind—you are still going ahead.
Lao Tzu cannot be used as a means. No wise one can be used as a means. The wise one is an end, not a means. People use them as means; hence they miss. And then they experience that these things do not prove true in life. They never will. Lao Tzu, Krishna, Christ—these are ends; you cannot use them for your greed, your lust, your craving. If you follow them as they say, one day you will suddenly find that what they said is true to the last grain—one hundred percent. Because what they have said was first true in their lives; only then did they say it.
“In this way the sage is above, yet the people do not feel his weight.”
If you place yourself above anyone, people will feel your weight. And who wishes to bear a weight? Everyone wants to throw off a burden. A burden becomes suicidal. Your soul begins to writhe under it; your wings are clipped. If the husband stands above the wife, it is a burden. If the wife stands above the husband, it is a burden. If the father stands above the son, it is a burden—and the son will try to throw it off. And throughout life everyone tries to be above—and so you become burdens upon everyone, hanging on their necks like stones. Everyone wants to be free of you.
Lao Tzu says: the sage too is above, but his art of being so is unique. He becomes low; therefore people lift him upon their heads. He does not seat himself above; people seat him there. And when someone of his own joy lifts another upon his head, then he does not feel the weight. When someone forcibly sits upon your head, then you feel the weight. Hence love makes weightless.
And the sage awakens great love. Because the one who sits in the very back does not injure your ego; there is no struggle with him. Suddenly his humility begins to touch you. Around him there is an atmosphere of humility; a different flow of energy. The egotist need not say he is egotist; you immediately understand. In his gait, his rising and sitting—everywhere is stiffness. Everywhere he shows, I am somebody, understand? Do you know who I am? The humble one is as if hidden; as if he does not wish to fall into your eyes, as if he does not wish to cut across your path, as if he does not wish to create sound—not even the sound of his footfall should reach you and cause hindrance.
Zen fakirs say: when someone attains enlightenment—and they are right—the disciple need not come and tell the Master that it has happened. As the disciple approaches, the Master says, so—it is done. It even happened that when Rinzai became enlightened and went toward his Master’s hut, he was climbing the steps outside and the Master shouted from within, so, Rinzai has attained! The Master had not yet seen—he only heard the footfall. Rinzai was astonished. The disciples were astonished. They asked, what is the matter? The Master said: when the egotist walks, his footfall is different—there is a jar even in his feet. Even through the sound of his feet he says, I am coming—make way! And when the humble one comes there is no jar in his feet; his feet have become sweet. His feet come so that no one be disturbed; that the music, the rhythm of another be not disturbed by my walking; that no hindrance arise for anyone. He comes as a shadow comes.
Rinzai himself wrote a song: when one attains to knowing, he becomes like the shadow of a tree that sweeps the steps, yet raises no dust. The shadow of a tree sweeps the steps, yet no dust is raised. In another song Rinzai said: like a flock of cranes flying across the sky. The cranes do not desire that a reflection be formed in the lake; nor has the lake any desire to create a reflection. The reflection forms and dissolves—neither the lake comes to know nor the cranes. Such is the person who has attained to knowing. No one should come to know; even if a reflection forms, let there be no stir. Even if a shadow sweeps, not a particle of dust should tremble. Not even that much violence does he wish.
Certainly, the movement of his feet, the sound of his feet—everything changes. In his footfall there is passivity, not activity. In his footfall there is no karma; there is the state of akarma. He does not walk—someone seems to be making him walk. He is empty within, void. The resonance of his void is found in each of his acts.
“The sage is above, and the people do not feel his weight.”
Because the people themselves lift him above. Do not try to seat yourself over anyone. Whoever you sit over will become your enemy. And thus you have gathered a thousand enemies around you. Your entire effort is to sit over someone. Even a tiny child is born in the home and the mother and father begin trying to mount him. You do not leave even the child—you ride him as well. Then if the child becomes the parents’ enemy, it is no surprise. If harmony is lost between husband and wife, it is no surprise. Both are engaged in trying to ride each other—who will dominate whom, who will drive, who is the real owner.
Are you so inferior that you must compete even with a small child? Are you so inferior that you cannot leave your wife unburdened? Are you so inferior that you cannot leave your husband unburdened?
The greater the superiority, the more one leaves the other without burden. The greater the inferiority, the more one rides another’s chest. Why? Because when you are superior, people themselves lift you to their heads. When you are inferior, then you must put a ladder and climb onto people’s heads. Who would lift the inferior upon their heads!
Therefore your politics becomes the trade of inferior people. The lowest in society get involved in it. For politics is a ladder by which one can climb onto the chest and head of an entire nation. If only the world’s capitals—may Paramatma contrive—vanished at once, just the capitals, then ninety percent of sin would vanish at once. If Delhi, London, Washington, Moscow, Peking were suddenly to disappear. For there all the mad, all the people filled with inferiorities, have gathered. Capitals should be encircled and turned into mental hospitals. Everyone there needs treatment. They are the lowest of the low, because only the low wants to sit upon the head.
Seat a superior person upon your head and he will say, forgive me, let me get down—why are you needlessly troubling yourselves! Why? Because he is so superior within that he does not have to become superior by sitting on someone’s head. And has anyone ever become superior by sitting on someone’s head? When superiority is real, its dignity is inner; it has no relation to anyone else. There is no need of others’ opinions, of others’ support. Superiority can live alone. A superior person will be just as superior in the solitude of the Himalayas.
Take your prime minister, your president into the jungle’s solitude. As the crowd thins, the president will shrink. When you take him into the deep forest and there is no one at all, the crows of the trees will seem more superior. He is nothing—he is a nonentity. All his power of being was in the crowd of people, upon whose heads he learned to climb. When the people are gone, the ladder has fallen.
When Napoleon was defeated he was imprisoned on the island of St. Helena. A defeated Napoleon suffers a great disgrace. While he was victorious he was the master of the world; defeated, he became worth a penny. But still—as a rope burns, the twist remains. The rope burned, but till the last breath Napoleon did not change his clothes. They rotted, became filthy, tattered. Many times he was told: new clothes are available for you—wear them. He said, no. At the time of death he wrote in his diary: these clothes are something else, these are the emperor’s clothes. However many new clothes you may bring—they will be a prisoner’s clothes.
Ashes now—but the stiffness remains. Even now he walks with the same stiffness. The clothes are torn, old, worn out; yet he still thinks of himself as an emperor. At the time of death he wrote: I admit that I am no longer an emperor, but no one can deny that I am a defeated emperor. Defeated—granted; but still an emperor. But what meaning is there in a defeated emperor?
The more one feels inner lack—of inferiority—the more one devises outer ways to cover it. He lights outer lamps so that the inner darkness be not seen. Within, everyone knows: I am a nothing—therefore he shows off to others. Remember: the more someone shows off to others, the smaller the person hidden within. A great person has no show. A great person is such as if he were not. Greatness is emptiness. And when you encounter that emptiness anywhere, suddenly your head bows. Then you wish to place someone upon your head.
The sage is above not by his own doing; people lift him above. They cannot remain without lifting him above; for in lifting him you sprout wings—lifting him, you begin to fly along. The more you lift him, the more you lift yourself.
To seat an inferior above is dangerous. For the more you seat the inferior above, the more you are crushed below, the smaller you become. To be a slave is bad. Because whenever you agree to be someone’s slave, everything within begins to shrink; you become even more enslaved.
But to be a servant is another delight. There is a difference between slavery and servanthood. The slave is made by force; the other rides your chest. Servanthood means: you yourself lift someone upon your head. Slavery is bondage; servanthood is great freedom.
Therefore Kabir says: says the servant Kabir.
This ‘servant’ of Kabir is not a slave; it is a servanthood willingly embraced, a smallness accepted on one’s own, a standing-behind practiced willingly; an effort to make oneself nothing—by one’s own will.
“They go in front, and people do not wish them harm.”
When you wish to go ahead of people, people will wish you harm. For you are a hindrance to their going ahead—you are their enemy. Therefore in politics there is no friend. In politics there are two kinds of enemies: open enemies and hidden enemies. The hidden is more dangerous than the open.
Machiavelli, who wrote the Bible or Veda of politics—The Prince—gave some suggestions. He said: the politician, the king, the emperor must never mistakenly consider anyone a friend; otherwise he will repent. For he who is friend today may be enemy tomorrow. He also said: do not say things about an enemy such that if there is ever a chance for friendship, those things become a hindrance. For anyone can be an enemy, anyone a friend.
Those around the politician are also enemies; for they too are trying to sit on the throne you sit on. Some enemies strive from outside to come in; some enemies are within and strive from there. The politician can have no friend; the same ambition that brought you there has brought others there too.
So Indira’s fear is not only of a Jayaprakash, it is as much of a Y. B. Chavan—more. And it is easier to guard against the enemy outside; it is difficult to guard against the enemy inside—because he is inside. That is why Indira must change portfolios every day, so that no one get the delusion that he has settled in. One must keep uprooting. You must know for certain that you have not settled in—that you do not start trying to go even further. You must be kept confined to your place—that you somehow remain there. Because if you become certain that from where you are no one can remove you, then you will start to reach for the seat above. Therefore this seat must be kept shaking so that your energy is absorbed in just staying on it and not moving higher. Friendship is not possible in politics. What friendship can the ambitious have!
If we are all ambitious, then we are all each other’s enemies. Because we are trying to get the same things others are trying to get. And those things are few—whether wealth or position. The whole world wants the same; therefore the whole world is each other’s enemy. And a quarrel goes on continuously—hidden in etiquette, covered in culture, clothed in garments, words, and manners—but within a struggle is going on.
“The sage goes in front, and people do not wish him harm.”
Because the sage walks behind; people themselves bring him to the front. And as soon as people leave him, he goes behind again. Such a unique event occurred in this land: above the emperor, in the forest, was the place of the rishi. He had stepped aside—behind. But the emperor would go and touch his feet. The one who had nothing—his feet were touched by the one who had everything. It was a unique experiment.
It happened that Buddha came to a town. The emperor’s minister said, please come; we should go outside the city to welcome him. The emperor was new, full of stiffness. He said, why should I go? After all, Buddha is a beggar. If he has to come, he will come himself to the palace. Why do I need to go? The old minister at once wrote his resignation. He said, then please keep my resignation. For it will be difficult for me to work under so small a man. You have no greatness at all. The emperor said, I have no greatness? It is because of my greatness that I am not going.
The old minister said, we do not call this greatness. Buddha was once an emperor—and he left the emperorship and took the bowl of a bhikshu. Therefore the beggar’s bowl is greater than the empire. He left the empire for this bowl. If you can see, you are a step behind Buddha. For after being an emperor he became a bhikshu. You are still an emperor; to be a bhikshu is far for you. And you must go to bow and touch his feet; otherwise accept my resignation.
A unique experiment happened in the East: the one who is the very last—at his feet bows the one who is foremost. For the foremost is still childish, in the fever of ambition. The one who stands last has matured. He has no competition with anyone. Now competition is absolute zero. Only in this zero-competition does the self-dignity take birth for the first time. Now there is no grabbing. Now wealth is not outside; wealth is within. Now there is nothing to be obtained from anyone; now what is to be obtained is already given. Now the inner lamp burns; now the outer lights have no meaning. Now let the outer become deep darkness—no difference. Let there be no one outside—even if the whole earth becomes empty—yet in his solitude there will be the same peace and the same bliss as when the crowd was there. Now there is no difference between market and forest. Now what you say—good or bad—has no relevance.
The one established in such self-dignity—that is the sage.
“They go in front, and people do not wish them harm. Then the people of the world, happily and forever, carry them upon their heads. Because they do not contend, no one in the world can contend against them.”
It is hard to fight with a sage. Fight—and lose. If you fight with a sage, your defeat is certain. A sage cannot be defeated. Why? Because a sage has no desire to win. How can you defeat the one who does not want to win?
Keshav Chandra came to debate with Ramakrishna—to defeat him—and returned defeated. Because Ramakrishna did not debate. Everything turned upside down. Keshav began to speak of argument—that God does not exist—began to prove. After each argument Ramakrishna would get up and embrace him, saying, wonderful—exactly right. In a little while Keshav wilted: what now? The crowd that had come to watch Ramakrishna’s defeat grew restless: what kind of debate is this!
Keshav said, you say yes to all my points—do you accept defeat?
Ramakrishna said, when did I ever make a claim to win you? How could a rustic like me win a talent like yours? Impossible! But let me tell you one thing: I am uneducated; no great divinity is being manifested through me. Seeing you I became certain that God is. Such talent! Such logic! What wondrous things you have said! Where such talent can flower, there must be God. How could such talent arise from mere matter? And I am not ready to admit, Keshav, that you are just dirt and stone. There is such a music of intelligence playing within you; that music announces that Paramatma is. Before, perhaps I had a little doubt; your coming has washed even that away.
Keshav returned defeated. Because the sage has no quarrel. What is his claim? He has nothing to prove. The sage has no doctrine to prove, no scripture to prove. The sage has only a life. And in that moment Keshav’s eyes opened; he saw the sage’s life, saw that majesty which even opposition cannot defeat, which argument cannot erase—saw that trust which, let a thousand storms of logic be raised, whose lamp does not even flicker—rather, even from the storm it draws life.
Have you seen: small lamps go out in a gust of wind, but when a great fire is ablaze, the wind acts like ghee. If a house is on fire, the only safety is that no wind blow. If wind comes then, the fire will spread; it will be hard to put out. But look at the arithmetic! A small lamp—wind comes and it goes out. A great fire—wind comes and it burns higher.
A sage is such a great fire that if you bring a storm to extinguish, it will work like ghee. Small lamps are defeated by argument. Great fire is increased by argument. Small lamps—you can defeat them by fighting. Fight a great fire—you will be burned; you will lose.
But it is great fortune to come near a great fire and lose. There is no greater good fortune than to be defeated at a sage’s feet. If you take back the stiffness of victory from there—that is defeat. If you lose there, if you surrender there—that is victory. As there is victory-in-defeat in love, so in shraddha too. For shraddha is love’s great fire.
To struggle against a sage is difficult because within the sage the one you could clash with is not. Inside you will find a great void; there will be no wall ready to fight you. The more you go within the sage, the more you will find that inner sky opening. Coming to the sage, you will be lost. It is like a drop falling into the ocean and disappearing. It is great good fortune to reach a sage. Why do I say good fortune? Because those who are very clever—clever in their foolishness—do not even come near a sage. The only way to save yourself from a sage is not to come near—stay far, live by hearsay. Believe what people say about the sage—do not face him directly. Only then can you be saved. If you come directly, you will be obliterated. Therefore those who are very clever live by hearsay. They do not even gather the courage to come close and see. They are not ready to look into the eyes. It is dangerous. In one sense they are right, for if you come close your victory is difficult—impossible. At the feet of the sage there is no other possibility except to be defeated.
And the nearer you come—the nearer you must come—the thirst will grow, the ache will intensify. The nearer you come, the more a deep urge to disappear will arise. One day you will drown in the sage. And the day you drown in the sage, that day the dawn of saintliness arises within you. That day you are no longer the one who came. That day you have passed through fire and your gold has been purified. You become pure kundan; all dross is burned.
A sage is a revolution through which you can pass. But only if you are ready to be obliterated should you draw near. People are such that they come near, and they are not ready to be obliterated. Then they fall into great difficulty. I see their dilemma, their trouble. With one foot they come near me; with the other they go away. With one hand they come near; with the other they hold themselves back.
It happened that Mulla Nasruddin’s wife came one day and said, hurry! It is a moment of danger—Mulla is trying to hang himself. I went with her to his house. On the way she kept saying, hurry! Your pace is not right—this is a crisis. I said, don’t worry. The man who has never succeeded in anything will not succeed in suicide either; be completely at ease. But she was sweating and trembling. She said, suicide is another matter. In other things he failed because those depended on others. This he must do himself. No one will interfere. He has locked the room. I said, don’t worry—I know him well—he cannot succeed in anything.
We reached the house. He had arranged everything. A rope was tied to the beam; he stood on a stool and was tying the rope around his waist. I said, Nasruddin—if you want to die, why tie the rope around your waist? He said, first I tried tying it around my neck, but great restlessness arises. And die I must—so I am tying it around my waist. Is there no trick by which one can die comfortably?
Many are in such a dilemma. They come near a sage and yet want to save themselves; they tie the rope around the waist. They say, when we tie it around the neck there is restlessness. They both try to save themselves and cannot save themselves. Because the invitation has been heard; the call has come; the summons has arrived. And within there is a feeling that we are ready; we should jump, we should take the plunge. We stand at the edge; in a single moment the event can happen—only courage is needed. But we clutch the shore. We have boarded the boat, and the moorings are tied to the shore; we will not untie them. We sit in the boat and row; the moorings are tied to the shore. The boat goes nowhere.
Do not fall into such a dilemma. Either run away and never look back—or take the leap and never fear what will happen. Between the two you will be neither of the house nor of the ghat—neither of the world nor of sannyas—neither of matter nor of Paramatma. Then you will remain in great confusion. That shore is gone, and the other has not arrived. In midstream you will drown.
If you are to come to a sage, come wholly. If not to come, then wholly do not come. The middle gives rise to great tension, great anguish. And by tying the rope around your waist, no hanging happens. Restlessness will be there—because all the past must be killed. Restlessness will be there—because all desires must be burned. Restlessness will be there—because all ambitions and madness must be thrown into the fire; the ego must be reduced to ashes. Restlessness is certain. But after that restlessness—after that dark night—the dawn is born. And those who wish to see the morning must have the courage to pass through the dark night.
That is all for today.