Tao Upanishad #111

The complexity of human life is constructed out of one basic fact. And that basic fact is that you begin to get involved in the effort to show what you are not. Then you will never reach truth, because you have begun with the false; the very first step of the journey has gone astray.
One in whose life there is no love tries to show love. One in whose life there is no valor tries to display valor. One in whose life there is no courage puts on masks of courage.
The very moment you try to declare what is not, you go astray. The way to arrive is straight and clear: show precisely what you are. That is the mark of an authentic life.
But why does this happen? Why does man want to display what he is not? There are deep reasons. Understand them.
To attain love in life is not easy; it is arduous. The path is steep, like a high mountain climb. For to attain love means to change oneself; to become a lover means to break, cut down, prune the ego. As you are, who will be able to love you? As you are now, people may at most be able to hate you; they will not be able to love you. There is so much rubbish within you—it will have to be burned. Only when you are refined like pure gold will anyone be able to love you. And that path is long; it is hard.
There is a cheaper trick. It is: drop worrying about changing yourself; begin to display what you think you ought to be. Put on a false face. Start a game of deception with life. There is no fragrance in your life—don’t worry; perfumes are sold in the bazaar, spray them on yourself. There is no smile within you rising from your life-force; even so, you can make the lips appear to smile. The smile of the lips is not necessarily connected with the smile of the heart. The lips can smile without any connection to the heart; it is only a matter of a little practice. The lips are superficial; they can manage it. That will do. The other will be deceived.
And the moment the other is deceived, a greater deception is born: self-deception. When you see that others are taken in by your deception—when, time and again, people trust the smile—eventually you will find that you yourself have started trusting your smile. For you know yourself through others. When others say you are very cheerful, then you too begin to believe it. Then the deception is strengthened. Now you have not only deceived others, you have deceived yourself. Now self-delusion has become complete. Now it will be very difficult to shake it. And whoever tries to shake it will appear to you like an enemy—because he is snatching away your smile; he is taking from you your virtue of love, your nonviolence, your compassion, your kindness, your charity. Whoever warns you that what you are doing is all fake will seem to you an enemy. And whoever flatters you, saying, “You are perfectly right—no one as virtuous as you,” will seem to you a friend.
That is why flattery is so effective in the world. Everyone is influenced by flattery. If you ever find someone who is not, understand that he is an authentic man. Flattery means: the lie you are telling yourself, I am ready to collaborate with it. You give two inches of deception, I will add four inches of support. Then people around you start padding your lie. And a reciprocal conspiracy runs through society: you prop up our lies, we will prop up yours; you protect our falsehoods, we will protect yours.
One day Mulla Nasruddin was sitting in a coffee-house saying, “Today, something astounding happened. I went fishing; I caught a fish that weighed thirteen maunds!” No one believed him. Another man said, “That’s nothing. I went fishing too. I didn’t catch a fish, something else got hooked to my line. I pulled it up—a lantern! And written on it was: This is Alexander the Great’s lantern; very ancient. And not only that—I found it still lit inside!” Nasruddin said, “Do one thing, brother—let me reduce my fish’s weight a little, and you at least blow out that lantern’s flame!”
Deceptions—there is a mutual reckoning about how far people will go along with them.
Hindus have called this web of deception ‘maya.’ Do not think that the outer world is maya. These trees and the moon and stars are not maya. Maya is the world you have built around you on the foundation of falsehood. And when you are free of maya it is not that trees and moon and stars will dissolve. Only that false world which you had erected will vanish. And when you have accumulated so many lies—layer upon layer—if one peels a man, lies begin to come off like the layers of an onion. It is hard to find which layer is the layer of your original nature. There are so many. So vast a net have you spun around yourself.
But those who have even a little understanding of the human mind—you will not be able to deceive them. Their measure is precisely this: whatever you display, in ninety-nine percent of cases you cannot be that. If you smile too much, it will be because there is great sadness within; otherwise there was no need to smile so much. If on the surface you show great love, ninety-nine percent likely there is hatred inside, and you have no other way to hide it. Otherwise your hideous face would be seen. Otherwise your inner filth would begin to show. So you have groomed yourself in every way.
But whatever you show on the outside—those who know understand—you will be exactly the opposite within. I say ninety-nine percent, because one time in a hundred there is a buddha who is the same outside and inside. You—something outside, something inside; not only different—but exactly the opposite within to what you are without. In fact, you have built the outside precisely contrary to the inside so that you can deceive.
This first thing is essential to understand. It means this: the man who talks too much about courage—understand that inside he is fearful, terror-stricken. Otherwise what need to talk so much of courage?
A soldier came into a coffee-house. He said, “Today there was a fierce battle; I cut off at least a hundred heads like grass.” Nasruddin sat listening. He said, “Such a time came in my life too. I also went to war.” The soldier did not like it that someone intruded, but now that the matter had been raised, it was hard to stop. He asked, “What happened in that war?” Nasruddin said, “I too cut off many feet like grass.” The soldier said, “It would have been better had you cut off heads—we have never heard that anyone went to war and cut off feet!” Nasruddin said, “What could I do? Someone had already cut off the heads. There were no heads there. I went and cut off the feet like grass.”
Wherever you hear a lot of talk of courage, understand that inside a frightened man is hiding. He talks of bravery precisely so that no one recognizes his inner state.
Those whom you hear talking much of love—understand that they have failed in love. They are poets, litterateurs; they talk greatly of love, sing songs. But it is very surprising that all poets who have sung of love were failures in love. Otherwise one would simply love—why sing? When love itself you can do, who has time to write songs? You create songs to weave a mist around you so the lack of love may be compensated. It is only a hungry man who dreams of food, not one with a full belly. If love comes in your dreams, it means love is not in your life. The dream is a substitute. What is not happening in life you complete in a dream. What you cannot obtain in reality you fulfill in imagination.
So poets write love songs; their songs may be very sweet. But behind those songs great pain is hiding. You will not find even a single poet who has succeeded in love—because one who succeeds in love, love itself is so great a song that he sings no other song. There will be the song of love in his life, but he will not dream of love.
Understand this as a fundamental law of life.
It happens that when guests come to a poor man’s house he borrows chairs, furniture, sofas, rugs, bedding from the neighbors. Only the poor man does this; he wants to deceive the guests, to show them: all is well, we live in great comfort. It is all borrowed, but in another’s eyes he must create an image.
This is what we do our whole lives—morning to evening. Someone meets you on the road, asks, “How are you?” You say, “Perfectly fine.” You say it with such feeling that it becomes believable. And nothing in your life is fine—not only perfectly fine, nothing is fine; everything is awry. But when you say to the other, “All is well,” then for a single moment you too begin to believe it. Watch it. When someone asks, “How are you?” and you say, “Everything is fine,” then for a moment, by the very saying, everything seems fine.
Deceiving another, a man finally deceives himself. And the day you succeed in deceiving yourself, there remains no way to come out of that deceit. This is the mark of madness. A madman is one who has become perfectly skilled in self-deception, who has succeeded completely. You may explain to him by the million that he is not Napoleon, but he believes he is Napoleon.
A man was being treated. He had the delusion that he was Napoleon. When his treatment was completed, the physician said, “Now you are fine. You can go home.” The man stood up very happily and said, “Please telephone Josephine—Napoleon’s wife—that I am well now and am coming home.”
To bring a madman out of his circle is difficult. And the madman arranges his system very logically.
Mulla Nasruddin every day stood outside his house and, after muttering a mantra, would fling something away. The neighbors asked, “What is this tantra-mantra that you do?” He said, “By the power of these mantras, lions, wild beasts, tigers cannot enter the village.” People laughed. “Nasruddin, you are mad. Where are there any lions or wild beasts here?” Nasruddin said, “That proves the mantra works; they have all run away. This is exactly what I am saying. That is why there are no lions and wild beasts here—because every day I throw the mantra!”
It is hard to bring a madman outside his logic. Madmen are very logical. Talk to any madman and the great obstacle you will find is that it is nearly impossible to get him out of his logic. He keeps proving his logic from all sides.
It happened: Umar became caliph among the Muslims. He cast a man into prison because the man proclaimed, “I am a prophet of God.” Islam does not accept that after Mohammed there can be any prophet. Umar was very angry. He had the man bound and thrown into prison. He said, “I will come after two days.” For two days they beat him thoroughly, tortured him, starved him, did not let him sleep, so that he might come to his senses.
After two days Umar went to the prison. The man was tied to a post, bloodied. Umar asked, “Now what do you think?” He said, “Think? When God sent me as a prophet, he said, ‘Prophets are always beaten and tortured.’ This proves only that I am a prophet, for prophets are always persecuted in history.”
Just then, from another post, a man cried out, “This man is utterly wrong!” Umar asked him, “Who are you?” He said, “I am God himself! And I never sent him. This is utter falsehood. After Mohammed I have sent no one.”
It is virtually impossible to bring any madman outside his logic. Whatever you will do, he will use that very device as his logic.
It is very difficult to bring you out of your madness too. But as yet you have not become completely mad—there is hope therefore. A small margin remains where you are suspicious. When you become absolutely unquestioning in your lie, it will be difficult to pull you out. For now you still doubt a little whether your laughter is real or not; whether your tears are real or not. This doubt is your greatest support. On the strength of this doubt you will be able to come out. Deepen this doubt. Examine, test, scrutinize each and every habit, style of your life—whether you have truly loved, or you have only played with words. Because if you can do even one thing truly, the whole edifice of untruth will fall. Truth has great power.
I say, if you can do even one thing in truth, the entire edifice of untruth will collapse. Therefore it is not that you must do many truths and only then the building will fall; a single truth will bring it down. However many untruths there may be, they are weak and impotent; they have no strength. If, even from one direction, you begin to be true, suddenly you will find that the roots of untruth across your life have begun to be uprooted. Take one step toward truth, drop one false face; the remaining faces will become loosened. Begin wherever you wish. But remember this: whatever you display, your inner state will be the opposite of it.
The pundit goes around showing how learned he is—inside there is profound ignorance. To hide that, he has taken shelter in scriptures; he has wrapped himself in words and doctrines—put on the blanket of the name of Ram. Inside there is deep darkness; he wants to hide it—lest anyone know, lest anyone see.
But whether anyone knows or not is not the question. If that darkness is within you, you will live in it, you will drown in it. That darkness must be dispelled. If there is disease within, don’t build an outer conviction of health; otherwise that conviction will become the reason for the increase of the disease. And what was a small boil today will become a sore tomorrow; and what is a sore tomorrow will become cancer the day after.
Disease also grows, it does not stop. Disease has its own life. You can hide the wound; you can tie a lovely flower over it—what will that do? Its inner stench may not reach others, but within you it will go on growing. At the end, only a wound will remain. And this is what happens—by the time people reach their death, they find: the whole life has become a pain, a wound, wherein no joy was ever known, where the thrill of life never rose even once; as if they never lived at all, only dragged on. Life was not a dance, not a festival.
Lao Tzu says, “The brave soldier is not violent.”
One becomes violent in order to show the world that one is brave. Therefore one who is brave cannot be violent.
That is why we called Vardhaman ‘Mahavira’—not merely ‘Vira’ (brave), but ‘Mahavira,’ the great brave one. For the ahimsa that Vardhaman manifested can be manifested only by a Mahavira. Mahavira is not his name; his name is Vardhaman. But there is a reason for calling him Mahavira: only the truly brave can be free of violence; only the great brave can be free of all violence. Valor is so clear to itself that there is nothing to prove. You prove only what you know is not there. The day you know it is there, you stop proving.
Hitler is a coward and Vardhaman is brave. Read Hitler and understand—he will help you to understand Lao Tzu. It would be hard to find a greater coward on earth than Hitler. He could not sleep at night in the dark; he slept only with lights on. He was so afraid he could never trust anyone. Therefore he did not marry. Because if he married, at least he would have to trust his wife enough to sleep in the same room with her—and at night she might strangle him! Who knows, she might be allied to enemies! He did not marry until his dying breath. Just an hour before death he married. When it became absolutely certain that now there was only suicide left to do, nothing else remained; when bombs began to fall even on the place where Hitler was staying, and the defeat of Germany became absolutely certain, nothing remained to be done, it was only a matter of an hour and Germany would collapse—then the first thing he did was to call a priest and said, “First perform my marriage.” The priest was astonished—marriage at this hour!
But the reason was that Hitler was always afraid—how to trust an unknown woman? And who is known? Who is acquainted with whom? You are not acquainted even with yourself, so how can you be acquainted with another? Perhaps the woman might be a spy, allied to someone. To sleep together at night is dangerous, unsafe. Now there was no fear. He married. And the second thing he did after marrying was suicide. Both committed suicide.
So afraid! He would faint at the smallest things. If someone contradicted him, many times in Hitler’s life it happened that he had an epileptic fit—he could not even bear a contradiction. For contradiction would make him suspect himself: perhaps I too could be wrong. Those close to him were very troubled lest anything be said to him that might make him fall down, fit, dizzy, unconscious. One had to agree with his every word. He was like a small child who would stamp his feet and break his head over every little thing. One had to agree with everything he said. He knew everything about everything. And he had no real knowledge of anything. This feeble man drowned the whole world in violence. The Second World War, the greatest war ever, killed millions. Terrible violence happened such as had never happened before. And the man because of whom it happened was a great coward.
A coward will always be violent. He has to be violent. Otherwise where will he hide his cowardice? He will hide behind the smoke of violence.
I have heard that Aesop wanted to write a story but could not. By some source the story reached me; let me share it. A donkey had a great desire to befriend the lion, the king of the jungle. Donkeys always have such desires. Somehow the donkey managed to please the lion—because donkeys know the tricks of praise and flattery. In fact, it is the donkeys who have convinced the lion that he is king—what proof is there otherwise? The donkey flattered him greatly. The lion was pleased. He said, “You are fit to be made my minister.” The donkey said, “Only someone as intelligent as you could recognize that; others merely take me for a donkey—people, you know, lack such understanding.”
The lion took him along. The very first day they went hunting. The donkey wanted to show his bravery. They stopped outside a lair where some wild sheep lived in a cave. The donkey said, “You sit outside; I will go in and cause such a commotion that the sheep will run out by themselves. You kill them and enjoy your meal, and save some for me.”
The lion sat outside. The donkey indeed created a terrible racket—kicked up so much dust, threw so many double-kicks—that the sheep panicked and ran out. The lion had a fine meal, saved some for the donkey. When the donkey returned, he asked, “Tell me—how did I do?” The lion said, “Had I not known you were a mere donkey, I myself would have run away—you created such a tumult. Many times I had to restrain myself: ‘Hey, he’s a donkey!’ Otherwise many times I almost ran.”
When a donkey creates a commotion, he will overdo it. When a coward shows bravery, he will overdo it. And what is the way to show it? There is only one way—destroy, be violent, break and smash—so that the world knows how powerful you are. The powerless longs to show power. But one who has power simply forgets the very idea of display. There is nothing to show; what is, is. He is so assured in his being that he needs no certificate from anybody.
Another Aesop story: The lion goes about asking the animals, “Who is the king of the forest?” He asks the wolf; “You are, your majesty! Is that even a question?” He asks the deer; in a choir they say, “You are! Is there any doubt?” Swelling with swagger he arrives at the elephant and asks, “Who is the king of the forest?” The elephant wraps him in his trunk and throws him fifty feet away. Bones crushed, limping back to the elephant he says, “If you don’t know the answer, why get so upset? If you didn’t know, you could have just said so!”
One who knows does not even need to answer. It is only the one in doubt who goes asking for certificates. One who is without doubt—who will certify him? And those from whom you ask for certificates—who are they? What is the worth of their certificate? Yet twenty-four hours a day we are seeking certificates. Our life breath is restless: someone should say we are beautiful; someone should say we are intelligent; someone should say no one is as brave as you. But from whom do you seek such certificates? And who is it that gives them? The one who flatters you is worse off than you are. Your intelligence, your beauty, your bravery rest on the certificates of that wretch.
Lao Tzu says: the truly brave, the brave soldier, is not violent.
A very unique phenomenon happened in India: all our great apostles of nonviolence were born in Kshatriya families; not a single one was born in a Brahmin family. In Brahmin families Parashurama was born—hard to find anyone more violent. It is said he repeatedly cleared the earth of Kshatriyas. If you want the greatest name among Brahmins, it is Parashurama’s. Above him no Brahmin name rises, for among Brahmins he alone has been given the status of an avatar. And Parashurama stands with an axe—his axe became his symbol. His name must have been simply Rama; ‘Parashu-rama’ means ‘Rama with the axe.’ The greatest violent man India produced was Parashurama, and he was born in a Brahmin house. But our ahimsaks—nonviolent ones—the twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras were Kshatriyas; the twenty-four Buddhas were all Kshatriyas.
Ahin­saks from Kshatriya homes, and a violent one from a Brahmin home—think a bit: what is the matter?
Parashurama is unassured; only if he clears the earth of all Kshatriyas will he feel assured that he is something. But Mahavira and Buddha are assured; they have no doubt about their being. They walk taking care not to hurt even an ant; to kill an ant would be difficult for them. For Parashurama, to clear the earth of Kshatriyas is easy.
In truth, a Brahmin’s mind has always carried an inferiority—he feels weak, destitute. Even if Kshatriyas worship him, still the power resides in Kshatriya hands. And though the Brahmin makes the Kshatriya a king—touches his feet—even then the de facto power is in the Kshatriya’s hands. He can chop off the Brahmin’s head in a moment. If the Brahmin is respected, it is with the Kshatriya’s consent. The day he withdraws consent, the Brahmin is finished. So for centuries Brahmins have carried a hurt: somehow to put the Kshatriya down. Parashurama is the saga of that very hurt; the collected fury of the Brahmin’s centuries-long pain. He is the descent of all the violence gathered in the Brahmin. Think a little! What pain of the Brahmins gave birth to Parashurama that he seven times emptied the earth of Kshatriyas? What was the reason? What grievance against Kshatriyas?
The grievance is deep. The Kshatriya touches the Brahmin’s feet, but it is only a show—he keeps the sword. And however high he may seat the Brahmin, it is by his signal that the Brahmin sits high; the day he signals otherwise, the Brahmin must climb down.
So the Brahmins produced the greatest violent one, and the Kshatriyas produced the greatest nonviolent ones. Two nonviolent religions in the world are Buddhist and Jain—both born from Kshatriyas.
In truth, the more assured one is of one’s courage, the more the urge to display disappears. To whom is there to show? And the fact is so deep it will show by itself. What is truly within you, in fact, you do not want to show; what is not, that alone you want to show—because you know that if you don’t show it, how will anyone see it? It is simply not there.
A beautiful woman becomes free of ornaments; an ugly woman can never be free of ornaments. A beautiful woman becomes simple; an ugly woman cannot—because she knows: if ornaments are removed, precious garments gone, gold and silver removed, her ugliness alone will show; nothing else will remain. Ornaments do not enhance a beautiful woman—they slightly jar her beauty. How can dead gold be more significant than living beauty? Diamonds may have a shine, but what comparison to the living light of beautiful eyes? The moment a woman is truly beautiful, display of ornaments and dress decreases. The exhibitionist tendency diminishes. The one symptom of a beautiful woman is the absence of the urge to exhibit. As long as the urge to exhibit persists, she herself knows there is somewhere something un-beautiful to be covered, hidden, not revealed. Women spend hours before the mirror—what do they do there for hours? They try to hide ugliness and to display whatever is beautiful.
Exactly the same is true in all relations of life. The ignorant wants to show his knowledge. He seeks opportunities to show his learning as quickly as possible. The wise has no need to seek occasions, nor any desire to reveal it. Only when a situation arises where his knowing is needed—someone dying of thirst and in need of water—then he gives. The greed to display is gone.
The ignorant collects degrees: M.A., Ph.D., D.Litt., how many honorary degrees. If you go to the house of the ignorant, he hangs certificates on the wall—displaying, “I know.”
But this very display says that he too knows he does not know. He has passed examinations, collected certificates—but knowing has no relation to exams or certificates. Knowing concerns the experience of life; it happens by living, by rising and falling, through pain and refinement, by being burned the gold is purified.
“The brave soldier is not violent.”
He cannot be.
“The good fighter does not lose his temper.”
Because anger is a sign of weakness. The quicker anger comes, the sooner understand: your capacity is finished.
I have heard: in a village there was a Jewish fakir, newly arrived. He did not know the village language. But in the village assembly hall—in the old days daily debates were held—he would regularly be present. The pundits debated. He did not know the language at all.
One day people asked, “Why do you trouble yourself? Why do you go there? You don’t understand the language. The debate is in Sanskrit; you do not know a word. Yet you listen so intently. What do you listen to?”
He said, “I don’t listen to what they say. I only watch which of the two debaters gets angry first. I understand then he is defeated. That much of the language I understand. Whoever becomes angry declares defeat. However long it may take for the final judgment, he has been defeated already. And I have seen that the one I mark first as the loser is the very one declared the loser in the end. I know a moment earlier. As soon as anger begins to enter the eyes, it means the man’s capacity is spent—his limits have come.”
Shallow people get angry quickly. The deeper one is, the harder it is to be angry. When one becomes boundless, anger becomes impossible. Your anger reveals the depth of your personality. Someone says a little thing and you flare up—this means your depth is not deeper than the skin. Your animal shows up quickly; it is hiding just behind. The covering of humanity that you have put on is not deep; let someone laugh at you or abuse you, and the cover tears. Anger is the test.
Lao Tzu says: the good fighter, the warrior, does not get angry.
A famous Taoist story: the emperor was preparing for the year’s final cock-fight tournament. He wanted to send his cock into the fight. He called a great Zen master—renowned for being invincible in combat. More than that, people would come to him eager to be defeated, and go away happy after losing. To lose to him was an honor. The emperor thought: if this master trains my cock…
The master took the cock. After three weeks the emperor sent word: “Is the cock ready?” The master said, “Not yet. If another cock appears, he raises his head and crows.” The emperor was surprised: “But that is a proper sign; since he must fight, if he does not crow and raise his head how will he frighten the other?”
He waited. Three more weeks. He sent again to ask. The master said, “Still not. The old habit is gone, but when another cock comes he gets taut, tension enters him.” Three more weeks passed. The master said, “Now he is getting ready, but still a little time. If another cock enters the room he stands still, but within he becomes perturbed; a line of tension arises.” After three more weeks the master said, “Now the cock is perfectly ready. Now he stands as if no one has come or gone; now there is no concern.” The emperor said, “But how will this cock win?” The master said, “Do not worry; now there is no possibility of defeat. Other cocks will run away at the mere sight of him. He will not have to fight. His presence is enough.”
And that is what happened. When the cock was placed in the tournament arena, the other cocks merely peeked at him. He did not crow—because that is a sign of weakness, a sign of fear. To hide fear he crows loudly—to frighten the other, but he himself is frightened. This cock neither crowed nor even looked—as dogs keep barking and the elephant passes by—he stood like a stone statue. The other cocks, seeing him, began to tremble—“This is not a cock at all! Going near him is not without danger.” They ran away. The others could not even enter the contest.
Lao Tzu says, “The good fighter does not get angry.”
This story of the cock is a Taoist story. It is the symptom of the warrior that he does not get angry, that he does not grow inflamed, that his mind does not become feverish—that he remains as calm as if Buddhahood had happened.
Therefore, in Japan and China, training a warrior is training in meditation. Nowhere else in the world has this happened. Hence the skill the Japanese achieved in the art of war no other people could. A small nation, yet in 1905 they floored Russia. For the first time an Eastern nation defeated a Western nation in war. And in the Second World War too they manifested something astonishing. If the atom and hydrogen bombs had not been dropped it would have been difficult to annihilate the Japanese. In fact, by dropping the atom and hydrogen bombs America showed no bravery; it was weakness. It was as if the other had no sword and you thrust yours—mere superiority of arms, not valor. Japan made the whole of Europe and America tremble—for the Japanese go to war with a fearlessness that no other people can, with a serenity that no other people have. For in Japan there is a training of the samurai—which is training in meditation. On the battlefield, meditation is more important than the sword. So quiet—like that cock. From that calm comes their strength. From that calm, death loses all meaning.
You will be surprised: in Japan there are temples where only swordsmanship is taught. They are temples—but the process of meditation is swordsmanship. They say: while wielding the sword, become the sword; be so calm that the sword moves and you are not. Then no one can defeat you. Such events have happened that when two persons, both adept in meditation, confronted one another, no decision could be reached; months of combat and no decision—because when a man is utterly calm, before the other attacks he has already protected himself. He is intuitive; he is prajna-filled. When meditation deepens, where the other will strike—though he has not yet struck, even only thought—the reflection of that thought is caught. Before he attacks, the shield is in place; even before the blow, defense has happened. Then it becomes very difficult. If both are skilled in reading each other’s thoughts, defeat is impossible.
A Zen master who taught swordsmanship was approached by a youth: “Accept me as your disciple.” The master said, “But you—you seem perfectly adept! You have no need of training. Have you come to make fun of me or to test me? For I can see you are as skilled as I am.” The youth said, “What are you saying? I have never even lifted a sword; I have had no training. You are mistaken.” The master said, “If I were mistaken, I would not be a master. Do not try to deceive me. Tell me the truth.” The youth said, “I am telling the truth.” The master asked, “Then have you mastered something else?” He said, “Only the tea ceremony—I am a master of serving tea.”
The master said, “Now it is clear. The art may be anything, the essence is the same. Whether you wield a sword or pour tea into a cup—done meditatively, both are the same.”
If one pours tea into a cup with awareness, or lifts a sword with awareness, or lets an arrow fly with awareness, or simply walks on the road with awareness—the real question is to be aware. When one lives with awareness, anger disappears from life.
Your anger is there because you know nothing of awareness. Because you do not know your depth. You live outside your own home—hence the shallowness. In shallowness, anger exists. As a river grows deeper its noise quiets; as a pot fills up it ceases to sound. Similarly, when a person grows deep, anger vanishes from his life. A warrior must be deep. Otherwise all are warriors—for life is a struggle.
“The great victor does not fight over small matters.”
In truth, one who fights over small matters is himself small, petty. Have you ever observed what you fight over? If you look closely you will find such small things—and such great wars you wage over them! You were going along the road; someone smiled—enmity was born. Someone said a single word—and you carry it as a burden all your life. What do you fight over? Very small things. Think and you will laugh at yourself: was this worth fighting over? And remember one thing: if you fight over small things, you will remain small. There is a well-known Arab saying: a man is known by his enemy. If you choose small enemies, you are a small man. If you choose great enemies, you are a great man. What do you fight with? That is how your personality will be formed.
If you fight for great things, suddenly you become great. And when you understand this, you will not fight at all—because nothing is so great that by fighting you can become vast. Everything is small; some things smaller, some bigger—but ultimately all are small. Therefore, one who seeks to be one with the Vast learns the virtue of non-contention. He does not fight; he finds nothing worth fighting for.
Jesus says: If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn the other also.
What is the secret of this? The secret is that such a thing is not worth fighting about. He is only striking your cheek; what can he spoil? But if you fight over this, through fighting you will come to the very level where he stands. What will you do after all? The enemy you choose turns you into his own kind. Friends do not change you as much as enemies do. If you must fight, fight for something great.
But what great thing is there to fight for? If you go searching, you will not find anything worth it. Someone slaps your cheek—understand it as a gust of wind. What is there to fight about? And you will find: if you do not fight, you become great—you rise that very moment; you go beyond ordinary humanity, beyond the paltriness of life.
So Jesus, even while being crucified, prays: “Father, forgive them—they do not know what they are doing.”
Had Jesus said, “Destroy them all—they are taking the life of your son,” he would have become small, shriveled; the whole thing would have been spoiled. The final test was the cross. On that test he proved himself absolutely. That is the greatest miracle—not whether he opened blind eyes or made the lame walk. Whether he did or did not, it is all idle talk. But on the cross he gave the ultimate proof that he is truly the son of God: he is so great that he can forgive those who are hanging him on the cross.
“The good fighter does not lose his temper. The great victor does not fight over small issues. The good user of men places himself below others. This is the virtue of non-contention.”
Understand the word ‘non-contention’ correctly.
There is in us a tendency that keeps us fighting twenty-four hours a day. Because of it we behave as if at every moment we are alert for an impending clash. The husband comes home prepared—what will the wife ask, what will he answer; what will she say, how will he battle? A man goes to the market—he is prepared for a fight; he comes home—he is prepared for a fight. Even meeting friends he meets prepared, as if there too there is quarrel. There is some inner formula—its name is ego—which says, “There is battle everywhere; walk carefully; be prepared, make arrangements—for those who did not prepare, lost.” This is why there is so much tension in your life; you cannot be at peace. One whose nature is contention—how can he be peaceful?
Let one who makes non-contention his very nature, the style of his life—“there is no fight happening; there is no enemy; the whole world is my friend; this whole existence is my family; no one here is eager to destroy me”—for one whose heart this feeling arises—especially for one who seeks the non-dual, this is the stream that will carry him into the ocean. There is no enemy—flowers, leaves, trees, sky, moon, stars—all are for you. All this has upheld you.
And if anywhere in life something seems like conflict, know it to be surgical—as a doctor sometimes cuts a boil from your limbs—gives pain, but not to hurt; to free you from pain. If somewhere life strikes you, even that strike is for your benefit, for your well-being.
Bayazid was passing along a road. A stone struck him; his foot was bloodied. He sat right there and thanked God.
Companions said, “What madness! Blood is flowing from your foot—what are you thanking for? What grace of God is this? If God loved you so much, he should have removed the stone from the path, or turned it into a flower, or given you the thought that a stone is below so that you could avoid it.”
Bayazid said, “You do not understand. It could have been a cross; he saved me with only this wound. There is no end to his grace.”
It is a way of seeing. It could have been a crucifixion; he let it be only a stone’s wound. Thanksgiving is in order. This is the vision of one who has seen life as a family, who has known that God is with him. Even when he breaks, it is to refine you by that breaking. Even when he gives pain, it is to endow you with the capacity to remain calm within pain. Even when he kills you, it is so that in death you may behold the arising form of life. Non-contention is the greatest virtue. The will to fight is disease. Non-contention—enmity with none.
Mahavira has a famous saying: Vairam majjha na kenai—“I have enmity with no one.” My friendship is with all.
Someone hammered nails into Mahavira’s ears. And Mahavira was utterly innocent. He stood silent. For twelve years he remained silent so that the mind might become absolutely quiet; words were not to be used. Naked he stood in a forest. A cowherd was grazing his cattle. He said to Mahavira, “Hey—listen!” He thought he was just a naked man. “Just watch my cows; I am going to the village for some work.”
Now Mahavira did not speak, so he could not say, “No, brother, I cannot watch them; I am engaged in my own work.” His eyes were closed; he did not speak. He remained silent. He did not even gesture, for gesturing is also a kind of speech—what meaning then would silence have? He stood as he was. The man took silence as consent—or thought him dumb—and went to the village. The cows wandered off into the forest.
When the man returned, no cows—Mahavira still stood there. He said, “So—such a holy man you are! You lost my cows! Where are they?” Mahavira was silent, so he could not speak. He remained as he was. The man became so angry, “Doesn’t hear? Deaf, is he? I will make you deaf now!” He drove two sticks into his ears and hammered them in with stones—burst both ears. Mahavira stood there, bloodied.
The story says: Indra, the gods, felt pain—that so innocent a man should suffer so much, without cause! These stories are meaningful; they only say that existence too feels pain when you are innocent. There is no Indra sitting somewhere above thinking—but the tale is symbolic: when the whole existence experiences your simplicity, then existence is also pained.
Indra came and said to Mahavira, “Give me permission to remain with you for your protection. Because you are silent, such accidents are very painful.” Mahavira—this is not outer speech, because he was silent; outwardly he could not speak—but within he responded, and Indra would understand the feeling—“No. Through this also much has been gained; through this pain much has been found. For the pain remained outside, and the bliss within remained unbroken. It has been a very good test; thanks to that cowherd! He gave me an opportunity to rise above pain. It is not without cause; therefore, there is no need for protection.”
Non-contention means there is no enmity. This existence is home; we are no strangers here. Existence is taking care of us; therefore there is no fight with anyone. And even he who comes to fight is a hidden friend—the friend hidden within the enemy.
Jesus said, “Resist not evil.” Do not even fight evil. Because whatever you fight, that very thing you become. Do not fight. Let non-contention be your key.
“This alone is called the capacity to use men.”
Lao Tzu says: one who attains to non-contention begins to use men without intending to; unknowingly the whole existence becomes his collaborator; all people become his helpers; they become his servants; without conquering them he finds they are conquered; without trying to defeat them he suddenly discovers they have all become his attendants.
“This is touching the height of Existence.”
When in your life there remains no conflict, when a vast feeling of friendship pervades, you have touched the highest peak of Existence—for this state is called love.
“This highest peak of Existence—this is the friend of heaven.”
And near this, heaven abides. Heaven is settled around love. Through non-contention love happens.
“And of the ancient as well.”
And in the primal, the beginning, where you were—in that supreme bliss—that too abides near this. The beginning is near this; the end is near this. Around love is the whole journey. Love is attainment—and love is departure. Love is the first step and love the final goal. But if you would attain love, you will need the life of non-contention. Mahavira calls this life ahimsa; Buddha calls it karuna; Jesus calls it love; Mohammed calls it a life of prayer. But the essence is one—love. And love will arise only when you prepare the soil of non-contention; only then will the seed of love sprout.
Otherwise the seed of love will not sprout. Filled with the urge to fight, how will you love? Eager to fight, even your love will turn into hate; even love will be poisoned. Eager to fight, your meditation too will become anger—hence such beings as the Rishi Durvasa are born. When the urge to fight persists, even meditation turns into wrath; where benediction should shower, the poison of curses begins to flow.
In brief: love is the beginning; love is the end. The field must be non-contention; let the seed of love sprout in that. In that same field the flowers of prayer will bloom, and in that the fruit of God will ripen. Trees are known by their fruits. Until you attain God, you cannot be known—who you are.
People ask me, “We want to know: who are we?”
You will not know until you are complete—until you attain your destiny. How will a tree know what it is until the seed becomes a tree and flowers and fruits appear? At Gangotri the Ganga cannot know herself; the recognition happens at the end, where her form becomes vast, where she meets the ocean.
“The brave soldier is not violent. The good fighter does not lose his temper. The great conqueror does not fight on small issues. The good user of men places himself below others. This is the virtue of non-contention; is called the capacity to use men; is reaching to the height of Being; mated to heaven—to what was of old.”
Enough for today.