Tao Upanishad #116

There are two kinds of human beings. Those who live in darkness, and those who live in light.

The one who lives in darkness has no inkling of himself. And one who does not know himself—how can he know others? His whole life is a deep delusion. His life is like a dream dreamt in sleep—on waking, even its dust is not found in the hands.

One who lives in light—light means he has attained to the luminosity of his own being—he sees himself, he sees the other. His life is the life of one with eyes, the life of the awakened. Only in his life does truth make itself felt.

He who lives in darkness—his whole life will be a long tale of fear. He will live frightened. The reason is obvious. One who has no sense of himself will keep trembling. He has no ground on which to stand. And he has no trust in himself. He is not even sure whether he is or is not. He has no certainty—whence he comes, whither he goes. Nothing is seen clearly; he gropes in the dark. Like a blind man he tries to find the path; but nothing comes to hand except wandering and going astray.

The man living in darkness lives frightened his whole life long. This is his characteristic. Everything in him arises out of fear. If he makes money, it is from fear—perhaps money will bring security. If he practices moral conduct, it is from fear—that perhaps morality will become a shield. If he goes to the temple, prays and worships, it is from fear—that perhaps the support of Paramatma will be obtained. The God of the frightened man is also a form of his fear. His God is born out of his fear; it is not his experience, it is his fear projected. He believes in Paramatma because without belief he will be even more afraid. A little trust gives a little support to fear, a little consolation. The night may be dark indeed, but someone is seated above who sees. Life may be meaningless in many ways, but ultimately some Paramatma has created existence; there must be some meaning. I may not know, but He knows. I may wander, but if I go to His refuge, He will take me up. So thinks the frightened man.

Temples, mosques, gurudwaras are full of such frightened people. In truth, only frightened people go there. The blind gather there. Your pilgrimages were all born on deep new-moon nights. Your worship, your prayers, your rituals of praise—look closely—they have arisen from your fear. You are afraid. You are trembling. That trembling itself you make into prayer. From that trembling the sound of Omkar arises. Just as, in a dark night, someone passing through a solitary lane begins to hum a song loudly. One who never sang in life also feels like singing in the dark. What is the reason? Hearing one’s own voice, it seems one is not alone. In the loud echo of one’s own voice, a curtain is raised between oneself and the darkness. The humming gives courage. Strength comes into the steps. But this whole humming, this whole strength, is rising out of fear.

Has power ever been born out of fear? That is why almost all religion has gone largely in vain—because religion gets yoked to man’s fear.

This frightened man—his mental state must be understood well, because ninety-nine times out of a hundred your mental state is the same. And if you do not understand it rightly, you will never become the other kind of man. For this frightened man neither love is possible, nor prayer. For love is born only when fear has ended. And prayer is born out of fearlessness. The soil of fearlessness is needed; only then does the seed of prayer blossom. And only the tones that arise from fearlessness reach Paramatma.

Why is the frightened man frightened? What is the root cause of his fear?

The root cause is this: in the dark night of the new moon—in the dark night of self-ignorance—death appears as the truth; life does not. Death seems to be arriving every moment, and life is nowhere to be seen. In the name of life, there appears hustle and bustle, a futile running in which no purpose, no meaning is visible. And death seems to be coming each moment; at every instant its footfall is heard. Everywhere it knocks at the door. Why do you become afraid in the dark night? Death begins to seem hidden all around; if a leaf even stirs, it seems death’s footsteps are approaching. A gust of wind knocks at the door—it seems death has knocked.

What happens in a dark night is terrible; but the state of self-ignorance is even more terrible. For the darkness of night is outside; the darkness of self-ignorance is within. The inner darkness is very deep. The frightened, submerged-in-darkness man believes only death to be real, not life. Life has just come and is gone. Life is like the glow of a firefly in the dark—did it happen or not? And what use will you make of the glow of a firefly? In that glow you cannot live. That glow cannot become a light, cannot show any path. In fact, after the flash of a firefly, the night’s darkness seems even denser. So is the life of the man who lives in darkness—like the flash of a firefly. The darkness is dreadful, and life is merely like a firefly. Death is vast, immense; and life is just a little stir. Then death will arrive, the curtain will fall, and all will become dust mixed with dust.

Panic is natural. If you are made only of clay, how can there be fearlessness? If you are merely a clay doll and can fall any moment—let a little rain come and the paint will run; let a little gust come and your house will fall. It is a matter of a little while, and you will reach the grave; those you called your own will carry you to the funeral pyre. Just a little while more. How can anyone call this little while life? How can anyone be assured by this little while? This little transient life—like a bubble—how can one rely on it? Fear is natural.

The life of one who lives in light is entirely different. One who has known himself has come to know one thing: death is false, life is true. One who has recognized himself has discovered, I am amrit—I am deathless. Death has never happened, nor can it ever happen. Death is the most impossible event—one that has never occurred, nor will it; one whose occurrence cannot be. That which is—how can it cease to be? Forms may change, garments may change, homes may change, the journey may take new dimensions; but that which is, is forever, eternal.

But this is seen only in the light. The moment it is seen that there is no death, fear dissolves. And only then does prayer arise. Then in that prayer there is no demand. Then in that prayer there is infinite thanksgiving. And only then do the hands join. But then there is no need to go on pilgrimage. Wherever you are, as you are, that very place becomes a tirth—a sacred place. The whole existence becomes a tirth; for all around, the melody of the same amrit is playing. What has awakened within you—today, in this very moment of awakening—you find the same awakened everywhere. In leaf and stone, the same peeks through. The immortal melody that has sounded within you—that very melody resounds in all the worlds. In moon and stars is its echo; in rivers and waterfalls its song; in animals and birds its speech.

The day you recognize yourself, suddenly you recognize the whole of existence. Through that recognition fear is dispelled, and love is born. With ignorance is fear; with knowing is love. And there are two types of men in the world. Those who live upon fear. Do they live? Their living is only in name. And those who live upon love—only theirs is life. Through fear people only die, again and again. It is said: the coward dies a thousand deaths. Even a thousand is too few. The coward dies every moment, for death seems present every moment—death is seen everywhere. The coward lives as dead. Only one who has attained knowing dies once; the coward dies a thousand times.

One who has attained knowing dies once—and that dying is unique. That death is the transformation from fear into love. That death is the transformation from darkness into light. That death is revolution. That is what we call Samadhi. The old dies; the new is born. And such a new one is born that never becomes old—because that which becomes old was not new at all; that which is new today will be old tomorrow. How was it truly new if a little time could make it old? The birth is of a new that is eternal, an ever-new that never grows old. In the language of religion, that is what we call Paramatma.

Man disappears, and Paramatma is born. As you are, you vanish; as you ought to be, you are born. You dissolve utterly along with the darkness, because you were a creation of darkness. You were made in the dark; you sustained yourself in the dark; darkness was the brick with which your house of life was built. You laid your foundation upon death. The moment you come into light, all that becomes futile. Your foundation, your house, your life, your morality, your conduct—everything becomes futile. It collapses along with the darkness. As the dream falls away upon waking in the morning, so, upon arising in light, darkness and the life of darkness fall away.

These are the two kinds of men. Recognize rightly which kind you are. Your ego will say you are of the second kind. If you look at your reality, you will find you are of the first kind. And if you deceive yourself that you are of the second, you will never become the second. Lao Tzu calls this mental sickness.

If you see yourself as you are, revolution has begun. If you recognize that you are full of fear, even that much awareness is the first step out of fear. If you recognize that you go to the temple out of fear, your going is futile—for through fear no connection with Paramatma is made. If you pray out of fear, then toward whom you pray out of fear—you cannot love Him. Has love ever arisen out of fear? From fear, hatred can arise, not love. One whom you fear appears an enemy, not a friend. Out of fear you may flatter Him. Your hymns are nothing more than flattery of Paramatma. But if you look deep within, you will find resistance toward Paramatma—for how can you love one who frightens you!

There is a word used for religious people: God-fearing. No word could be more wrong. We call a religious man God-fearing—afraid of God.

A religious man is not afraid at all; least of all of God. Afraid of God? Then where will you find fearlessness? Then there is no refuge left. If even God frightens you, how will you attain fearlessness in this world? Will you find it at the feet of the Devil? If there is fear even of God, then where will you be saved? Where will you hide your head?

No, God-fearing is absolutely wrong, wholly wrong. The religious person is not timid; the irreligious person is timid. Though you will often find the irreligious doing prayers and worship. In fact, it is the irreligious you will find praying—because he is frightened. To abolish his fear, he must do something. He is trembling, he must take a support. The religious person’s whole life is prayer. He does not do prayer; his way of being is prayer. He does not go to temples and mosques; wherever he lives, there temples and mosques arise. The secret is hidden in his being. In his sitting and standing, in every heartbeat, in every breath—prayer is hidden. Whether he says it in words or not. And what is there to say in words?

The moment you begin to talk to Paramatma in words, you miss—because the language of Paramatma is not words. The language of Paramatma is silence. When you say something, you assume that Paramatma needs your advice, your saying. He will know only if you say? Are you taking Him to be so ignorant? Does existence not know of you? Only when you say, when you submit your petition? And what will you petition for—in your ignorance? What will you ask? Whatever you ask will be poison. Whatever you ask, by asking you will be entangled; you will get into trouble—because asking will arise from your darkness, from your ignorance.

Prayer is not asking. Prayer is not words, not petition. Prayer is a mood of the heart. Prayer is a style of being. For it no temple or mosque, no pilgrimage is necessary. For it you have to transform yourself. Temples, mosques, tirthas—these are the devices of those who do not want to transform themselves. Those who are not ready for the inner journey set out on pilgrimage.

Pilgrimage is escape. You had to go within—but you set out to Kashi, to Kaaba, to Kailash. In this way the delusion arises that you are doing a great deed, a religious journey is happening. You had to go into yourself. The self was right here. By reaching a tirth, your self will not be any more present. It will remain just as it is here. And if you had to turn within, you could turn here; you could turn anywhere. The inner turn has nothing to do with places. It is not that on earth there are some places where turning within is easier. There are inner states where turning within is easier, not places. And inner states are in your hands.

Understand well: in fear no one can be religious, and in fear no one can be a theist. The theism born of fear is false; it is counterfeit coin. You may manage it here, you may deceive people—because they too are in the same darkness; there is no difficulty deceiving them. But you will not be able to deceive Paramatma, you will not be able to deceive the Whole. You will have to come out of fear.

Because of this fear your religion, your society, your civilization, your culture—all have become fear-based. The state frightens you; only then can it keep you in control. The religious leaders frighten you; only then can they keep you in control. Wherever you go, arrangements of punishment are made for you. You are so frightened that you understand only one language—the language of punishment or of reward; two faces of the same coin.

Between little children and old people there appears no difference; no development is visible. In school we frighten a little child: you will be beaten, punished if you do not behave properly. And if you behave, you will be rewarded, given sweets and gifts. The same game continues for the old man too. If you live rightly—heaven; if you live a little wrongly—hell. No difference is seen between children and old people. The same net of fear and temptation. The state does the same: if you behave exactly, you will become a Bharat Ratna; if you do not, you will rot in prison. Morality says the same: if you behave, society will lift you on its eyelids; if you deviate a little from the social line, voices of condemnation will echo, and everywhere you will see only insult and your honor will be lost. Because of the frightened man, state, religion, morality—all have become filled with fear to manage the frightened.

One who attains to love—and only one who attains to love attains to saintliness—does not live by fear; nor is his morality based on fear. If you give in charity, you do it out of fear—so that you may be saved from hell, that you may get the reward of heaven. One filled with love gives because there is joy in giving; beyond giving there is no other attainment. He gives because giving is such a miraculous inner state—such flowers bloom in the soul as bloom in no other way; in the moment of giving, such a veena begins to sound in the heart as is never heard otherwise. Beyond giving there is no reward; in giving itself is the reward.

Understand this well, because your fear has distorted all principles. You have been told: if you do good deeds, you will get a good life in the next birth; if you do bad, you will get a bad life next time.

Why wait for the next life? If you put your hand in fire now, will you burn now or in the next life? If you bring a flower to your nose, will your nostrils fill with fragrance now or in the next life? Why postpone to the next life? Your Paramatma seems a great one for credit and debt. Paramatma is utterly cash—now. Why postpone to tomorrow? Existence postpones nothing. If you fall from a tree now, will the fracture happen now or in the next life? The law of gravitation gives its result immediately, in this very instant. Who will keep account that you climbed a tree in the next life and now, in this life, you will fall? In this life you climb, and in the next you fall—who will keep such accounts? Where will such accounts be kept?

No, nature is absolutely cash. If you are angry now, you will burn now, you will be scorched now, you will suffer now. If you do punya now, you will be filled with jubilation now; a thrill and a dance will enter your life now. Life is cash. But the frightened man has turned even that into credit. The frightened man cannot accept today. He is always trying to save tomorrow somehow; today seems lost, gone—how can he hold it? Let tomorrow be managed somehow.

People come to me and say, This life is gone.

How have you come, then, if this life is gone? You sit by me, hale and hearty, breathing, seeing me, speaking. You say, This life is gone. Whom are you deceiving? You do not want to do anything; so you say this life is gone. Now, please tell us something so that the next may be improved—the coming life.

The frightened man always looks toward tomorrow; the fearless lives today. Because of the frightened man the whole doctrine of karma has been distorted. The doctrine is clear: as you do, so instantly is the fruit. I say: instantly! Not even a gap of one moment between act and fruit. It cannot be. If you give in charity, you will find joy now. The matter is settled. If you steal, you will suffer now. Settled. If you are angry, you will burn and be scorched now. If you are filled with jealousy, the poison will spread within you now. Your life will become like a blister, a boil. You will be filled with pus now.

Existence is cash—keep this in mind. But you say: I will be angry today; punishment will come tomorrow. This gives you a convenience: never mind—do what you wish today; we’ll see about tomorrow. And the priests have given you ways: if anger happens, never mind—take a dip in the Ganges, sins are washed. Offer a coconut in the temple—there will be release from sin. Steal here—give a little charity there. Deceive here—go build a temple or a dharmashala there.

Understand another point: a bad act cannot be cancelled by a good act, nor a good act by a bad one. Good and bad never meet. They run parallel like railway tracks; they never meet anywhere. But the frightened man thinks he will make some arrangement, find some trick. And even if they could meet, it would be meaningless—for in doing the bad, the fruit of bad has already been obtained; what will you do now? In doing the good, the fruit of good has already been obtained. Acts are not accumulated; they are settled moment to moment.

Hence the great possibility: if you call out with a whole heart, you can be free this very instant. Otherwise, instantaneous liberation would have no meaning. How many lives have you lived? How many acts have you piled up? If all accounts have to be settled, there is no way.

I have heard: a Christian fakir was preaching. Christians believe there will be a Day of Judgment—Qayamat—when all the dead will be raised, and God will judge. While he was speaking, Mulla Nasruddin was trembling, frightened. He listened: the fakir described in ghastly detail the tortures to be meted out to sinners. Nasruddin’s hands and feet shook with fear; and saliva gathered in his mouth when the fakir described heaven—the pleasures to be showered upon the virtuous.

At last Nasruddin stood and asked, One question: will all judgments be completed in a single day? For all the dead so far? And all their deeds? The man said, Yes. Nasruddin asked, One more thing—will women be present there, or only men? He said, Women will be there too. Nasruddin said, Then there is no worry—no judgment can happen in a single day. With all the women! They will create such a commotion, such chatter—no fear then!

All such doctrines have been manufactured because of the frightened man. There is no Day of Judgment anywhere. And if there is, it is now—this very moment. The decision is not at the end. In existence there is no end. There is no beginning, no end. It is an infinite stream. If there is no beginning, how will there be an end? The end will never come. Then when will the accounting be done?

The accounting is done every moment. It does not have to be done; by law, moment to moment, it is done. Walk awkwardly—you fall, your leg breaks. Walk carefully—you reach home without breaking your leg.

One who attains love and experiences the cash-nature of life—then he does not refrain from evil out of fear, nor does he do good out of greed. Rather, his experience itself becomes his morality. He does the auspicious because there is joy in doing the auspicious—in the doing, not after doing. And there is suffering in doing the inauspicious—in the doing, not after. And moment to moment, life gives you according to how you walk, according to how you are. A unique morality is born in the man of light. That morality is not based on doing good to others. For the man of light is not oriented toward others. That morality is born because doing the good is joyous.

Let me tell you something that may seem difficult, but try to understand: none is more “selfish” than the knower. Only self remains. Selfish is a good word; it means “centered in the self.” All else arises from self. “Other-centeredness” too carries the smell of the self.

Do good to others—this very dictum is wrong. Because you have not been able to do good to yourself—what good will you do to others? You have not yet loved yourself—how will you love another? You are not compassionate toward yourself—how will you be compassionate to another? Inside you is a desert, and for another you want to be a raincloud! You are full of darkness within, your lamp is unlit, and you go to light the lamps of others! Do a kindness—do not blow out someone’s lit lamp. Keep your desert a little away. You think you are pouring a cloud upon another; do not rain your desert upon him.

First attain to the self. First understand the meaning of self. First settle in yourself. First forget all others—so that you may know yourself, and others may not become a hindrance. Once the self is fulfilled in your life, once you know fully the meaning of your own being and your lamp is lit, then other-centeredness will arise on its own.

One who is filled with love will be able only to give love. Even if he wants, he cannot give hatred—it is no longer there. One who is brimming with compassion will give only compassion. Whatever you have, that alone can you give. What you do not have—how will you give it? Then there will be a fragrance of “for-others” that rises from deep “for-self.” There is no opposition between self and other. Other is the flower that blossoms on the tree of self.

Your moralists have taught you the reverse. They say: drop self. Go massage the feet of the sick, sit in hospitals, serve, enroll in sarvodaya; do this, do that. Run schools, open hospitals, run orphanages, build dharmashalas. Whatever they teach may be good—it will make dharmashalas, people will lodge there; patients will be treated in hospitals. Good—there is nothing wrong. But do not fall into the illusion that you will attain religion thereby. It is good, but not enough. Good that, instead of becoming a thief, you opened a dharmashala—good. You did not become a bandit, you began to run an ashram—good. At least you did not become a bandit—that is a great mercy. But do not take this as sufficient. Do not let it mislead you. Some are lost in wrongdoing; some are lost in right-doing. Some are led astray from Paramatma by being wicked; some are led astray by being “holy.”

Lao Tzu’s trust is in the saint—not in the “holy” nor in the unholy. Lao Tzu says: a saint is one who has settled into himself, and now all his activities arise from that settledness. From him only the auspicious is born—for the inauspicious cannot be born. Whatever he does is right. He does not have to think and plan what is right. He does not think: this is duty, so I will do it; that is not duty, so I will not. It is not like that. As water flows toward the slope, so the nature of the saint flows toward the auspicious. Does water think that there is a slope—let us go that way, and there is an ascent—let us not go there? And how would it go uphill? Wherever the saint flows—that alone is auspicious. Except the auspicious, he flows nowhere. But the first happening is saintliness. The first happening is to move from fear to love, from darkness to light.

Now let us try to understand Lao Tzu’s sutra:

“When people are no longer afraid of force, then—as is the common course—great force descends upon them.”

A society, a state, a morality, a religion of frightened people holds people in restraint by frightening them. Therefore Lao Tzu says: if such people ever become fearless, danger arises. For the man in darkness, becoming fearless is dangerous. Becoming fearless, he will begin to move as one should move only in light. But there is no light—he will collide, be hurt; he will break his head.

We have three words—understand the nature of all three: fear, fearless, and abhay. Abhay is the hallmark of the illumined man. Fear and fearless both belong to darkness. In darkness some people are frightened. And in darkness some people suppress their fear and assume a pose of fearlessness—we call them brave.

These brave ones do the greater harm—for they try to move in a way that is possible only in light. They try to be abhay while remaining in darkness! So they appear fearless—afraid of nothing. Such people have filled the whole world with suffering—Hitler, Napoleon, Alexander. They are not abhay like Mahavira, Krishna, Buddha; they are fearless. They will push in even where the Devil himself would hesitate. And not only do they break their own heads—they lead thousands behind them. Because frightened people, whenever they see someone fearless, take him for a leader. When frightened people see a man who fears nothing, they think, This man is right—follow him. In this way, the blind follow the blind.

Kabir has said: blind leading blind—both fall into the well.

The blind lead the blind, and both tumble into the well. Better than that are those frightened blind who do fear—at least through fear they do not cross their limits.

Therefore the question is not moving from fear to fearlessness. The frightened one becomes “holy”; the fearless becomes unholy. The frightened one will live by moral codes; the fearless will throw moral codes to the winds. He does not fear anyone; he fears nothing. The fearless becomes a criminal.

This is worth pondering deeply. If you wish to see truly frightened people, you will find them among the “holy.” Sitting in ashrams—they are frightened people. So frightened they cannot go to the marketplace; cannot sit in a shop; when they see a woman, they close their eyes. At the sight of money their hands and feet shake. Woman and gold are snatching away their very life-breath. They are frightened people. In prisons, in palaces, in madhouses—you will find those who are not frightened. The fearless are the unholy.

Politicians, diplomats—they are all unholy. They are not frightened. If they come to your Ramleela grounds, your President and Prime Minister—it is only to please you. They have nothing to do with Ramleela. They want votes. They bow their heads in your temples too. They are not bowing to the temple; they are bowing to your foolishness. Seeing them bow in a temple, you think, How religious! The moment they have power in their hands, they prove dangerous, for they have no fear.

In darkness there are two kinds: fear and fearless. If you must choose in darkness, Lao Tzu says, better to choose fear. There is no need to choose darkness at all; you can choose light. But if you have decided to live in darkness—have sworn to—then choose fear. At least, out of fear you will not harm others.

Hitler killed millions; Stalin killed millions. Not an iota of fear. Better than that is the Jain monk who watches lest he step on an ant. Though both are ignorant. The idea that you can kill is as false as the idea that you can save. Both are ignorant. For Krishna says: na hanyate hanyamane sharire—when the body is slain, He is not slain; na enam chhindanti shastrani—cut Him with weapons, He is not cut. To save is an illusion; to kill is an illusion. The knower knows that death never happens. But in the realm of ignorance, in darkness—fear! Better to be frightened—at least you watch your limits; you walk carefully to save the ant. Whether the ant would have died under your foot is not the point; but out of fear, you set limits for yourself.

Jain monks carry their own mat; they spread it and sit only on it. An ancient fear is hidden here: who knows upon whose mat you might sit—perhaps a woman sat there earlier, perhaps a sinner sat there; feminine atoms may be left; atoms of sin may be left. So carry your own mat; sit only on that.

Once, a Jain monk was traveling with me. We both got into a car; he remained standing outside. I said, Please come in. He said, Wait—let my mat come. I said, What is the mat for? The cushion is perfectly fine. Who knows who may have sat on this cushion! He placed his mat on the cushion and sat upon it. Then he was at ease—no fear now, he was safe.

The frightened man creates such petty safeties. A mat protects from sin! If only sin were so cheaply avoided! And now he has no fear that he is sitting on a velvet cushion—because he has placed his mat on top. He is sitting on the mat; what has he to do with the velvet? I was sitting on the velvet; he on the mat.

When Rajendra Prasad first became President, the building was the Viceroy’s house—and how can a saintly man live there? Saintly men always find compromises. And Gandhi’s very basis was synthesis and compromise. So what did they do? In the room where he sat, they fixed mats upon the beautiful, costly walls. He sat at ease; no fear. The mats gave protection. Now this is not the Viceroy’s house—it has become Gandhi’s hut. The ways of deceiving oneself never end! And people will praise: what a saintly man—sits with mats in the Viceroy’s house.

If mats were to be used, why sit in the Viceroy’s house at all? Sit in a hut of mats. You want to live in the Viceroy’s house but cover it with mats. In this way saintliness also continues, and worldliness too is saved. This is “compromise,” a middle way—shopkeeper’s trick, cleverness. Yet, still, it is better. It is happening out of fear—lest heaven be lost; by putting mats, heaven is being saved.

Lao Tzu says: if you are determined to live in darkness, it is better to be frightened, to be timid. Because if you become fearless, you will become dangerous.

The theist lives in fear; the atheist becomes fearless. Both are in darkness. The theist does not know that God is; the atheist does not know that God is not. Neither knows anything. Both are in darkness. But the theist lives in fear, the atheist becomes fearless; therefore atheists prove dangerous.

Until now, in human history, power had not fallen into the hands of atheists. In this century it has—Russia and China. They are proving dangerous. Theists have committed great crimes; but atheists are surpassing them—for the atheist is utterly fearless. He says, There is nothing that dies; man is a machine, a body of clay—cut it down, finished. No hindrance. Mao cut down thousands in China without a grain of inner disturbance. Such fearlessness is dangerous.

Lao Tzu says: if you must change, do not change from fear into fearless; change from fear into abhay.

Abhay is altogether different. Abhay does not mean bravery. Bravery exists only in the frightened. Bravery is a way for the frightened to hide their fear. The frightened do not want to admit they are frightened—so they adopt bravery. In the abhay man there is neither fear nor fearlessness. The abhay man has no connection with the realm of fear at all; how then can he be fearless?

Therefore do not look in the dictionary for meanings, for there abhay is defined as fearless. In the lexicon of life, abhay has no relationship with fearless or with fear. Abhay is a third thing altogether. Abhay is related to light; fear and fearless are related to darkness.

Lao Tzu says: when people are no longer afraid of force—when they become fearless—then it becomes inevitable that they be punished greatly, that great power descend upon them.

No one descends to punish them; it is a simple law of life. As I said: if you climb a tree stiff with pride, you will fall. On a tree, one must move carefully, climb carefully. If you climb in arrogance, bones will break. Not that someone is breaking your bones, nor that the earth carries a desire to break them, nor that the tree intends to throw you down. By your own arrogance you fall. The tree does not even know. The earth remains absorbed in her silence. No news has occurred anywhere. You have entangled yourself by your own hand.

Be stiff—and you will fall. If, remaining in darkness, you try to be fearless, your head will bang against walls; you will be bloodied.

Hence Lao Tzu says: when people are no longer afraid of force, great force descends upon them. They are punished by their own hand.

What should the saint do? For these people who live in fear and occasionally try to become fearless—and thereby punish themselves—should he denounce them, as the “holy” have always done?

Lao Tzu says: No. Do not revile their dwellings; do not despise their offspring. Because you do not despise them, you yourself will not be despised.

The common tendency of the “holy” is to denounce the unholy. If you go to listen to the “holy,” you will find nothing but abuse toward the unholy. Yes, the abuse will be very cultured—you may not even recognize it; it will be highly ornamented. But in the poetry will be hidden the abuse. In their greatest discourses will be hidden condemnation—of your fear, your greed, your sexuality, your anger, your “hellish” life. Because of these, they call your life hellish. Their exposition is a condemnation. And by condemning you, they secretly praise themselves. Your condemnation is only a pretext; in truth they are praising themselves.

Understand it a little. It is difficult to say directly, I am a good man—because anyone you say this to will reply, So you are blowing your own trumpet! Hard to say, I am a good man. Then there is one way to say it so that no one can accuse you of self-praise: I say, You are bad. I paint your badness in such colors that, unknowingly, on its background my goodness stands out.

You must have heard the famous story: Akbar drew a line and said to his courtiers, Make it shorter without touching it. No one could do it. Birbal stood and drew a longer line beneath it. Without touching that line, it became shorter.

The “holy” denounce you; they make you small; their line grows larger. They make you utterly mean; they become great.

The mark of the saint is that he will not denounce you. Denunciation shows he is “holy,” not a saint. The “holy” and the unholy are residents of the same world. They walk with their backs to each other, but there is no qualitative difference. One steals; another has sworn an oath of non-stealing. One is absorbed in sex; the other is absorbed in fighting sex. But in absorption there is no difference—whether you desire women and dream of them, or fear women and fight them in dreams—your gaze remains fixed on women.

Often it happens: the indulger may even forget woman; the renunciate cannot. The renunciate is surrounded by woman— in his dreams, his imagination. And the more woman besieges his dreams and imagination, the more loudly he condemns. He says, Woman is the mine of hell. The more he trembles within at the sight of woman, the more he condemns outwardly.

It happened: there was a Zen woman mystic. She was young, very beautiful. The story goes that whichever monastery she approached, they all refused her. None accepted her for initiation. The reason given: You are so beautiful, it will create great difficulty for our monks; go elsewhere. But no one would take her in; no one would make her a nun. And she had a great longing to become a nun. The story says she burned her face. When she went with a burnt face, she was accepted.

So the eyes of your “holy” are stuck on the skin. A burnt face can be accepted; a beautiful face cannot—because a beautiful face is already tormenting them, tormenting them in dreams. If it were present in actuality, it would create even more trouble.

Christians have such monasteries where no woman may enter—no woman has entered for hundreds of years. And monasteries where no man may enter. In the Middle Ages a strange event occurred: in the convents where no man could enter, the women gradually began to suffer from epilepsy. They began to have fits; and in those fits they made the same gestures that women make in sexual intercourse. Those nuns said the Devil was having intercourse with them. The sickness spread so strongly that no one knew what to do. Many nuns were afflicted.

Psychologists say there was nothing there—no Devil having intercourse; there is no Devil. But the women desired men so intensely within that imagination became vivid. The absence of men filled them so much that they took imagination as reality.

You can know this for yourself. If for twenty-one days you go into silence and fasting, then by the seventh or eighth day you will find food appearing vividly. At first sweets will rain in dreams; gradually they will look more real. As hunger increases, imagination grows thicker. If you remain silent and fasting for twenty-one days, then toward the end you will find yourself partaking of imaginary food.

The “holy” fears, is frightened; the unholy does not fear. That is all the difference. In their basic orientation there is no difference; their foundation is one. And the “holy” finds only one way to honor himself: to keep denouncing you. In denouncing your sexuality before you, he is persuading himself that sexuality is hell, is sin. And when he sees the gleam in your eye—when you clap—then he regains his confidence, again and again.

Confidence is a strange thing. Mulla Nasruddin wanted to sell a house; he was tired—no buyer. He called an agent. The agent advertised in the newspapers. Nasruddin read the ad and was greatly impressed. The agent’s description said: a beautiful ancient house by a lovely lake, with great trees, long history; noble families have lived here. Nasruddin’s experience said: it is only a ruin; the “lake” is a dirty pond breeding nothing but mosquitoes; and “ancient” means the plaster keeps falling. That was his experience. But when he read the ad, and read it again and again, he ran to the agent: Don’t sell the house! The very house I wanted is this—by a lake, ancient…

Even to believe yourself, you begin to look through others’ eyes. The “holy” denounces the unholy—he is condemning that part of himself which he has not assimilated, which is harassing him. Using you as a pretext, he denounces it. Seeing assurance in your eyes, he regains assurance; his inner fight begins again. The “holy” and the unholy are in a pact, a single conspiracy. They support each other. The unholy supports the “holy”—without the unholy, the “holy” would not survive a single moment. The “holy” supports the unholy—he gives the unholy hope: never mind, today you are unholy; tomorrow you will be like us. Just a little longer—let your daughter’s wedding be done, let your shop be steady—we too will enter the life of saintliness. To the unholy, the “holy” gives hope of the future; to the “holy,” the unholy’s hell is proof that he is right. Both are in darkness. And one has to rise out of darkness.

One who has risen out of darkness—Lao Tzu calls him a saint. Saint means one who has not suppressed his unholiness and has not inflated a false holiness; one who has gone beyond the duality of unholy–holy; one who has gone beyond fear and fearlessness; one who has awakened; one who has dropped all dreams of holy and unholy, good and bad; one who has become gunatita—beyond qualities; one who has not chosen, has taken neither side; one who has become choiceless.

“Do not revile their dwellings.”

They are in darkness—have compassion on them, do not denounce them. Try to bring them out. By denouncing you will not help them—you will push them further into darkness. Lift them up, support them, give them strength, give them courage. Tell them: do not be afraid—nothing is sin. Paramatma is greater than every sin. Your capacity for virtue is infinitely greater than the sum total of your sins. And what you have done is nothing; what you are is vast. Your deeds do not evaluate your Atman. Deeds are petty. Rise!

Hence the Upanishads—the words of saints, not of the “holy”—say: You are Brahman. And the Upanishads say: all is filled with Brahman; even food is Brahman. Therefore when hunger arises and you eat, you are feeding Brahman. Woman is Brahman too. Let attraction arise; see that your attraction becomes the attraction of Paramatma. Through the medium of woman, seek Paramatma. Turn all your attractions into the search for Paramatma. Then your path becomes creative.

Therefore the saint does not denounce; the saint accepts. The saint does not emphasize your darkness; he emphasizes the possibility of your light. The “holy” emphasizes your darkness.

“Do not revile their dwellings. Do not despise their offspring. Because you do not despise them, you yourself will not be despised.”

And the saint cannot be despised; for he has never despised anyone. This is for your good too—Lao Tzu says—for the saint’s good too.

“The sage knows himself but does not display.”

The desire to display is born of ignorance. One who does not know himself wants to display—because only through display does he find out who he is, through others does he come to know who he is. One who knows himself has no need of others’ crutches. He does not go about displaying—he knows who he is. When you feel the urge to display, know that you do not know who you are; you are asking others who you are.

Someone says, You are very handsome!—you become handsome. Watch your gait then—your swagger returns; the spine straightens. You tried a thousand yogic postures to straighten the spine—nothing worked. Someone said, You are handsome!—the spine straightened at once. Someone says, There is none as virtuous as you!—and a thousand flowers begin to bloom; you are delighted. Someone criticizes: You—handsome? Look in the mirror! You become dejected, everything within withers, all flowers droop. Someone calls you immoral, denounces you—and you become that. You live by others’ opinions. Therefore you are always afraid of people—what are people saying? Is what people say your soul, your identity? Is it your recognition?

The saint knows himself; therefore he does not display. There is no reason to display. The saint knows who he is. He does not need to ask you: Who am I? The saint does not live by your opinion; he lives from within. Even if all of you vanished from the earth and the saint were left alone—no difference would be made; his being would remain the same. Alone or in the crowd—no difference. Market or Himalayas—no difference. For the saint does not depend upon you.

“He loves himself, but does not show off.”

This too is worth pondering. You do not love yourself; therefore you show off. Showing off is an invitation for someone else to love you. Watch how much labor women expend standing before mirrors—hours! Every husband knows: you may keep honking outside, the wife says, I am coming—just a minute. I heard one woman say—her husband and I were in the car, in a hurry to go, he kept honking—she peeped out: Why keep honking? Why eat my head? A thousand times I have said: I am coming in a minute.

A thousand times! And the minute is not yet over. What is the cause of such absorption before the mirror? She is getting ready to show off. On the road, in the market, in the cinema hall, in the club, in the temple—she is preparing to display.

I stayed in a Jain home. Whenever there was a Jain festival, the housewife brought out all her gold ornaments. I asked, In the temple? She said, There is no other opportunity to show them. She is “religious,” doesn’t go to the cinema, has nothing to do with clubs, cannot go to hotels, is sattvic vegetarian; even her husband has no taste for these things. Only the temple remains. But a woman is a woman—temple or club, what difference? The tendency is the same: to show off.

Showing off means you have not been able to love yourself; you are waiting for someone else to love you. And only if someone loves you will your fear lessen. One who loves himself does not go about showing off. And the paradox is: the more you beg to be loved, the less love you get. Bina mange moti milen, mange mile na choon—unasked, pearls are given; asked, not even mere bran. Love never comes by begging. You will never get love by asking; you will remain a beggar. And wherever you get it, you will find you have been deceived—every time you will find you have been deceived; it was not real. Love comes to those who become worthy of it. And the first condition of being worthy of love is: love yourself. Only then can another love you. You have never loved yourself and you want another to love you. The mistake you did not make—why should another make it? You condemn yourself and want another to love you.

People come to me and say, We get bored alone; we need a companion. I say, If you are bored with yourself, the other will be bored with you too. If even you are not willing to stay with yourself, who else will be willing to stay with you? And the other will also be bored with himself—that is why he is looking for you. When two bored people meet—what will be the result? What happens in every marriage. Look at husbands and wives—their faces are the saddest you will ever see. If you see a man a little cheerful, know that the woman next to him is not his wife—she must be someone else’s. If you see a man walking with a woman on the road in delight—she is not his wife. With his wife he walks frightened, trembling, sad, bored—you can know immediately.

Mulla Nasruddin once said to me: I can tell by looking at a man whether he is married or not. I said, A bit difficult. Well, note those who come to see me, I said; later we will check. He noted and told exactly. I was surprised: What is your trick? He said, The trick is: a married man wipes his shoes on the mat outside; the unmarried walks straight in. Fear of the wife! Otherwise, who wipes his shoes—he is trained now.

Life moves from within to without; it does not come from without to within. If you have loved yourself, many will love you. If you become capable of loving yourself, you will find infinite beings flowing toward you in love. If you cannot love yourself—which, due to the teachings of your “holy,” has become almost impossible—no one will be able to love you.

In my understanding, if you have loved yourself you will find infinite people loving you—and this love keeps growing. One day, suddenly, you find that even the love of Paramatma is showering upon you. You are becoming worthy; you become so worthy, so fulfilled in yourself that the same fulfillment one day becomes a shower of Paramatma upon you.

Where will you go to find Paramatma? He has no address. In truth, no man ever reaches Paramatma; whenever the happening happens, Paramatma comes to man. There is no other way. The day you become worthy, filled with your own love, so fulfilled by your own love that there remains no complaint in your life, no craving for begging—you have become an emperor; you are blissful—what you have is more than enough—in such a state, one day suddenly there is a knock at the door: Paramatma is standing there!

Love yourself. Then a great difficulty arises: as you love yourself, you begin to change yourself—because you must make yourself worthy of love. Once the idea arises that you have to love yourself, you will begin to see many pettinesses that will not allow love. You will have to drop those pettinesses. They will fall away through your understanding. If you have to love yourself, you must make yourself worthy of a beloved. Then you will find many smallnesses become impossible. How could you do them? If you do, condemnation begins.

If you get angry over a small matter, you will condemn yourself: What pettiness is this! What superficiality! Over so small a thing I became hot. Could there not be the coolness to endure so small a matter? You will suddenly find that if you have to love yourself, anger will slowly drop. If you have to love yourself, hatred will drop. Otherwise you will not be able to love. If you have to love yourself, you must prepare yourself. You will begin to refine yourself.

Until now you prepared yourself for others, so you decorated yourself outwardly—wore good clothes, sprinkled perfume, stuck flowers in your hair, applied makeup—adorned yourself from the outside. But when you love yourself, outer decoration won’t work, because you are inside. However much color you smear on your face, you know your real face.

No—when you love yourself, you will have to decorate within; the inner adornment will begin. And inner adornment is sadhana.

“The sage knows himself but does not display. He loves himself but does not show off. Therefore he rejects one—power; and accepts the other—nobility.”

The saint rejects power; he accepts peace. He rejects power; he accepts deep humility. What is the secret of this?

Only the frightened man accepts power. Out of fear you accept power. Out of fear, power appears to be the only protection. So you want to accumulate wealth—at the time of need it will come in handy. Buy a sword—if an enemy comes, it will be in your hand. Make friends—for there is fear of enemies. Reach a position—for a man on a throne has more power. Become a Prime Minister—he has great power, great armies, protection. The frightened man seeks power and worships it.

Take this as a criterion: whoever seeks power is timid. Otherwise, why seek power? One who is free of fear—abhay—loses the very desire for power. He seeks no power—in wealth, in position, in prestige. The very desire for power drops. And where the desire for power drops—there is specialness.

Lao Tzu says: only such a one is noble.

You are not made noble by the family into which you were born. The day you are born into the family of humility, that day you become noble. The day your craving for power falls, ego dissolves, fear drops, condemnation disappears, and you become contented within—deep contentment arises within you like the rising of the morning sun—in that light you become truly noble.

Buddha said to his father—because when Buddha returned, his father said, You were born in our family! In our family there have never been beggars—and you go begging; we feel ashamed! You are an emperor; there is no need to beg. And I am your father—I can forgive you even now; return. Buddha said, From your side you are right. But now I am born into another family. That family was yours—into which this body was born. Now I am born into the family of Buddhas. Where your body, your lineage, your empire, your being an emperor—none of these apply. And as far as I know, in the family I belong to, such beings have always been beggars on the road.

You become noble only when you rise from darkness. Then you are born into the family of Buddhas. Sannyas is the first step of the journey whose culmination is birth into the family of Buddhas.

Enough for today.