Tao Upanishad #115

Knowledge of existence is impossible. There is no way to know it.
There is no way, because existence is prior to man; and it will remain when man is gone. Man is but a small wave rising in the ocean. How will the wave know the ocean? Even when the wave was not, the ocean was; when the wave will not be, the ocean will be. For a moment the wave is. The ocean is eternal. The wave has limits, edges. The ocean has no shore, no limit. How can a tiny wave contain the whole ocean in its knowing? It can strutt and preen; for a little while, in a kind of intoxication, it can even believe it has known. But that will prove to be illusion.
Granted that birds can fly in the sky. But how far? Has the sky any boundary? How will the birds' wings measure the vastness of the sky? Wherever the bird's flight ends, there it will imagine the sky ends. Where the wings fail, the sky does not end; only the wings have failed. Birds too can boast: we have known, measured, traveled. But what is the worth of that travel? And what does it mean against the Infinite?
Man too tries to know a little by the wings of thought; he flies a little, he flutters. Do not mistake his fluttering for a measurement of the sky. That fluttering may have some limited utility, but in the ultimate sense it has no significance. The part can never know the whole. It would be as if my hands claimed to know my entire body. How will the hands know the whole body? Hands can only know up to their reach. The body is greater than they. Before this Vastness we are not even an atom. How will this atom know the Supreme?
Therefore only the ignorant make claims of knowing. The wise come to know just one thing: that knowing is not possible. With such knowing, all stiffness is lost. With such knowing, all ego falls. And in that egoless state something happens which cannot be called knowledge, yet to call it ignorance would also be false. Meister Eckhart, a great Christian fakir of Germany, has said a memorable word about this moment. He said: when I came to know that I know nothing at all, instantly a curtain lifted; God stood before me. But then I was no more. And Eckhart said, forgive me and do not find fault with my language, but I would say: in that moment God knew Himself through me. As if the energy of God flowed through me and returned to its source. God knew God, by means of me. Then those eyes were not mine; in those eyes it was God who was seeing. God was the seer and God was the seen. I was lost.
Only the Whole can know the Whole. When you dissolve, then you become the Whole. When the wave dissolves, it becomes the ocean. In that hour, knowing can be.
Now this is a great paradox. As long as you want that knowing should happen, it will not; because you will be present. When you even consent to ignorance, only then will you dissolve.
Knowledge is the greatest prop of the ego. Hence you may renounce wealth; nothing will happen. Do not think that by giving up wealth, the ego has gone. The renouncer's ego becomes even deeper. Because the renouncer thinks he possesses renunciation. You only have money, potsherds that death will snatch away today or tomorrow. The renouncer thinks he has earned such coins as will accompany him beyond death. Your bank balance is here; his bank balance is in the beyond. He has opened accounts ahead. And your wealth can be stolen; how will one steal renunciation? Your wealth can go bankrupt; the renouncer's wealth never goes bankrupt. His wealth is subtler. It can neither be snatched nor stolen; nor do fluctuations of the marketplace alter the value of his renunciation. His economics is deeper. The foundation of your economics may be on sand; his stands on rock.
Therefore the renouncer becomes more egoistic than the rich. You can leave family, wealth, position, prestige; nothing will happen until you leave knowledge. Because knowledge is the deepest possession. And knowledge breeds the deepest arrogance. That is why you will often see that whether the pundit is a fakir, in torn, old clothes, his arrogance is of another order. The Brahmin's pride is born of his erudition. Even a Kshatriya's sword does not have the edge that shines on the Brahmin's face. Even the greatest rich do not carry the inner arrogance that shows in the Brahmin's gait. He has nothing, yet he has the wealth of knowledge. That is why I see that it may happen that a sinner reaches God, but a pundit never arrives. There is no way for the pundit to reach. Because his wall is very subtle, very strong. And his ego is hidden in very deep layers; to recognize it takes very profound and incisive eyes.
One who has dropped knowledge is left with nothing; he becomes empty within. The money kept in the safe is kept in the safe; the wealth of knowledge fills the inside. And as long as you are filled with knowledge, you will remain ignorant. Because God cannot descend into you. If the wave does not dissolve, how will the ocean enter? If the drop is not willing to be lost, how will it become the Vast? Then you have taken the petty to be all; and you will be imprisoned in the petty. To experience ignorance is the first step of knowledge. To stuff ignorance with knowledge is to fall into great ignorance.
The Upanishads have a very lovely statement; such a statement is nowhere in any scripture in the world. The Upanishads say: the ignorant wander in darkness; the learned wander in great darkness. The wandering of the ignorant is understandable. We all know that the ignorant wander. He who does not know will wander. But the Upanishads say: one who is deluded that he knows, he wanders in great darkness. The ignorant are in small, petty darkness; they can be called back; they are not very far from the light; their camp is nearby. The learned sets out on a far journey. The learned—that is, the pundit; not the wise, not a Buddha, not a Krishna—pundit! One who has learned words; who has memorized scriptures; who has filled himself with borrowed thoughts; and now prides himself upon this alms and leftovers.
Take this first thing to heart: the part cannot know the whole, the fragment cannot recognize the unfragmented. There is no way. The only way is that the fragment itself become whole. God cannot be known, but God can be become. In knowing there is separation, distance; in being there is no separation, no distance. You will know God only by being God. Remaining you, you will not know God.
Therefore the wise have declared aham brahmasmi. In that declaration do not lay stress on the word aham. The emphasis there is on brahmasmi. I am Brahman means: I am not, and Brahman is. If you take it to mean, "I am Brahman," you will fall into error. "I am Brahman" means: now I am no more, only Brahman is; therefore, I am Brahman. This happens upon the disappearance of the I. It is not a proclamation of the I.
God can be become; God cannot be known. You can drown in existence, be lost in it; you can be one with existence, one-taste. Only in that one-taste is knowledge. But then you will not remain a knower, nor will there be any object known by you. Only One will remain, who knows Himself through Himself. You will have gone.
Hence Lao Tzu insists: one must be free not only of ignorance, but also of knowledge. Being free of ignorance is not enough. It is necessary, but not sufficient. Still, one must be free of knowledge too. One must be free of the disease, and also take care not to be caught by the medicine. Some people are freed of illness, then they get entangled in the medicine; then the medicine does not leave them. They fear that if they drop the medicine, the illness may return. Then the medicine has also become a disease.
One must be free of the disease, and be vigilant that one is not fettered by the remedy. A thorn lodges in the foot: it must be removed; but the thorn by which you remove it must not be kept in the wound. Both thorns have to be thrown away together. A thorn is a thorn—whether the one embedded in the flesh, or the one used to remove it. Throw both away together.
Ignorance must go; knowledge must also go. If through knowledge ignorance is removed and then you become bound to knowledge, you have changed your chains; the bondage has not gone. Earlier your chains were of iron; now your chains are of gold, or perhaps of platinum. The chains have changed; beautiful chains have arrived; sweet, precious chains. But what difference does it make? Your prison remains intact.
And of iron chains one still feels like breaking free; golden chains one does not feel like breaking. The prison has become even deeper, stronger. Now the chains will look like ornaments. Now you will not even take it to be a prison; you have decorated it so well.
The ignorant lives in darkness—unadorned darkness; his house is like a ruin. And those whom you call learned have nicely decorated the house. Their house looks like a palace, very precious. But it is the same house in which the ignorant lived. For the ego is unchanged; the house has not been changed.
One must be free of ignorance and free of knowledge. Then a unique un-knowing is born, where there is neither knowledge nor ignorance; where the claim to know has vanished. Where there is neither a knower nor a known; where a vast emptiness spreads; where not a single ripple of thought arises within; where supreme silence happens. In that moment of silence alone does one enter the temple of God. Existence opens its doors only when you have disappeared.
There is a very lovely poem of Jalaluddin Rumi: a lover knocked at the beloved's door. From within came the question: Who is there? The lover said, I, your lover. And inside there was silence, a sad silence. He knocked again and again; from within came the voice: you are not ready yet. The doors can only open when you are ready. Go back! Return after you are ready.
For years the lover remained in mountains and forests, immersed in silence, peace, meditation. Moons rose and set; days, nights, months, years passed. Then one day the lover returned and knocked at the door. Again the same question: Who is there? This time he said: Only You are; I am not. The doors opened.
The day you can say at the doorway of existence: Only You are; I am not—that day the doors are already open. If you understand rightly, the doors were never closed; your I had closed the doors. The curtain is not upon God; the curtain is upon your eyes. The veil is not to be lifted from God; else one man would lift it and all would have the vision. Buddha would have lifted it, Mahavira would have lifted it, Krishna would have lifted it, and the rest could stand where they are and have darshan. If the veil were on God, it would have been lifted once and for all; the matter finished. The veil is upon every person's eyes. Therefore, however much Buddha lifts, it will not be lifted from your eyes. However much Mahavira lifts, it will not lift from you. If Mahavira lifts, his veil is lifted; if you lift, yours will be lifted.
The doors are not closed. It is only a wall of your I, in which you are enclosed. And knowledge gives profound strength to your I. In ignorance you tremble; with knowledge you become stiff. The moment you feel, I know, your fear is lost. The moment you feel, I know, you become somebody. This too must be dropped. Otherwise you will remain bound by knowledge. Knowledge will become your bondage. And knowledge is only that which liberates. So the knowledge that becomes bondage is worse than ignorance. This is the first point.
The second point to be remembered: what do we call knowledge? Is it truly knowledge? Or a deception of knowledge?
Consider this: suppose, on a journey in space, you meet a traveler from Mars. He asks you, Where do you live? You say, Koregaon Park. He asks, Never heard of it; where is this Koregaon Park? You say, Pune. He says, you solve one riddle by another; where is Pune? You say, Maharashtra. He asks, where is Maharashtra? You say, India. He says, where is India? You say, on Earth. He asks, where is Earth? You say, in the solar family. He says, you are not giving an answer. I ask A, you tell B. When I ask B, it turns out you don't know that either; then you tell C.
You are solving the unknown with another unknown. You know none of them. Because as soon as the question of any one arises, you retreat further back; you say, Maharashtra, India, solar system. Where is the solar system? If the questioner keeps asking, a moment will come when you will have to say, I do not know. And if the last thing is unknown, how could the first thing, which you wanted to solve by the last, be known?
Among scientists a joke has long been told. Eddington mentions it. Ask a scientist: What is matter? He says, not mind. Definition of matter? That which is not mind. Ask, what is mind? He says, that which is not matter.
But where is knowledge? We ask one thing; you shift to another ignorance. We ask, what is mind? You say, not matter. Naturally the question arises: what is matter, which you are using to explain mind? Instantly you say, that which is not mind. You know neither of the two. With one ignorance you are trying to hide the other.
Our whole knowledge is like this—makeshift, utilitarian; it has utility. But what of meaning? What do we know? We do not know even small things.
A child once asked D. H. Lawrence: why are trees green? Lawrence wrote: all my knowledge fell into the dust. Why are trees green? No answer occurred.
Lawrence is very honest. Children also ask you such questions which even great philosophers cannot answer. But you try to shut their mouths. Because you would be afraid to admit in front of a child that you are ignorant, that you do not know. Every father shuts the child's mouth. He says, when you grow up, you will know. And he himself does not know; he has already grown old. And by the time the child grows up, he too will not know, but his own children will have been born who will start asking to know. He will say to them, when you grow up you will know. D. H. Lawrence is an honest man. He said, why are trees green? I do not know. Trees are green because they are green. I do not know.
Do you know why trees are green? You will say, if not I, the scientist knows. He will say: because of chlorophyll. But why is there chlorophyll in trees? The matter remains where it was; nothing is solved. We ask, why are trees green? You shift the question one step back: because of chlorophyll. But why is there chlorophyll in trees? Go on questioning knowledge a few steps, and you will find ignorance. Wherever you find knowledge, dare to ask a little; you will not be able to go even two or four steps before ignorance appears. And the moment ignorance is revealed, it becomes clear that knowledge was only a covering.
I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin went to the market to buy saris for his wife. The wife was surprised, because he had no money. But Eid was near and he wanted to present a gift. He set out with empty pockets; the wife asked, empty pockets? He said, don't worry, there is a way out of everything. She said, we shall see. She went along.
Mulla Nasruddin chose two saris, one hundred and fifty rupees each. The wife too was astonished—such costly saris, and his pocket empty! The shopkeeper packed the parcel, prepared the bill. Then suddenly Mulla changed his mind: stop. Instead of the two at one-fifty each, I will take this single sari of three hundred. The sari was packed. He pressed it under his arm and started out. The shopkeeper said, listen, you forgot to pay. He said, pay for what? I took this in exchange for those two. The shopkeeper said, that is correct; but where did you pay for the two? He said, why should I pay for what I did not buy? They are still with you.
Man's knowledge is such a circle. Of nothing do we know anything. And yet we have stuck labels over everything—known. Necessary. As soon as a child is born we give him a name: Ram. We know nothing of what his name is. But without a name things will not work. We stick a label—Ram—and we start calling him Ram. He hears it, he too starts taking himself to be Ram. Now, if on the road someone abuses "Ram," he is ready to fight. He who had come without a name; whose name no one knows; to whom we have pasted a working label for convenience—otherwise there would be difficulty. Ten children at home; whom to call? And then such a large world—if all were moving about nameless, great difficulty would arise. So the false name too is very useful. But then, if someone abuses "Ram," he is ready with a stick, ready to give and take life—for that name which he never brought, for that name which he will never take along; which was a convenience of the in-between world, with no intrinsic meaning.
Neither is the name yours, nor is there any address that you know—from where you came, where you are going, why you came, why you live, why you die. Deep ignorance. But ignorance creates panic, fear. So we have pasted knowledge over ignorance. It gives a little consolation; everything seems familiar, known.
A stranger meets you on a train. If you are alone in the compartment, the first thing you want is to know: what is his name? Where does he come from? Hindu, Muslim, Christian? Get a little information. Because you are sitting alone with him; if you fall asleep—he may take away the bedding, open the trunk, who knows, get on your neck. A little data is needed. But from whom will you take it? From the same man! And what can he give? He will say, yes, my name is Ram, I am a Hindu. If you too are a Hindu, you feel assured. If you are a Muslim, an enemy is in the room. He himself knows nothing of his name; he knows nothing of his religion either. Religion too is given. Parents give that as well. Name given by parents. Your entire identity, your entire address, is given by others. And whom will you ask? The same man. You will chat a little; create a little familiarity. The man is no longer a stranger.
But have you ever thought that the wife with whom you have lived for thirty years is still a stranger? What have you known? Even in thirty years, knowing is not possible. Leave the wife aside—yourself you have been living with for fifty years; have you known yourself? That too you do not know. Whom will you ask? You yourself do not know your own address. Whom will you ask? And if you do not know, who will know?
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to the post office to claim a parcel. The clerk looked carefully; the man seemed a little suspicious. He said, but what proof is there that this name is yours, and this is your parcel? Mulla said, I have proof. He took out his passport, opened it, and said: look, this photo. The clerk examined the photo, looked at Nasruddin. He said, it is exactly you. He gave the parcel.
Now the fun is, whom are you asking? Nasruddin himself. It is his passport, his photo—accepted. But that this man is Nasruddin in whose name the parcel is—what proof is there?
There is none. Yet life goes on. Life can go on without proof. But the search for truth cannot proceed without proof. Whatever you know, you have somehow managed in life with it. But is it knowledge? What do you know?
So far, thousands of streams of knowledge have arisen in the world; all become superstition after a while. Once they were streams of knowledge; now they are superstitions. Everything that the world had so far taken as knowledge has gone into the wastebasket. And do not think that what you consider knowledge now will not go into the wastebasket. It too is going daily. Scientists say now even science is hard to trust. Because every day everything changes. It has become difficult to write big books on science. By the time the book is finished, science changes. So small books are written, short articles in periodicals. Because before the piece is printed the matter may change. Everything has to be done so fast. In three hundred years science has changed thirty thousand times. Nothing is fixed. Everything is changing. What was right yesterday becomes wrong today. What is wrong today may be right tomorrow. What is right today may be wrong tomorrow.
Man's knowledge is makeshift. It will never have roots. It cannot. Only God can know exactly what is. Man moves on the surface; he gathers something; believes it to be knowledge; manages with it. Work gets done. And this is the difficulty—that when things work, we think they must be true. Not necessary. Your belief that they are true is enough. Their being true is not necessary.
Look—how many therapies in the world! Allopathy, Ayurveda, Unani, Homeopathy, Naturopathy, Acupuncture, thousands... Which is right? Even scientists are now hesitant; nothing is clear. For patients are found to be cured by all treatments. And the ratio is almost equal. Seeing that the patient gets well by Homeopathy too, by Allopathy too, by Ayurveda too—the patients seem very strange; they do not behave according to any one theory; illnesses too are very odd—the West did many experiments with what they call the placebo. One patient is given Allopathic medicine. Another patient with the same illness is given only water. It is not told who is getting medicine and who is getting water. The great surprise: seventy percent of both get well! He who receives water gets well just as much as he who receives medicine.
It seems man gets well because he wants to get well. And whichever thing he trusts in. If you trust in Homeopathy, Allopathy cannot cure you. If you trust Allopathy, Homeopathy cannot cure you. Your trust cures you. That is why even ash given by someone sometimes works.
I know a sadhu. He told me. He lives in a rural area—very simple man. It is an uneducated region, all around adivasis in Bastar where he resides. Unlettered, wild people. He told me: once a man came. It seemed he had tuberculosis. I know a little of medicines. So I wrote down some medicine—there was nothing to write on; a piece of brick lay there; upon that brick I wrote: go to the market and get this medicine.
The man was illiterate. He did not understand what the matter was. He went home; he thought the brick was the medicine. He ground it and drank it. When after three months he was completely well, he came again: please give some more medicine; I am already all right like this. The sadhu said, brother, medicine will be available in the market. He said, what need to go to the market? What you had given worked. What did you do? he asked. He said, I dissolved it and drank it and became perfectly fine. And he stood there, fully healthy.
The sadhu said to me: I did not think it proper to tell him that it was a brick and that TB is not cured by drinking bricks. But when he had become well, it was best to keep silent. And I wrote the same mantra again on another piece of brick—the same name of the medicine. Because he said, write the mantra. Bricks are also in our village, but a mantra-infused thing is different.
Now experiments on placebos have been done all over the world. It has been found that whatever the medicine, seventy percent of patients get well. Therefore the question of medicine does not appear very big.
What is knowledge? Buddha defined knowledge: that by which one somehow manages. This definition is understandable. Knowledge does not mean it is truth; knowledge only means that by which something works. That is knowledge—workable knowledge. When it does not work, that very thing becomes ignorance. When it works, that very thing becomes knowledge.
Doctors know: whenever a new medicine comes out, for the first three or four months it works very well, then slowly its effect diminishes. The same medicine—why does the effect diminish? At first, a new medicine—three or four months it works like magic. It seems no better medicine for this illness could ever be. Because the doctor too is full of trust in the new; the patient too is full of trust. And when the first patients get well, the contagious news spreads among other patients that this medicine works.
But then gradually enthusiasm wanes in everything. In four to six months the doctor's enthusiasm also wanes. One or two patients appear whom you cannot cure at all. Because of them trust in the medicine drops. The obstinate are found everywhere. Thirty percent people are obstinate in everything. In illness too, out of a hundred seventy are not obstinate; thirty are obstinate. They trust nothing. They are dyed-in-the-wool disbelievers in everything. They look at all things with the eye of denial. Therefore nothing has an effect upon them. As soon as such people appear and the medicine does not work for them, the news reaches the patients that now it will not work. This medicine too is gone. Then another medicine has to be found at once.
That which works is knowledge. But this is a very weak definition. The definition of knowledge ought to be: that which is forever. But such knowledge is not in man's possession. Such knowledge is available only when you transcend even your humanity. Your informations are only devices for covering ignorance. They allow you to live conveniently. But living conveniently is not the same as knowing the mystery of life.
This is the second point. And the third—and then we enter the sutra:
Whenever you know anything, knowing means that there is a distance between you and that which you know. You sit there, I am seeing you. I sit here, you are seeing me. If we come very close, seeing starts to diminish. If we put our faces absolutely close, we will not be able to see. If our eyes come so near as to touch each other, then nothing will be visible. For knowledge, distance is needed. And this is the obstacle. How will we know that from which we are distant?
The senses can only know that which is far. And Truth, God, can be known only by one method: that He come so near, so near that not even a grain of distance remains between us and Him. God therefore cannot be known through the senses. Because the senses know only what is distant. God will be known only through a supersensory experience. But all your knowledge is of the senses. Something you have known by the eyes, something by the hands, something by the ears, but all you have known through the senses. The senses are the doors of the mind. Whatever the senses bring, they hand to the mind. The mind becomes the knower. Behind the mind is hidden your consciousness.
And there is another knowledge which is not known by distance, but by nearness. It is more like love than like knowledge. God can be known in prayer; when the heart is filled with deep love. God cannot be seen by the eyes. Whatever can be seen by the eyes is the world. Or, if you like, say: when you look at God with the eyes, what appears to you is one fragment of God—the world. When you close the eyes and see, then you will see that which is God. When you close all the senses and see, then you will know that which is God. For with the closing of the senses, the commerce of the mind ceases.
Science, knowledge, all have been known only through the senses. Therefore Lao Tzu says: the first mark of the wise is to know that what we know is not knowledge. And when we are freed from this knowledge, then we can step in the direction of supreme knowing. He who takes this to be knowledge hugs it to his chest; he takes it to be the goal. Then the journey is blocked.
Now let us understand Lao Tzu's sutra.
"One who knows that 'I do not know' is the highest."
Lao Tzu calls this knowledge supreme: the knowing that I do not know. There is the ignorant, the learned, and the supremely wise. Ignorant means: one who does not know, and does not know that he does not know. Learned means: one who does not know, but knows that he knows. Supremely wise means: one who knows that he does not know. So in the supremely wise there is one thing of the ignorant—"I do not know"—and one thing of the learned—"I know." The supremely wise goes beyond both the ignorant and the learned. The ignorant does not know, and does not know that he does not know. The supremely wise also does not know, but knows that he does not know. The learned does not know, but knows that he knows. The supremely wise knows only that he does not know. In the harmony of these two, the flame of supreme wisdom is lit.
Socrates said: when I was young, I knew I knew all. There was nothing that, in the pride of youth, I did not know. Then I grew old. My edifice of knowledge began to lose bricks. Maturity came; courage arose to admit that there are many things I do not know. And as soon as that courage came, I discovered: I know very little; not-knowing is vast. And in the last moments Socrates said: now that the stream of life has run its course, now that I have become perfectly humble, conceit and ego have gone, the stiffness of body and mind has melted, and death knocks at the door, I would declare to the world that I know only one thing—that I know nothing.
It happened: there is a very famous temple in Greece—the temple of Delphi. Upon its priest the goddess descended. And when the goddess descended upon the priest, he made many declarations. They always proved true. Some people went to the temple of Delphi. Whatever people asked in the goddess-possessed state, the priest answered. Someone asked: who is the greatest wise man in Greece? The priest said: is that even a question? Socrates is the supremely wise.
They returned from Delphi and told Socrates: the priest of Delphi, in the state of possession by the goddess, has declared you the greatest wise man.
Socrates said: there must have been some mistake. Go back and tell the priest that Socrates himself says there is no one more ignorant than him; I know nothing.
They went back and told the priest: you say it, but Socrates himself denies it. He has said there must be some mistake; go and tell that Socrates says: I know only this much—that I know nothing. Who is more ignorant than I! The goddess of the temple of Delphi laughed and said: precisely for this we call him supremely wise. Precisely because Socrates himself says that he is ignorant, for this we have called him supremely wise. There has been no mistake. And there is no contradiction between our statement and Socrates'. It is because Socrates says what he says that we say he is supremely wise. Had he unfortunately accepted that he is supremely wise, we would have had to change our statement. Then he would no longer have been wise.
Knowledge is humble; knowledge is utterly humble. Knowledge makes no claim.
"One who knows that 'I do not know' is the highest."
But beware—do not make such a declaration in order to become the highest. Otherwise you will miss. Man's mind is very cunning. On reading this sentence you too may feel: then the path is straight and clear; simply declare I know nothing and become the highest effortlessly. If you declare to become the highest, you have already missed. This is not a method to become the highest. When such a thing happens in one's life, highness follows like a shadow. It is a consequence, not a means. If to become the highest you claim ignorance, that claim too is a claim of knowledge and of ego. Do not think that only the claim of knowledge is possible. Man is sly; he can claim ignorance as well. But a claim is a claim. And if you are claiming only to become the highest, you will be in trouble.
And I see many religious people in such trouble. Some come to me and say: sinners are happy, and we are doing virtue and yet we are in misery. The scriptures say the virtuous receive happiness, receive heaven.
They are doing virtue to obtain happiness. There they have missed. The first mark of virtue is that it is without greed. If virtue too is greedy, what difference is there between sin and virtue? These people sit watching, calculating: so much virtue has been done and yet happiness has not come. And the scriptures say it will. And if happiness is not coming now, how to trust heaven? If it is not coming now, why trust what may or may not be there later? No one returns to tell. Perhaps by sinning we are missing too; doing virtue we are wasting time for nothing and getting nothing.
And they see that the sinner is getting happiness. Understand this a little. When someone sees the sinner as happy, he is actually desiring the very same happiness the sinner is getting by sin. A virtuous man will see that the sinner is miserable. A virtuous man can never see the sinner as happy. It is impossible! Only a sinful mind sees the sinner as happy. That is your definition of happiness. That is what you want.
You too want heaps of wealth. Some are courageous; they steal and smuggle. You are of weaker courage; you give alms and offerings. But you want the same. You are a fearful man, a coward. Lest you be caught, you seek an easy way. Some bribe the police officers; you bribe God. Otherwise your doing is the same. Your logic is not different. Your longing is the same. You want the sinner's happiness without staking yourself. You are more cunning.
The sinner is simple. His arithmetic is not complicated. Whatever he wants, he is madly doing. By any means whatsoever—yen-ken-prakaren—whatever the outcome, he is at it. He will steal, he will rob, he will do anything. He is at least courageous. And he makes a direct attempt to get what he wants. You are dishonest and cunning. You want to pick a pocket and yet not put your hand into another's pocket. You want that the other man's pocket should suddenly turn itself inside out into your pocket. Or the other himself should put his hand into his pocket and place money in your pocket. And what are you doing for this?
Every morning you sit for half an hour chanting Ram-Ram; or you keep a little gram and distribute it among beggars; or the medicines that did not work in your home you donate to the hospital; or the clothes no longer fit for you, those you donate; send them to Bangladesh. Your virtue is very paltry. Inside, the same mind is hidden as the sinner's. Then you become anxious.
If you have truly done virtue, then bliss showers in the very doing of virtue. It is not going to be given later. Heaven is not tomorrow; nor is hell tomorrow. In what you are doing, in that very act, sorrow or joy rains upon you.
Steal once and see. You will find how the heart pounds! What anxiety, restlessness, worry, panic, fear! You cannot sleep; you are frightened even by your own footsteps and startle; your own sounds scare you. Do not look at the thief's mansion—that he has built a big house. Look at his inner being—moment by moment he is corroding, wounds are forming moment by moment. Moment by moment he is frightened, restless, troubled, trembling. Do not look at his clothes; look at his life-breath. Do not look at his money; look at his inner state. Then you will find he is in great misery; he is obtaining hell.
But one who has truly given—a gift without greed. For if greed is in giving, how can it be giving? Then it is a bargain. And those who have promised in the scriptures that here you give one coin and you will receive a crore-fold in heaven—they are dishonest. They know your mind. They found a way to exploit you. You would not give for less. Think a little! Even a gambler does not get so much that he places one coin and receives a crore-fold. Your craving is monstrous; you want to get a crore-fold there by giving one coin here. The pandas of Kashi and Prayag exploit you for this reason. It is the exploitation of your greed. You are a thief. Because to want a crore-fold by giving a single coin is a thief's longing. Therefore you will find other thieves more skilled than you, who will exploit you. If you are not dishonest, no dishonest person can be found for you. If you are not a thief, no one can steal from you. If you are not greedy, you cannot be exploited.
A man came to me a few days ago. He said, a sadhu cheated me. He was very angry, very against sadhus. What did he do? He said, first I don't know what he did—but he made two notes out of one. Then he said, bring all the notes you have; I will double them. So we sold whatever jewelry we had at home, collected all the money. And that man took everything and vanished. He was a great cheat.
I said, you are the cheat; he was number two. You wanted to make two hundred out of one hundred rupees—this you do not see—and you call him dishonest! If you were not such, his being such would have no ground. You are the base, the root. And if punishment is to be given, if it were up to me, first you, then we would see about him. But first you deserve it. You wanted to make two hundred out of one hundred—did you not see the dishonesty? And one who comes to do that—will he be a sadhu? You know he was not a sadhu. You are not a sadhu either—you know it. You are both hoodlums. Two rogues met.
You see the sinner getting happy. It means that is precisely the happiness you too desire.
No, a sinner never gets happiness. There is no happiness other than virtue. But rising to virtue is very arduous. Virtue means selfless giving. Virtue means making the other a participant in what you have. Virtue means making others a partner in whatever joy has befallen you—unconditionally, with no wish to get anything.
Have you ever noticed? Someone has fallen on the road, and you extend your hand and lift him. In that moment, suddenly you arrive in heaven. You have done nothing—just extended a hand and lifted—and your gait changes. The inner gloom breaks. As if morning has arisen suddenly; as if clouds had covered the sky, and a little opening appeared and you saw the blue sky. In that moment you had no thought of virtue, no thought of scripture. It just happened out of simple humanity. A man was falling; you lifted him. You did not even think whether a photographer was around. Any reporter? What is the use of lifting on an empty street? You did not think whether some agent of God was writing it down just then. You did not stand there to calculate what benefit it will bring in the future. You did not think at all. In an unthought moment you bent and lifted. You did not even long for thanks. You went your way. If that man did not even say thanks, it did not arise in your mind that—what sort of fellow! I helped so much and he did not even say thanks!
If even this much arises—that he did not say thanks—you have missed. Heaven was just near and you fell back into hell. Heaven has a way of being. Hell has a way of being.
Therefore remember: if you give out of greed, it is only greed extended. If to become the highest you lodge this notion in your mind—"I know nothing"—you will neither become the highest, nor will you receive that nectar of not-knowing, nor that profound peace of not-knowing. You will miss. And with all scriptures, you have done precisely this. You are made foolish by your own cleverness; you miss because of your own cunning.
People come to me. I tell them: meditation will happen, but do not have much expectation of meditation. Expectation will become a barrier. If you are sitting quietly, do not long too much for peace. Leave talk of peace aside. Just sit quietly. When it happens, it happens. Do not hurry. They say, very well, we will do so. After two or four days they come and say: we did just as you said, but peace has not yet come. They keep missing. They did that too, but behind they kept watching whether peace was coming or not. Four days have passed; not yet!
Peace comes in those moments when you are absolutely not there. Your presence is restlessness. When you become so absent, leaving all longings, desires, worries, just sitting as if there is nothing to do, nothing to happen, nowhere to go, nothing to gain—when you sit like that, suddenly you find: there is a monsoon; clouds gather; peace is showering everywhere. You are getting drenched. You are becoming intoxicated.
But whatever is supreme in life never happens because of you. Because of you only the low happens. That is why the wise have said: supreme knowledge, the supreme experience, is grace—prasad—of God, not our effort.
So do not declare ignorance to become the highest. Yes, if the declaration of ignorance arises in your life, you will become the highest. It is a result.
"One who pretends to know what he does not know is sick in mind."
Lao Tzu says: he is ill; he needs psychotherapy. If you think, you will see: then almost everyone is mentally ill. For it is rare to find one who can straightforwardly say, I do not know.
If someone asks you: is there God? Have you ever answered: I do not know? No. Either you said: there is no God—if you are an atheist, a communist. That too is a claim of knowledge: I know there is no God. Or you said: He is. That too is a claim. Has it ever arisen plainly in your mind to say: I do not know?—which is the reality. Whatever anyone asks you, you are in a hurry to answer, always prepared. A moment never comes when you stand without an answer and genuinely say: no, I do not know.
A man once came to Mulla Nasruddin and said: I am in search of a master. I have gone to many, but found nothing. There is nothing in them. Soon their knowledge is exhausted. There is no secret that does not end. Someone told me about you—that you possess very secret, esoteric knowledge. I have come to know that. Nasruddin said: fine, stay in my service; prepare yourself. When you are ready, I will give you the secret knowledge. The man said: fine; before I start serving, I want to ask: what will be the criterion of preparedness? Nasruddin said: the criterion will be—on the day you can gather the courage to say that the secret knowledge I am giving you you are capable of keeping secret, and you will not tell anyone. The man said: perfect.
He served for three years. Again and again he asked. Nasruddin said, wait, become ready. After three years he said: now I am completely ready. Whatever knowledge you give me I will keep it secret. Nasruddin said: then the matter is over. Because my master also told me the same—that whatever knowledge I give you, keep it secret. I have kept it secret. And if you can keep a secret, I too can keep a secret. What do you take me for? Now that the topic has arisen, let me tell you: my master's master also said the same. And my master never told me anything. It has always been this way. And I have not told you either; but there is no need to worry. You can find disciples; there is no need to tell them either.
Secret knowledge is circulating. Neither you know, nor your master knows, nor your disciple knows. Knowing is very difficult; not so easy. But claiming is very easy. You too want to tell. Anyone should only ask; you are parched, wandering all around, looking for someone who will ask you something—so that you can tell.
I have heard about a great psychologist who was treating a very rich man—psychoanalyzing him. One day the rich man was late—arrived five or ten minutes late. The psychotherapist said with great annoyance: listen, had you not come for five minutes more, I would have started without you!
Man is so eager to tell that you do not even care whether the other is present to listen! When you talk to people, the other is often not present; he is preparing to escape. But you, to tell, hold him down. And about things of which you have not the slightest knowledge. What do you know? Do you know God? Liberation? Heaven and hell? Sin and virtue? Auspicious and inauspicious? Life and death? What do you know? Yet you conduct yourself as if you know. Examine and test a little.
When P. D. Ouspensky, a great Russian thinker, went to Gurdjieff—Ouspensky had written very elevated books. One book of his is unique in the history of humankind. If I were asked to name five books, I would include one of his. Tertium Organum—a very rare book of mathematics and philosophy. Once in a thousand years such a book appears. He was world-renowned. No one knew Gurdjieff. Gurdjieff was an ordinary fakir. When Ouspensky went, his book had become famous, had been printed. Ouspensky said to Gurdjieff: I have come to ask something.
Gurdjieff said: I will tell you. But first take this blank sheet, go into the next room, and make a list: on one side write what you know, on the other side write what you do not know. Because you are very learned; I have seen your book; you are very skillful with words. So write clearly yourself what you know. We shall never discuss that. If you already know, the matter is finished. And write clearly what you do not know. I will discuss only that with you.
Ouspensky has written: never had such a difficult moment come in my life. I took that paper and went into the room. It was winter; snow was falling; sweat began to drip from my forehead. I raised the pen; I did not know what to write. What do I know? This Gurdjieff has put me in trouble. Many times I tried: yes, this I know. But when I went to write, it became clear I did not know that either. It is all borrowed information, learned from others; nothing of it is my own experience.
After an hour I returned and gave Gurdjieff the blank paper, and said: I know nothing; you may begin. And Gurdjieff made Ouspensky into a man of a different order altogether; he transformed his whole life.
But the foundation of that transformation was laid in Ouspensky's admission: I know nothing. It must have been very hard for a world-renowned person like Ouspensky, whom people thought learned, to write that and to say that he knew nothing.
The day you can say, I know nothing, you become like a blank page. Now something can be written upon that blank page.
"One who pretends to know what he does not know is sick in mind."
He is ill. He needs treatment. In this sense, all are ill. Because you all have made claims of knowing what you do not know at all.
"And one who recognizes a pathological mentality as a pathological mentality is not sick in mind."
But if you recognize this diseased state of yours, you have begun to be healthy. The man who understands: I do not know, yet I claim—his improvement has begun. He has set out on the journey. His change is near. His treatment has begun. Medicine has entered his life. Just as, if in a dream at night you come to know it is a dream, sleep breaks. Until you take it to be true, not a dream, sleep remains. Once it dawns that it is a dream, the dream goes. You are already half awake.
Exactly so, if you recognize the diseases of the mind. And this is the greatest disease. Humanity has become downright deranged through knowledge. If you come to see that this is a disease—that I know nothing—instantly you will become simple; your knots will begin to open.
"The saint is not mentally sick."
And Lao Tzu says: he alone is a saint who knows clearly that he knows nothing. The more you awaken, the more you will see what you know. A moment comes when all knowledge is lost; you stand in supreme un-knowing. The silence of that supreme un-knowing has no comparison. The peace of that supreme un-knowing has no comparison. In that supreme un-knowing there is great light. In your knowledge there was great darkness. In that moment of supreme knowing—or supreme un-knowing—you suddenly are gone, dissolved, melted, and in your place something else begins to descend. That is Truth. That is Brahman.
"The saint is not mentally sick. Because they recognize the diseased mentality as diseased, therefore they are not sick in mind."
A most unique revolution happens if you recognize your condition precisely. To recognize the condition precisely is the beginning of revolution. If a madman admits and knows that he is mad, he has begun to be well. Madmen never agree. Go to the asylum and see: no madman will agree that he is mad. He thinks the whole world is mad; only he is sane.
Those who treat the mad say: when a madman begins to see that he is mad, then we know he is close to recovery. Because to be so conscious as to know "I am mad" is to be fairly well already. Who will know that I am mad? He who is knowing is separate from madness, different. The mind remains below; consciousness rises above. Only then can consciousness know: I am mad.
Now it becomes a strange arithmetic: those who think "we are not mad"—they are mad. And those who think "we are mad"—they are not mad.
Has it ever occurred to you that you are mad? Have you ever sat quietly and looked within at how much madness is going on? Ever taken a blank paper and written down whatever is going on in the mind—just as it goes on, without changing a thing? You will be very surprised. You will find it is sheer madness.
But you stand with your back turned toward your own mind, and your madness keeps increasing. Every man stands near madness. Psychologists say: out of a hundred, seventy-five are standing very near madness. A slight push: bankruptcy, wife dies, child dies, an accident, a fire in the house—just a slight push, and they will go mad. They are at ninety-nine degrees. One more degree; at one hundred degrees they will go mad.
Every man is almost at the edge of madness, yet no one knows. You go on living comfortably; within you repress your madness; outwardly you wear a face. It is essential to peep behind this face. Otherwise there is danger that one day you will go mad. Man can either be deranged or liberated—two possibilities. He who is not liberated will be deranged. And one who wishes to avoid derangement should strive for liberation. The first sign of liberation is that you recognize your madness precisely; you observe it from all sides. In that very observation you will find you are becoming the master. Exact observation of the mind makes you the master of the mind.
And if you know your disease as it is, there is a great sutra. In treating the body, after diagnosis there is need for medicine; diagnosis first. Those who treat the body know: the real thing is diagnosis. Diagnosis is the greatest thing; medicine anyone can prescribe once the illness is diagnosed. Properly understood, in bodily treatment ninety percent is diagnosis, ten percent medicine. In the treatment of the mind, the sutra is deeper still: there it is one hundred percent diagnosis. Because diagnosis itself is the treatment. If you rightfully know your disease, the matter is finished. Become conscious of the illness; in the fire of your consciousness, the illness is reduced to ash.
Therefore the wise have said one thing again and again, a thousand times: awaken, and the mind dissolves; be filled with awareness, that is enough. Buddha said, samyak smriti—Right Mindfulness. Krishnamurti keeps crying: awareness, awaken, be alert. Kabir says: surati—awareness. Someone asked Mahavira: who is a monk? Mahavira said: asutta muni—the one who is not asleep. And who is not a monk? Mahavira said: sutta amuni—the one who is asleep. Mahavira did not say: one who does evil is unholy; one who does good is holy. Mahavira said: one who is awake is a monk; one who sleeps is unholy.
In your sleeping lies the whole disease. In your awakening lies the cure.
Enough for today.