Tao Upanishad #114

Life is simple, but you are complex. So you walk along, parallel to life, yet never meeting it. Until you too become as simple as life, there can be no meeting. Like meets like: the simple with the simple, the complex with the complex.

Complexity belongs to the mind. Understand the complexity of the mind and all else becomes clear. The mind’s complexity is this: when you look at a flower, you do not see the flower; you begin to think about the flower. The moment you think in relation, you are already far away. Had you only looked at the flower and not thought; lived its beauty and not thought; drunk the flower and not thought; allowed the flower to surround you from all sides, and not thought; allowed the flower to reach the heart and the heart to reach the flower, not erecting the barrier of thought—everything would be simple. But you have not even really seen, and thinking has already begun.

It is by thinking that you move away from life. You do not love—you think about love. You do not celebrate—you think about celebration. You do not live—you think about living. And the more you get entangled in thinking, the more life recedes. Thought means a journey away. One thought leads to another, the second to a third, and so on, an endless chain. Miss the first step and you go on missing. On the very first step understand the distance between life and thought. If you wish to live, living is in no-thought; if you wish to think, thinking is lifeless. Because of this complexity, though life is simple, it remains unavailable.

Jesus has said, look at the lilies of the field! They think not. Yet even King Solomon in all his glory is not arrayed like one of these.

A flower does not think of tomorrow; today is enough. Today is so abundant—what room is there to think of tomorrow? Today is vast. Today is to be celebrated. You, too, have an abundance of today. But you think about tomorrow—which has not yet come, and which never comes. And you are cultivating a habit. When tomorrow comes, it will arrive as today arrives. Your habit of breaking away from today is becoming stronger. Tomorrow too you will think about a further tomorrow. Thus you will live, and never truly live. Even in your dying moment you will think about the beyond.

This is the art of missing—missing life: never be where life is; be somewhere else. Either in the past, which is gone—the mind savors it; or in the future, which has not come—the mind imagines it. Only this moment, which has come, which is here, which is present, which is the doorway of life—only in this moment the mind has no craving, no thirst. And this moment is very small. So small that if you move even a little, you miss it. And the mind is trembling, swinging between past and future like a pendulum; it does not abide here, it swings left and right, never resting in the middle.

Hence the greater the thinker, the farther from life. First he thinks about love; then he thinks about what he has thought about love; and so it goes on—no end to it.

So take this first thing to heart: you are complex; life is simple. Life is available now; you are not present now. Come back to the present, gather yourself in from back and front, stop here and now—and you will find you have never lost anything. And nothing remains to be gained. You will have all.

But to pause in the present moment—that is the obstacle. Even hearing this, you think: Good, tomorrow I shall practise it; tomorrow I shall try to come into the present. Today there are other entanglements. Besides, such things cannot be done in haste. So you postpone this too. You postpone even meditation. And meditation means only this: being in the present.

People come to me. I say, meditate. They say, We will; but right now there are too many entanglements—my daughter’s marriage must be settled. As if settling a daughter’s marriage were any barrier to meditation! There is much work and burden on the head; and besides, life is long; meditation is for old age, for the fourth stage of life. We will do it at the end.

Meditation means being in the present. And you postpone even that. Whenever someone says meditation to you, you immediately ask: What is the method? Method means you will practise. Practice means you will push it to tomorrow. Practice itself means you have postponed it. Meditation is not a practice. Meditation is awakening. It can happen now. If you make a practice of it, it will never happen, because in the very idea of practice you have gone astray, you have missed.

Krishnamurti keeps knocking his head against the wall. For his whole life he has been explaining there is no method for meditation. And for years those who have listened go on asking again and again: Then how to do it?

When there is no method, asking how is utterly irrelevant. How implies practice; how means it will be attained later. And meditation means it is attained this very moment. Do nothing; just stop. Move into non-doing, and meditation will shower. It is in your doing that you have missed; in your non-doing the meeting happens.

Life is simple, but the mind is complex. Try to understand Lao Tzu’s words.

'Our teachings are easy to understand, and easy to practise.'

For what is Lao Tzu’s teaching? Truly speaking, is it any teaching? Lao Tzu’s teaching is life itself. Become available to life. What is already given—receive it again. What is already awake within you—recognize it. What you are—taste it, savor it. Lao Tzu’s teaching means life. He does not talk about Paramatma. Talking about Paramatma is also, in truth, a device of the mind to escape life. Life is; where is Paramatma? Those who have known life in its depth have known Paramatma.

Yet I have not seen a single person come to me asking how to live. They come asking, How to find Paramatma? Not one has come asking how to live. And life is; Paramatma is only a word. But there are seekers of Paramatma, because to seek Paramatma will take births upon births. If you ask me about life you will be in trouble: life is standing at your door now; you can live it this very moment. If you wish to dance upon meeting Paramatma, then it is a journey of many lives—who knows if it will ever be completed. But if you wish to dance upon finding life—no one is preventing you. Dance now. At the door life is showering; the sun has risen; birds are singing; all around is a festival. What are you seeking? Why not enter the celebration now?

If you ask about life, it can be given now. Therefore you never ask about life. You ask: Where is Paramatma? What is the form of Paramatma? Is Paramatma or not? You prove Paramatma by argument, or you disprove, and you weave philosophies. And the only thing that is—is life. Does it have any philosophy? Any scripture? Birds live without the Vedas, trees live without the Bible, the sky lives without the Quran. Why can you not live? Why do you bring scripture in between? There must be some deep cunning you are playing upon yourself; some game in which you deceive yourself.

One day I went to Mulla Nasruddin’s house. He was playing patience, playing cards alone. I sat and watched. I saw him cheating himself many times. He was playing alone, making moves from both sides, and yet even there he was tricking.

I asked, Nasruddin, are you cheating? He said, Cheating? Where? I am playing by the rules. I said, There is nobody here but you. You are making moves from both sides. What sense does cheating make? He said, I have never cheated. And even now he was cheating. I said, It seems impossible: you are alone, you cheat, and you do not even find out! He replied, I am clever enough in cheating to cheat and not let it be discovered.

Whom are you cheating by bringing scripture in between? By erecting the wall of scripture, whom do you block? You block the very flow of life. You block the rays of the sun. You block the songs of birds. You block yourself. And once you are tangled in scripture, you are lost in a dense jungle. It is very difficult to come out of the jungle of words. Because the way out is not found. One word leads to another, the second to a third—and such a net arises that the more you try to untangle, the more tangled it becomes.

Ask about life. Life is Paramatma. There is no other Paramatma besides life.

But your religious leaders go on condemning life. They have placed Paramatma in opposition to life. They say, whoever wishes to go towards Paramatma must cut life. Their whole teaching is: cut life—its leaves, its branches, its roots. The day you cut life completely, you will find Paramatma. Their talk appeals to you, because in cutting life your mind’s violence is fulfilled. And in cutting life you gain the convenient excuse of postponement.

And cutting life, you will never find Paramatma. If Paramatma is anywhere, it is in the heartbeat of life; wherever the heart throbs, wherever the breath moves, there the Divine is hidden. Paramatma is the name of life’s energy.

If life itself is Paramatma, what need remains for temples and mosques? Life is present without temple and mosque. If life itself is Paramatma, what need of Quran, Bible, and Vedas? Life has its own Veda; life itself is the Veda. Then the priest cannot survive; the religious head cannot be saved. His trade will vanish. He puts you in opposition to life, because only in opposing life does his religion and his business stand. Temples, mosques, gurdwaras go on spreading; the earth is full of them—and yet in man’s life there is no thrill of joy; no stream of juice flows.

Understand this rightly. I do not say it about someone else; it is happening to you too. Love life; consider life your blessedness; life is the supreme benediction. And if anywhere you see something wrong in life, know it is your own mistake. Do not start cutting life. Where you see wrong, something right will be hidden there too. Search a little deeper; do not rush to judge. If you judge quickly, the priests and pundits stand ready to exploit you. You say, This is wrong, and they say, We have always been telling you that life is wrong, life is hell, life is sin. Listen to us! Seek Paramatma! We will show you the path of the other world.

This is the only world. There are ways to go deep into this world. There is no other world anywhere. This very moment is it. Although this moment has very deep dimensions. You may stand on the river and go back; you may swim on the surface; you may dive deep. There are many ways to go deep. The water of life is bottomless. If somewhere a mistake appears, do not be in haste. Under that mistake something will be hidden in depth. If somewhere hardness appears, do not be quick to condemn. Within that hardness some tenderness will be hidden. And if somewhere you feel injustice is happening, do not become the judge. Until you know the whole, how will you judge? You may see injustice somewhere, because you know only the part; you know nothing of the whole.

A small child is born; the first thing he does is cry aloud, scream. The religious leaders have exploited even this. They say, see, you are born weeping; birth itself is sorrow. Birth begins with sorrow.

They are entirely wrong. The child does not cry because of suffering. Behind the child’s cry and shout is the urge of life, not pain.

He cries; through it his lungs and throat are cleared, the current of breath begins. Physicians know: if the child does not cry and shout for three minutes, it is hard to save him—he will die. Until now he lived on the mother’s breath; now he must breathe on his own. That cry, that scream, is only the clearing of the throat. There is no pain in it. If we could know the child, there is delight hidden inside—the first breath of freedom has been taken. For the first time he has cried on his own, given voice, called out. There is not a trace of sorrow there. Yes, you can impose an interpretation. And the priest catches this: look, crying means...

You should know that crying is not necessarily related to sorrow. Sometimes one cries in joy too. Sometimes in the highest joy tears flow such as have never flowed in sorrow. Tears are not necessarily of suffering. In suffering one cries; in joy one cries. In supreme bliss and Ananda, people have been found weeping. Tears flow whenever something within you becomes brimful, overflowing, more than you can contain. That is the child’s first call—the call of life, the first step of life.

But the priest has condemned even that. He has left nothing uncondemned. From birth to death he has called everything bad. He has so burdened you with this notion of badness; his interpretation has sat so deep in your mind. And interpretations have results.

In France there is a very great physician who made an unusual discovery. Humanity forgot because of interpretation. Children are born, and we think the mother suffers greatly in childbirth—labor pain. In almost the whole civilized world there is pain. We do not even concern ourselves with the uncivilized. In primitive tribes there is no pain. A child is born while the mother is working in the fields; she puts the child in a basket and returns to work. There is no labor pain. Why then in all civilized societies? What has childbirth to do with civilization?

It is interpretation, which has gone deep: the notion that childbirth is pain.

In France a physician hypnotized women before childbirth and gave them the suggestion that childbirth is full of joy. When they woke, this suggestion, implanted through hypnosis, remained deep: childbirth is full of Samadhi; a Samadhi-like bliss, the ultimate bliss, will happen in childbirth.

And so it should be, for the greatest event is happening—the arrival of a new life. How can this be sorrow? And the mother is doing the greatest act in this world. Let a painter paint the greatest painting, a sculptor carve the greatest statue, a musician create the grandest music—still none can equal the creation of an ordinary woman. For all such creations—music, sculpture, painting, poetry—are dead. Even an ordinary woman has a creative power the greatest artist does not have: she gives birth to a living being. It should be a moment of exultation, a great festival. How did it become sorrow? The priest condemned it so much that the idea went deep.

So this physician hypnotized women and then they gave birth. And they were so delighted! Sorrow was not even in question; childbirth became an event of joy—such joy that those women said, we have never known such bliss again.

He conducted hundreds of thousands of experiments. Now he does not even hypnotize. He simply says, See—so many women are giving birth joyfully! He published photographs, made films. Upon their faces is the same expression one sees on the face of Buddha, or on the face of Meera—the same dance, the same joy. Nothing special is happening—the child is being born. No screaming, no shouting; no weeping, no tears. The very opposite. His work is now being propagated throughout the world. In Russia they have begun these experiments in every hospital. For why inflict useless pain on a woman? An event that could become supreme joy—we have turned into suffering.

Do not be hasty. Wherever you find sorrow, know that somewhere a mistake is being made. For in the depths there must be joy; because in the depths is Paramatma. Behind each event He is hidden. Do not judge from the surface; go within. There is no Paramatma apart from life. And whoever condemns life—the doors of His temple are closed forever. He may wander to Kashi, Kaba, Kailash—the doors of His temple are shut. He may attend satsang, listen to Ramayana, Gita, Veda, recite scriptures—nothing will happen. Life was nearby; he got lost in words. Life was here; he started wandering far away.

Lao Tzu says, 'My teachings are easy to understand.'

What could be easier? Straight and simple.

'And easy to practise.'

For when the word itself is straightforward—must someone teach you life?

It is like this: Mulla Nasruddin was caught fishing at a pond where fishing was forbidden. The police caught him and said, What are you doing? Do you not see the board—Fishing forbidden here! This is the emperor’s own pond; no one may fish here. Nasruddin said, Who is fishing? But a fish was squirming on his line. They said, What is this then? He replied, I am teaching the fish how to swim.

To teach you life is like teaching a fish to swim. What is there to teach? Life already is. Why do you wander about to learn? And when you wander to learn, some trickster will be found who starts teaching. You are not ready to accept—you say, we will learn. The fish longs to learn to swim; some Nasruddin will turn up to teach swimming.

You are alive. Everything you need is within you. And Lao Tzu has no other teaching—life itself is the teaching. Therefore he says, my teachings are easy to understand and easy to practise. What is there to practise?

Then these next two statements will surprise you—and they are deeply true.

'But no one can understand them, and no one can practise them.'

The first statement is understandable: if life itself is the teaching, it is simple. No yogas to be done, no headstands, no nauli-dhauti, no contortions of life. Nothing to renounce, nothing to abandon—live! Wherever you are, as you are, accept it as the blessing of Paramatma and live silently. From that feeling of blessing prayer is born. In that feeling of blessing depth descends; the bottomless begins.

'But no one can understand them...'

Because you try to understand with the very intelligence that is ignorance.

So Lao Tzu says: easy to understand, yet no one can understand. Because the attempt to understand is of the intellect; and life is deeper than intellect. You can live life—how will you understand it? You can enter love—how will you understand love? You can drink beauty—how will you understand beauty? What is beauty?

Thousands of treatises have been written on beauty, yet no one has been able to define what beauty is. Those who tried grew weary, defeated. Nor can you say beauty is not—what then will you define? Beauty is—everywhere. Existence is brimming with beauty. You cannot say there is no beauty. But what is it? How to say it? How to define it? How to explain it in words? A scripture of beauty cannot be written. Beauty abounds, yet no scripture is possible.

So Lao Tzu says: easy to understand, yet no one can understand them, and no one can practise them. There is nothing to understand—that itself is the understanding. This is a matter of living.

Kabir has said: This is not a matter of writing and reading; it is a matter of seeing and being.

Had it been of writing, we would have understood by reading. This is a matter of seeing! You can see beauty; you cannot understand it. You can experience beauty; you cannot understand it. Understanding belongs to intellect; experience belongs to the whole. Understanding belongs to thought; experience belongs to body, breath, being—the totality. Every pore joins in. When you see a flower blossom and the perception of beauty arises, does it arise only in the skull? The blossom spreads over your whole skin. Something within you blossoms with it. A dance, a hue happens together. It enters from all sides—the eyes, the ears. The intellect too receives a share, but only a share. It pervades the whole body; it spreads across the whole soul.

Understanding is only of the intellect, of words; experience is of life.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: easy to understand, yet no one will understand. And easy to practise, yet no one will practise.

Can anyone practise life? How will you practise what is already given? Practice is needed for what we have not brought with us. Learning is needed for what is not our nature. Learning means adopting what is alien.

A child is born. The things we teach him are not in his nature. If we do not teach them, they would never arise on their own. But some things arise by themselves—that is his nature. The child grows and the desire for love arises. The call of love arises. Do you think if a child were raised without any hint that something like love exists—no treatise of love allowed near him, no news of Vatsyayana, no sight of Khajuraho or Konark—if we keep him hidden deep in a forest, even then a moment will come when love will dawn in him. Then no Vatsyayana will be needed, no Khajuraho. He may never even have seen a woman; still in his dreams the shadow of a woman will begin to appear. He may not know the form of woman; yet the thirst for form will arise. Even if he has never been told what love or sex is—it will make no difference. That is nature; it will awaken.

Who teaches animals, birds, plants? Where is the university that teaches love to them? It arises from nature. And life is your nature. What is there to practise?

Practice is for those things which are not natural. Yes, such a child will not have language if never taught. He will not learn mathematics or logic if not taught. He will not become civilized if not taught. He will know nothing of civilization.

Many times it has happened that children were raised by wolves. They stole away small children. Three such cases have occurred in this century. A few years ago near Lucknow a wolf-boy was caught. He walked like a wolf, not like men. He would not stand on two feet. Perhaps we even teach that. If left to himself, he might crawl on all fours, because that is simpler. Standing on two feet is a great hatha yoga for a child. Slowly, by practice, he stands. He spoke no language—how would he learn? But one thing was found in that child: when he was disturbed and some loving woman stroked his head, he became calm. That touch of a woman calmed him. It must have become the touch of a mother for him, though he had no memory of a mother. The longing for love was there in him too. But nothing else. He was a wild animal. He ate raw meat. It took six months to teach him to eat food. Six months to make him stand somehow. Within six months he died.

And my own feeling is that it was this effort to teach him that killed him. Otherwise he was quite healthy when he came. The burden became too great. He was twelve years old; to teach him was very heavy, very painful—he died. The more they taught, the weaker he became.

Life need not be taught. Life is not civilization. Life is not schooling. Life is you. To know life, it is beneficial to unlearn a little of what you have learnt, so you may be free of the fetters, so you may break the walls surrounding you and come out.

So if Lao Tzu says anything, it is this: you have learnt more than needed. Keep the workable, drop the rest. Or even what you keep, keep it only outwardly—do not let it enter within. Do not let it assault your life-breath. Life is not to be taught. Life is what you are.

Therefore Lao Tzu says, no one can practise it; easy to understand, yet no one can understand.

And so long as you try to understand, you will remain deprived of understanding. Easy to practise; yet no one can practise. Do not try to practise life. Life does not need your practice. Life is not lame that it needs the crutches of your instruction. Life has its own wings, its own feet. Only give it an open sky—do not obstruct—and life will begin to move on its own. Life carries the energy of Paramatma. The whole existence supports it. Life is not crippled; neither is it weak. It has immense energy. Only give it a chance: do not obstruct, and life will walk, will run; life will even fly. No sky is so vast that life cannot fly there. Even the greatest sky it will turn into a small courtyard.

But if you try to practise, you will miss; if you try to understand, you will create misunderstanding. Hence, it is difficult to find anyone more ignorant than the pundit. If you try to practise, you will go astray. Whatever you do will be your doing, the doing of your mind—which is very small—and you will try to do it upon that which is very vast. The part will try to discipline the whole; the fragment will try to command the infinite. You will be in trouble. There is only one sadhana: drop the insistence of the fragment; dissolve the fragment into the whole; let the drop fall into the ocean. Then the ocean will take care. Do not ask, what will happen to the drop, where will it go, will it be lost? Do not try to save the drop. And do not try to teach the ocean. Do not try to bind the ocean; do not try to discipline the ocean.

If you understand Lao Tzu rightly, there is no sadhana at all. Hence Lao Tzu never speaks of yogic techniques—no methods, no path. There is no sadhana. Lao Tzu says: what has been given, live it; what has been given, enjoy it.

You are miserly even in living. You are stingy even about life. You breathe timidly. No one takes a full breath. Scientists say the lungs have six thousand tiny sacs; even the healthiest breath enters only about two thousand. Four thousand remain unused. You do not even take a full breath—how frightened you are! And what do you lose by breathing? But with breath life comes; with breath energy comes. And energy frightens you.

Small children breathe fully. Watch a small child asleep. His chest does not rise—his belly rises. That is full breathing; breath is reaching the belly, the navel, the deepest sacs of the lungs. Hence the liquid flow in a child’s life, the softness, the freshness you have lost.

Why does a child stop breathing deep?

Watch children. If you scold a child, immediately his breath becomes shallow; it no longer goes deep. He is frightened. Whenever you scold, you say, You are wrong. Whenever something seems wrong in life, life shrinks. You say, Do not do that!—you close one door of life. You say, Do not go outside!—you close another. You say, Do not go out in the dark!—you close a third. You say, Do not make so much noise!—you keep closing doors. How will the child breathe? Breath will produce energy. If energy arises, the child will run; he will want to know the dark, to enter the sea, to climb trees. So there remains only one way: do not let energy arise. Let him become weak; let him fear to climb on his own—then you need not frighten him. Because of your prohibitions the child makes himself weak.

If your rules were not there, every child would climb trees, every child would swim rivers, travel mountains, undertake all adventures of life. If prohibitions were not there, the child would want to know whatever life wants to know. He would know the bad too, because that too is a dimension of life; and the good, because that too is a dimension. He would be angry, and compassionate; laugh and cry. He would experience all dimensions of life. And then you would see—his breath reaches all six thousand sacs. Then he would have a life overflowing from above; a full life.

But civilization has poisoned us deeply. Those who begin to go deep into meditation—especially into active meditation, where breath is used—start coming to me. They say strange things are happening because of the shock of breath: never before did we feel such anger, and now anger arises for no reason! Never before such sadness, and sadness arises for no reason! Those tendencies long suppressed by shallow breathing begin to surface. Near the diaphragm your suppressed emotions are stored; as soon as they are struck, they awaken. People feel panic—perhaps we will go mad!

It is astonishing that by shrinking life you remained healthy, and by expanding life you fear madness. You have been frightened so much. You have been taught to live as if dead. Because if you live intensely, evil will also come. And you must be cultured, civilized, respectable, saintly. In cutting the un-saintly, half of your life has been cut away. If even Paramatma were to cut away un-saintliness from existence, He would become as sick as you, searching for a guru to teach Him how to live! How to practise life!

In life, so-called evil is an essential part of good; darkness is alongside light; death is part of life.

Lao Tzu says: neither will you practise, nor will you understand, although the matter is easy to understand and easy to practise.

'For in my words there is a principle.'

What is Lao Tzu’s principle? What is his foundational base?

His base is: accept life unconditionally. Remember the word unconditional. Do not impose any condition upon life. All your conditions will cut life. Do not deny life; affirm it. Do not shut the doors; open all closed doors. Life is complete in itself; you need do nothing more. Stop improving. By improving you have spoiled it. In improving, you have poured poison into it.

Lao Tzu’s fundamental principle is: accept life unconditionally. Be unafraid; there is nothing to lose. Whether you fear or not, you will die; what you have will go. Live fearlessly, in complete fearlessness.

Yet even as I say this, I know there will be restlessness within you—Live fearlessly! Then what about sin? Live fearlessly! Then what about evil? Live fearlessly! Then what of rules, scriptures, society, civilization, culture? And here is the great wonder: if you live fearlessly, sin slowly dissolves into Paramatma. Do not make negations and there remains nothing to negate; everything turns affirmative. Suddenly you find that the world is a musical harmony in which evil also has its place; evil is not prohibited; rather it gives savor to good—evil is the salt, without which good is tasteless.

Consider a little. A man who cannot be angry—how deep will his compassion be? Shallow, superficial; his compassion will be impotent, without strength. The man who can be angry, who has put no prohibition upon anger, rather who has lived anger—and by living it anger has become compassion; the more he has known anger, the more compassion has arisen; the more he has seen his inner violence, the more nonviolence has been born—his compassion will have a depth, an abyss. That depth comes because of anger. A man who has never known sexual desire—what will be in his Brahmacharya? At most you can call it impotence. And is impotent Brahmacharya any Brahmacharya? But one who has known the surge of desire, the tide of lust, who has lived it, recognized its infinite forms—out of that recognition, that taste, that experience, Brahmacharya is born. Then Brahmacharya is a peak—after crossing the valleys, leaving the dark gorges behind, rising above them. The flavor of that Brahmacharya is different, its mystery different, its energy different.

There is nothing evil in life, because all so-called evils finally turn good. He who lives unconditionally will have difficulties at first, because society is all around—people loaded with prohibitions, courts, hell, heaven, all are standing; pundits, priests, clerics—all dead—yet eager to make you dead too. Naturally, one who is not living will not allow another to live. One who has been deprived of life is filled with terrible envy. Your sadhus and sannyasins will not let you live. Because they are dying. They have cut themselves off. They have broken their roots. They would like you also to break your roots. Their envy is terrible. And their envy is covered with the garb of religion—you will not even recognize it. Their envy has become condemnation. Their envy has arranged hells for you.

Whoever cannot live rightly will not allow others to live. If you smile, it will hurt him. He will pour poison even upon your smile and say it is sin. If you dance, it will hurt him, for he is crippled. He has cut off his own hands and feet. He will try to destroy your celebration. He will fill the whole world with gloom and graveyard.

But the one who has lived life unconditionally—he will set others free. He alone I call a true guru: one who has lived life, who has no envy towards you—for there is no cause—one who is filled with compassion for you. He who has lived life will help you to live. He will not cut you, he will join you. He will remove your paralysis, melt your numbness. He will give you life again. Only one who has known the great life is eager to give you life.

But those who are killing themselves, who are suicidal, will want to kill you too. Their net is vast, and ancient. To come out of their mesh is very difficult.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: my teachings are easy to hear, easy to practise; yet you will neither hear nor understand nor practise. Because the entire net around you is the opposite; the whole network stands against life. Therefore you must gather your own courage for your life. Courage—on the first step great courage is needed: whatever will be, will be. If life is to be known, that is right. Condemnation will happen—let it. Bear the condemnation, but do not cut life. Let the whole world call you sinner, listen to it—but do not commit the sin of cutting life. One day you will reach Paramatma. He who has cut life will never reach.

'In my words there is a principle.'

That principle is the unconditional acceptance of life. Do not attach small things—What will people say? You are not here for what people say. And whatever you do—do people ever speak well of you?

There is an old story: Shiva and Parvati went for a walk on a full-moon night. Shiva is the symbol of life—life’s great feast, unconditional enjoyment. Nandi went along. Some people met them on the road and said, Look at these fools! When they have Nandi, why are they walking?

They had nothing to do with Nandi, Shiva, or Parvati. But people must say something. They cannot live without judging.

So Shiva said, Fine. He sat upon Nandi; Parvati walked. Then others came by: Look at this foolish man! He himself rides and makes his wife walk. What uncivilized behavior! Shiva dismounted and seated Parvati upon Nandi. Then others: Look at this shameless woman! The husband walks, the wife rides—never seen such a thing! Shiva said, Now what? They both mounted Nandi. Then others came: Outrageous! Will you kill Nandi? Two upon him! Think of Nandi too. Shiva said, Now what to do? Those who said think a little also said, Better you carry Nandi on your shoulders rather than both ride him. So Shiva said, Let us do that. They tied up Nandi, after great difficulty, and lifted him upon their shoulders. Nandi struggled. They came to a bridge over a river. There was a crowd: The height of stupidity! Many fools we have seen; these are arch-fools. Nandi is to be ridden, not carried! Now they had no option left. At that moment Nandi struggled and fell off the bridge. Shiva said to Parvati: See, whatever you do, people will condemn you.

Because it is not that you do something, hence they condemn. They want to condemn; your doing is only their excuse. They will condemn in every case. In condemnation their ego is gratified. What you do is merely their pretext. Whatever you do makes no difference—you will be condemned.

Forget about people. The wise do not bother about them. What they say is theirs to know. They speak—let them hear it themselves. The wise do not worry. The wise live as if alone, as if no one else exists here. Live as if you are alone—that alone brings into your life the sutra Lao Tzu calls his principle. Live unconditionally. There is nothing to lose, and everything to gain—if you live unconditionally.

Lao Tzu says, 'In my words there is a principle, and in the dealings of men there is an order.'

What is the order in human affairs that goes unseen? It is this: the whole business of life is made of the meeting of opposites. And the mind cannot tolerate the meeting of opposites. Here life and death stand together; and the mind cannot even think that both can be together—opposites cannot be together! The mind says opposites are opposites. And Lao Tzu says there is an order in the whole business: opposites are not opposites—they are complementary, cooperative.

Remember just these two things: live life unconditionally; and do not take opposites as opposites, but as complements—and you will be free. If you take opposites as opposites, you will choose—then you will become saintly against the un-saintly. Then you will remain half. And is half a life? Where then will your un-saintliness go? It will hang upon you like a burden. You cannot cut it—for the order of life is such that you are both saint and sinner; as both left and right legs are needed to walk.

Suppose a religion arises which says the left leg is bad, the right leg good—and there are indeed such people who call the left hand bad, the right good—what will you do with your left leg? How will you walk without it? If you cut it, you will not walk; if you tie it, you will limp and crawl.

You have seen the children’s game, the three-legged race: two children tie one of their legs together; they have three legs instead of four—and then they run. Your life is a three-legged race: you have tied one leg to society’s leg and try to run. You have tied it to civilization’s leg and try to run. You go nowhere. You die where you were born. Where you found yourself at birth, there you will find yourself at death—not an inch of journey. Your legs are not free.

Opposites are complementary. Therefore Lao Tzu does not take the side of the saint. Nor do I. A saint is one who has found harmony between his saintliness and his un-saintliness; who has used even the so-called evil; who does not throw things away like a clumsy artisan. The skilled artisan uses everything. Value does not lie in things themselves, but in their use—how you fit them in, how you place each part within the whole.

Music is noise; but in a master’s hands that noise is arranged so that your heart dances. Music is noise. Put a sitar in a monkey’s hands—he too will play, but he will drive you mad if he continues. The sitar is the same, but a master touches it and the disharmony among notes disappears; the notes are woven into a music; and from their union arises something beyond the notes. Music is not the sum of notes; it is something more than their sum. That something 'more' is the artistry of the master.

Beauty is not the sum of a flower’s parts; it is something more—hence it cannot be defined. Love is not the meeting of two lovers; it is the descent of a third. The two are only the presences; between them the third descends. Therefore love cannot be explained. And therefore love is like Paramatma, and love becomes prayer. You can explain the lovers; you can define the lover, give his address. But love—has it any address? When two persons come close not as opponents but as cooperators, when two come close ready to dissolve into one another, love descends. They become the ground; love descends.

In life there is evil and good, sin and virtue, darkness and light, death and life. When one finds a relationship, a music between the two, sainthood is born. Sainthood cannot be defined. The saintly man can be explained; the un-saintly can be explained. You will honor the saintly; you will condemn the sinner. The saint you will not even recognize. He is indefinable. And opposite him stand both your saintly and your un-saintly—because neither can absorb him. The saintly cannot absorb him, for the un-saintly is hidden within him; the un-saintly cannot absorb him, for he has absorbed the saintly too.

Therefore when a Buddha is born, or a Christ, you will be surprised: the bad were opposed to them, of course—but the good also were opposed. It seems miraculous. But it is no miracle; the arithmetic is plain. It was not bad men who crucified Jesus; good men crucified him. The bad were of course against him; they hardly bothered—this man is not of much concern. But the good crucified him. They could not tolerate him. For Jesus is a music that has gone beyond good and bad; where evil has lost its evil, good its goodness; where both have become one—and such a phenomenon is very hard to explain.

'Because they do not know—my one principle and the order of music between the opposites in human life—they do not know me either.'

He who does not know life—how will he know Lao Tzu? Lao Tzu means the purest form of life; the quintessence of life; raw, uncarved rock—upon which no stamp of social etiquette, civilization, culture has been impressed; the uncarved stone, rolling in a mountain stream, untouched by man’s hand; no human imprint upon it. Yes, much moss of nature may have gathered, many hues and shapes taken in rivers and mountains; but no human imprint—it is the uncarved stone. How will you recognize it?

'They do not know me. Since very few know me...'

This statement is unique—

'...therefore I am rare.'

Ordinarily we call that man rare whom many people know. The one known by the whole world is rare. Lao Tzu says something delicious:

'Since very few know me, therefore I am rare.'

In Lao Tzu’s time many knew Confucius; none knew Lao Tzu. Confucius was the ideal man, the noble man of dharma. In his saintliness there was not even an inch of lack; you could not find a flaw in Confucius. He was a perfect mahatma. People knew him. Saints considered him the highest ideal—the model they must become. Sinners envied him as valleys envy the mountains, as the dark night envies the day. Sinners dreamt of becoming like Confucius. Saints too thought, one day this ideal will be fulfilled. Confucius was the peak in China. Lao Tzu—no one knew him. For Lao Tzu is very hard to recognize. Confucius is like a neat garden in someone’s courtyard—everything trimmed and tidy, the gardener’s hand clear everywhere; no flaw can be found; all the rules of gardening obeyed. Lao Tzu is like a mountain forest—no rules; or some rule invisible, not apparent.

There is an order even in the jungle, for the jungle lives. Will your gardens live before the jungle—weak, poor? In the jungle all is included: fallen dry leaves, dead branches, oblique, crooked trees—all are included. The vital spirit of the jungle is great, but there is no trimming of form. The jungle is as Paramatma wills. In the jungle you may feel fear; in a garden you can relax with assurance.

To see the beauty of the jungle, you must have a wild soul within; otherwise you will not see. Garden beauty anyone can see; it requires no vast, jungle-like soul. Even a shopkeeper, a market man, recognizes garden beauty, for it is man-made and understandable. The jungle is made by God; unless you become a little like God, you will not understand. On the surface there is chaos; within, a great music is hidden. On the surface all seems disorderly; within the disorder a hidden order moves.

Thus people could not understand Lao Tzu. Whether he ever existed is still in doubt. Historians are reluctant to accept that such a man ever lived. He seems a myth, a legend. Are there such men? Does any living man speak such things? They cannot believe. When was he born? What house was he born in? There is no account. He himself was not a man of accounts. About Confucius, everything is neat.

Or take a nearer example you can grasp. Mahatma Gandhi was exactly like Confucius—tidy, his arithmetic precise, not a grain of error you could find. A mahatma, an ideal person; keeping accounts round the clock about living by rule. And in this country at the same time there was another man sitting on the Arunachala hill—Ramana. No accounts, no rule, no arrangement. Very few in the world could know Ramana. It is hard to find someone who does not know Gandhi; it is hard to find someone who does know Ramana. Gandhi will be a man of history; Ramana will be forgotten. Doubts will arise someday whether he even existed. For this man did nothing that left a mark upon events. Gandhi must be acknowledged—the freedom of India, the uplift of Harijans, a thousand deeds; his signatures upon a thousand happenings; his grip upon the world of events; his impact on newspapers; wherever things were happening he was present; wherever he was present, things began to happen. In the sequence of events, his movement was palpable. And there was Ramana—like Lao Tzu—doing nothing. If nothing is done, what history can be made? There is no history of not-doing. He made no great revolution in the arrangements of men. Whose concern would this be?

An Italian thinker, Lanza del Vasto, went to Ramana’s ashram. He stayed three days and said, This man is of no use. Then he came to Gandhi’s ashram and said, This man—this is the man! Is this Ramana even a man? He sits idle. Do some service! There is so much suffering in the world—remove it! So many sick! So much pain! What kind of spirituality is this—sitting idle? It is very difficult to recognize this spirituality—and this is the only spirituality. Lanza del Vasto left Ramana and was initiated by Gandhi. People’s misfortune has no limit. Gandhi gave him the name Shantidas. Lanza del Vasto became Shantidas—but where peace was, there he missed. With Gandhi there was only tremendous restlessness.

But millions will know Gandhi. Who will know Ramana? Ramana will be known to those few who enter deep peace, who experience existence. They will know Ramana. And only then will they understand that non-action too has a tremendous action—an energy enormous, that does not strike from above but works from within; not a direct assault but entering from the subtle. But that is the play of the invisible. In the visible world Gandhi has value; but how many know the invisible? The subtle—how many know it? Gandhi is on the surface, where the whole world stands. Ramana is in depth, where only divers can reach.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: since very few know me, I am rare.

How can many know the rare? People can know only the one who is like themselves, who speaks their language. They can know only the one with whom some relationship forms.

With Gandhi a relationship forms. There is suffering, and Gandhi is massaging the feet of a leper—you can relate. There is slavery, and Gandhi breaks the chains, staking his life—you can relate. There is nothing in Gandhi that is incomprehensible to you. Everything is clear, the arithmetic plain. There is no difference between your language and Gandhi’s. You may not be Gandhi, but you too wish to be Gandhi. The ideal is the same. He has reached; you will reach tomorrow. You will try; he has arrived; you are on the path. The path is one. Gandhi is entirely understandable. Ramana is not. He does not even seem to be on the path you are on. He does not even seem to walk, much less be on the path. He seems to sit.

Between you and Lao Tzu there is a great difference. Even the language does not meet. No medium of communication, no bridge is built. Both seem entirely unfamiliar, alien; as if from different worlds. How will you know? How will you recognize? You will pass by Lao Tzu and not see the mahatma. Your mahatmas are on the surface. They speak your language. Your vegetable-market weights can weigh your mahatmas too. Your feet and inches can measure them. Feet and inches are yours; the measure is yours. And your mahatmas cannot be very great, for they can be measured by your feet and inches. But how will you measure Lao Tzu? There is no fathoming. Your feet and inches are useless. Your weights are too small—no harmony arises from them; no relationship is found.

Therefore you miss. You pass by Lao Tzu and do not see Lao Tzu. It is not that you have not passed by. You have been on earth so long. Who knows how many times you have had the opportunity to pass near men like Lao Tzu. But they did not appear to you—because in them you found nothing you could weigh. You did not find them serving in hospitals. You did not see them gifting land to the poor. You did not see them making any revolution in the petty arrangements of society. They did not organize a movement against dowry-practice. Nor did they try to uplift Harijans. How will you recognize these people?

They are like trees, like mountain rocks, like mountain streams. It is all right—you sat near them for a while; there was a wild beauty there—then you went your way. They were not useful to you. You could not use them; and you cannot use the vast. What use will you make of the vast sky? You want small courtyards. Your mahatmas are small courtyards, flower-beds.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: since very few know me, I am rare. People pass by and do not recognize; I am rare.

This definition of rare is unique.

'Thus the saint wears coarse cloth on the outside, but within the heart carries jewels and gems.'

The saint’s jewels are not studded upon his clothes; the ascetic displays his gems upon his garments. You recognize the ascetic at a glance. He stands naked—how will you escape recognition? He stands in the sun—how will you not recognize? He is hungry, fasting—how will you escape? He stands on his head, lies on thorns—where will you run? His jewels are all on the surface.

The ascetic is an exhibitionist. There is little difference between sinner and ascetic. They are two faces of the same coin. The sinner too brags of his sin. Among thieves and robbers each claims how many he has looted, how many he has killed—false boasts. He may have killed two and says twenty. Go into prisons, into madhouses, and you will find criminals boasting, intimidating each other: perhaps he has picked a pocket, but he says he looted a treasury. Your ascetics also are exhibitionists. They say, we have fasted so many times; so much tapasya, so many thousands of rosary-turnings, a hundred thousand times we have written the name of Rama—they keep accounts. No ascetic is greater than they.

The saint has no claim. For he is neither ascetic to claim, nor sinner to claim. In him night and day have met. Midnight’s dense darkness is visible; the bright noonday sun is clear. The ascetic is like twilight, where day and night meet—everything hazy. The true saint is like twilight—everything blended, nothing sharp. It is mysterious: neither night, nor day; both have met. Neither life nor death; both have met. Neither auspicious nor inauspicious; both have met. The saint’s life is a twilight life, where all has merged. Only those will recognize who can hear the music of the mellow. Those accustomed to noon will not appreciate twilight—there is no haste, no intensity; everything is gentle, faint. Those accustomed to deep midnight will not appreciate twilight either—no intensity of darkness, no density; everything rarefied. Night is clear; day is clear; twilight is misty. The saint is misty. Only those who can see in the mist, who can peer into the mysterious—where boundaries are lost, where definitions melt, where dualities dissolve—only a few will recognize.

And then within the saint are great jewels and gems. If only you could look into twilight! The whole day is hidden there, and the whole night too. If only you could look into the indefinable! All truths are hidden there, and all untruths too. If only you could look into a saint! You would find all the secrets of life present there. Auspicious and inauspicious stand embracing; the first and the last are present together.

'On the outside, the saint wears coarse cloth; within, in the heart, he carries jewels and gems.'

He has no outer claims. If you are used to those who claim, how will you recognize the saint? He has no claims. He lives without claim—without condition, without assertion. He simply lives. If you learn the art of sensing the fragrance of life, you will recognize. Then through the saint a door opens that leads you straight into the temple of Paramatma.

But recognizing a saint is difficult. The saint is absolutely simple; therefore he is difficult to recognize. The saint is as simple as life; hence difficult. He is difficult to practise too. You can practise the ascetic; you can practise the sinner. We call one 'ascetic' because he has practised much; the other we call 'sinner' because he has practised the opposite. The saint you can neither practise nor understand.

You can only allow him entry within you. Sit by the saint a little; rest a little; drop talk of practices and methods. Be with the saint a while; walk a few steps with him, sit a few moments—he is contagious. His heart will begin to sway in you; his heartbeat will join your heartbeat. Only then is recognition possible—if you live the saint a little. Therefore the only way to know men like Lao Tzu or Ramana is the art of being near them. That is discipleship. There is nothing to learn—You are a fish; you already know how to swim.

A small story dear to Vivekananda: A lioness leapt from one mountain to another. She was pregnant. From the shock of the leap the cub fell down. Below, a flock of sheep was passing; they raised him. The lion grew among sheep, remembered only that he was a sheep. He bleated like sheep. He grew tall, bigger than sheep. Sheep did not fear him, nor did he eat them. He did not remember he was a lion.

One day a lion attacked the flock. Seeing this, he was astonished: one lion was scampering about among sheep! Sheep did not fear him, nor did he attack them. A miracle! He could not believe it. He ran and with difficulty caught this lion. Caught, the lion bleated, wept like a sheep. The lion scolded him: What are you doing? Do you know who you are? But he kept bleating, tried to run. Somehow the lion dragged him to the riverbank. In the still water he said, Look! They both bent over the water.

In a moment the revolution happened. The one who thought himself a sheep roared like a lion. Everything changed. The very matter changed. His eyes were different; his walk was different. Nothing had to be done. Alongside another lion, he recognized his reflection in the mirror of the water.

Just by being with the saint, this much happens. The saint teaches nothing; he simply reveals what you are.

Enough for today.