Tao Upanishad #119

An excess of government is the greatest difficulty in human life. The less government, the better. If there were no government at all, that would be the peak of excellence. The more government, the worse; and when all that remains is government-for-the-sake-of-government, that is the final degeneration of rule.

Excess of government means a shortage of freedom. And it also means that the individual no longer has any space to be an individual; as if the person has become a mere cog. He is used in the great machine of society; he will be used, but his soul receives no recognition.

Excess of government is the murder of the soul.

I have heard a little story. There was an international dog show in America. Dogs had come from Russia as well. An American dog asked the Russian dogs, “Is everything all right? Do you have all comforts in your country?” The Russian dog said, “Everything is comfortable. We never had food like this before. The housing we have now, Russian dogs never had. Now we no longer wander the streets nor are we kicked from door to door for food. We are very pleased!”

But the American dog said, “You say you are so pleased, yet your faces do not look happy.”

The Russian dog said, “There is a reason—do not tell anyone. Everything is fine, only there is no freedom to bark. And the freedom to bark means the same in a dog’s language as freedom of expression in human language. We cannot bark. Food is plentiful; but there is no scope for personality.”

When government becomes excessive it wipes out individuality; for individuality is a danger to government. Government wants society, not the person; the group, not the individual. Because the very existence of the individual is a danger—he asks for freedom. The ultimate dignity of individuality is perfect liberation; and the very meaning of government is bondage.

Secondly, as soon as government increases, it begins to drain society. As the weight of government grows, the people under that weight become weaker. The stomach of government is never satisfied—how will the people’s stomachs be filled?

This can be understood easily by analogy with medicine.

Physicians say that a little fat around human bones is necessary; that fat protects the bones. It keeps a certain warmth around them. In times of crisis, that fat is a measure of self-protection. If one has to remain hungry for many days, that fat becomes one’s food.

Every person can remain hungry for nearly three months; so much fat is in the body. This much is necessary; otherwise a person would be in difficulty. But then something happens: some people become diseased and the fat keeps increasing. Then fat no longer protects the body; it kills. It ceases to guard the bones and becomes a weight that crushes them. The heart is unable to pull such fat; heart attacks begin. Fat increases so much that energy cannot reach the brain; inside, the brain begins to become dull. It can happen that fat increases to such an extent that a person cannot move at all; his motion ends; his life becomes like death.

Government is needed a little. If government keeps increasing, it is as if a person’s fat keeps increasing. In a certain measure fat protects; beyond that measure it kills.

Scientists say that before the advent of humans on earth there were enormous animals. In comparison, the elephant is nothing. There were animals ten times bigger than the elephant. Their skeletons have been found. A creature ten times larger than an elephant, tremendously powerful, yet it completely disappeared. Its only surviving descendant is the lizard. Such a tiny lizard! Those “lizards” were ten times bigger than elephants. How did they suddenly depart from the world? After much research, scientists discovered that their fat increased so much that carrying that fat became impossible. Crushed beneath the weight of their own fat, those beings died.

Government is protection. Government is necessary. Where there is more than one person, there must be some rules, some order; otherwise there will be great chaos and living will become difficult. So government is needed—but only up to a limit. Government is needed only up to the point where it stops one person from obstructing another’s freedom of life. That’s all. No person should intrude upon another’s life—up to that, government has a function.

But this is a negative function: protect people’s freedom. Yet once power comes into the hands of government, far from protecting people’s freedom, arrangements begin to make people dependent. Far from making your life happy, those in whose hands the apparatus of power lies become filled with an unquenchable lust—more power, and more power! Those whom they were appointed to protect they begin to exploit. Government sits upon the chest; the people shrink. Gradually the people lose all flesh and only bones remain—a skeleton!

In such moments rebellion is natural. People will become unruly. If people are unruly it only means that the rulers have become an excessive burden on them. Taxes increase, taxation increases; regulations increase; freedom diminishes. Around you a wall of iron arises—of rules—so that even to move becomes difficult. People might tolerate all this too; but then the belly becomes hungry. Life falls downward; even necessities are not available. And government keeps erecting vast buildings; government begins to display immense affluence. People die, and government tries to live even by people’s death. In such an hour rebellion is natural; people will become unruly. And there will always be someone ready to inflame them.

People are not unruly by themselves; people are very peaceful. Their capacity for endurance is immense. To calculate how much they tolerate is difficult. For centuries people have endured; they have borne all kinds of hardship. Because to descend into revolt means to throw oneself too into tumult. People do not want disorder. But a crisis comes when life loses all meaning, when living becomes impossible. In that final hour—what will a dying man not do?—only then do people consent to upheaval. And even then, it is difficult to say that people consent; rather, those opposed to the rulers, those not in power, coax and goad the people.

People have never yet made a revolution on their own. Their contentment is vast. By enduring all sorts of difficulties they want to live quietly. For there is so much juice in life—who would throw it into turmoil? But when living itself becomes impossible, when bread is not available, water is not available—then understand that people have dried up in hunger and pain, they have become dry fuel; any incendiary can strike a spark, and then a forest fire arises. Hunger becomes fire. All revolutions are born of hunger. Only when people are on the verge of death do they become ready to fight. Otherwise, people are like the earth—they bear all.

Lao Tzu says: when people are unruly, rather than punishing them, consider that government is exploiting excessively. Otherwise people would never become unruly. People’s unruliness is only a symptom that government has sucked too much from them—so much that now they are ready to die and ready to kill. Their hunger has robbed them of their sense of life, of life’s juice, of the capacity for contentment. Hunger has become so monstrous that they no longer feel any point in saving themselves. Hunger creates a certain taste for obliteration.

Understand it like this: a man gets a fever; the body is inflamed; the temperature keeps rising. The fever is a symptom, not the disease; it is a sign. The disease is somewhere inside. The fever is a friend; it brings the news: drop all other concerns now, something within has become diseased; cure it; give it priority. You are doing a thousand things; the fever waves a red flag, “Stop now! Nothing else is as important as wrestling with the inner disease. First take treatment, take rest.” The meaning of fever is not that since the body is hot you should try to cool it; its meaning is that there is an inner disorder. Because of that disorder the whole body is heated, is burning, is in the fire. Cure that disorder and the fever will subside on its own.

Lao Tzu says: when people are filled with unrest, this is the symptom of a feverish state—the society is sick. And you punish the sick? You put the unruly into jails?

Then you are treating the fever, not the disease. This will only inflame the conflagration further. The fire will spread further. Those who are hungry yet had not joined the unrest will also join. When people revolt, government should understand that it has exploited beyond the limit, that it has settled on people’s chests like a stone. Now it is a stone tied around the neck; people are panic-stricken, drowning. Government is no longer saving; it is drowning. Therefore, if treatment is to be done, government must treat its own ways and arrangements. To punish the unruly is futile.

Thieves arise only where some people accumulate too much wealth; otherwise thieves do not arise. A thief simply means this: some have far more than they need, while others do not have enough even to meet their needs. Then conflict arises.

Government slowly spreads its nets. It is like an octopus whose eight arms spread everywhere. At first government is born as a protector; very soon it becomes a devourer. Because once you hand power to someone, the very nature of that person changes. With power, the misuse begins.

To use power rightly is very difficult. Only a sage knows how to use power rightly. But a sage will not agree to become a ruler. In sages there is no longing for power, though they know how to use it. And those who long for power, who want to be powerful, do not know how to use it; they know how to misuse it.

The longing for power belongs to the weak, not to the strong. You desire what you do not have. Therefore whoever reaches the state becomes unhinged upon attaining power. He forgets—why he came, why he was sent, what the reason was. He had said he was going to serve; once in power he wants everyone to serve him. And the very person you sent is no longer the person who arrives; someone else arrives. For a revolution takes place in between.

The capacity to endure power and remain unchanged even after receiving it can only be in a saint. Now this is a dilemma. The saint does not want power; even if it comes to him he will not accept it. For he is sufficient unto himself; he does not wish to rule others. He wants only self-governance, mastery over himself. He has no taste for governing others. That taste belongs to those who are not capable of governing themselves. Those whose lives have no mastery want to be masters of others.

I have called sannyasins “Swami,” only for this reason—that you desire to be your own master. If you want to be master of others, you are a politician; if you want to be your own master, you are religious.

The saint desires mastery over himself; he desires no ownership over another. So it is difficult to persuade a saint to go into power; even if you offer it, he will not take it. And yet only the saint was worthy of being in power, because he would not misuse it. Those madmen racing to reach power are intoxicated by it. Until they attain power you will see humility in their eyes; they will even press your feet. Once power is in their hands, they will press your neck. Their humility will vanish. You will see the great fire of ego blaze within them. Their feet will no longer touch the earth. Then their real face will be revealed. What is to be done?

India found a device. The device was this: the saint will not agree to go into power, and the un-saint is overly eager to go—there is only one way: whoever is in power must sit at the feet of saints. There is no other way. Therefore saints went into the forests, but emperors sought them—for satsang. For perhaps only from them could a glimpse be hoped—that power might not be misused.

The saint must be above power. When the saint is above power, power is not in his hands, but it begins to function under his guidance, according to his counsel. The saint cannot be persuaded to become king, but the king can sit at the saint’s feet and become a disciple. He should be persuaded to do that. Then a harmony becomes possible. Only then is it possible that government does not become a devourer. Otherwise government will devour.

Lao Tzu is absolutely right. He says: people are hungry, therefore they are unruly; and you punish them! When people revolt, you should punish yourselves, for the people are bringing you the news that you have sucked too much, crossed the limit; even people’s vast capacity for patience has been exhausted. And people’s capacity for patience is very deep; you have exhausted even that! People endure for centuries. If we consider people’s tolerance, it appears infinite. They very rarely agree to revolt. And even then they do not agree; they are incited by others, by those greedy for a different seat of power.

Let us try to understand Lao Tzu’s words.

“When people are hungry, the reason is that the rulers eat too much of the grain through taxes.”

Through taxation people are exploited so much that nothing remains for them to live on.

“Therefore the unrest of the hungry is generated by their rulers’ interference.”

So the root cause lies in government, not in the people. The people merely react to that root cause. If you think the cause lies in the people, you will set about suppressing them, killing them. Then the mistake is made. You have mistaken the symptom for the disease. The disease was deeper; you set about erasing the symptom! Those who were not criminals you have put in jails. Those who were not criminals you have beheaded. And those who were truly criminal appear as if they are protecting society.

There should be very little interference in people’s lives. The state should be such that people hardly know it is there. The state should be such that it is not even felt. Because to feel it means the state stands in your way everywhere. To rise you must think of the state; to sit you must think; to move you must think. The state should leave you to your freedom. It should come in only when you strike at another’s freedom; not before.

All right, to run the state some small amount of tax is needed. But that which a single person can ordinarily do, when it goes into the hands of the state even fifty people cannot do it. Whatever goes into the hands of the state becomes difficult to complete. Files keep sliding from one table to another; they become mountains. There seems no end to anything. Small cases drag on for years. No accounting for the fact that the case had such a little value; and the expense of years on it—no one accounts. What could have been settled in a moment does not seem to end in years.

I have an acquaintance; a case was filed against him. It was filed in 1920 and has not ended yet. Four people were charged; three have died. All the judges who sat on the case have died. The state that filed the case—the British Raj—has died. All the lawyers who took part have died. Only one man remains. He tells me, “Until I die this will not end; it awaits only my death.”

Fifty years a case has been running! And there is no end in sight. New tangles keep arising; things go on and on. Government seems to have a deep art of postponing everything. And on this, crores of rupees are being spent—coming from the stomachs of the hungry. Here people do not get bread, and there futile things continue for years with no end in sight. And every government official becomes skilled in postponing. No one seems to feel the need that something should ever come to an end.

I have heard: in a large Delhi office—big business—no one’s table is ever empty, piles of files on every table. Only one man’s table is always empty, as if he completes every work every day. People were worried—how could this be?

Finally someone asked him, “What is your method? There are never files on your table! You finish everything daily—which is impossible in the history of states! What is your trick? You never look tired. You never work after hours. You come at eleven sharp, leave at five sharp. And the table is always empty!”

The man said, “There is a trick. Whatever comes, without worry I write on it: Send it to Dayaram for further explanations. It is such a big office; I think, there must be some Dayaram.”

The man who had asked him struck his head. “I am Dayaram! And come see my table. Thanks to your kindness the world’s files keep coming to me! And I cannot find any way to resolve them.”

Files are being sent from one to another. A file begins on the first rung, then goes up to the Prime Minister. Years pass. Then it returns from the Prime Minister for some new information. Then years pass. Everything just keeps oscillating. The state does not really work; it postpones. Whatever goes into the hands of the state ceases to happen. And still, the irony is, the politicians keep talking of socialism. What they already have, they can do nothing with; yet they want the work of the entire nation to be in their hands. Then when will it be done? There will be no possibility of it being done. And to keep this whole arrangement standing—this does not stand for free—there is continuous exploitation of the people.

I was a professor for some time in a government college. I was astonished: no professor has any desire to teach or any interest. They sit in the common room gossiping. Students come and go; no one cares. I asked a friend, “What is this?” He said, “This is not a private college; it is a government college. In a private college teaching happens and such. Here no one needs to do anything. Only the naive teach; the clever do politics. The clever are scheming to contest for Vice-Chancellor; how to rise higher, become Principal, become Head of Department—that is the work. The naive few, the newcomers who do not yet know, they go to classes.”

Once it becomes governmental, any work is adjourned. And this is a heavy burden.

Lao Tzu says: people are hungry; unrest will arise. But it is happening because of the rulers’ interference. Leave people to their own lives; they have always been capable of earning their bread; they have always been capable of filling their stomachs. Animals, birds are capable; why would man not be!

A very amusing phenomenon keeps happening. The state keeps saying, “We must remove poverty.” And because of the state, poverty keeps being produced. Those who produce poverty deceive the people by giving the slogan of removing it.

The smaller the state, the more prosperous the people will be. People can produce enough to fill their stomachs; there is no lack for that. And people do not have great ambitions. If they get bread to fill the belly, clothes to cover the body, a roof under which to rest—that is their aspiration. The people’s aspirations are not great. The trouble is with those few who have enormous ambitions. They are very few. And they have thrown the entire society into turmoil. For the sake of the satisfaction of their little lusts the whole society starves, rots, falls ill, remains wretched. People die before their time—because of the state’s interference!

Even the poor used to be happy; now even the rich are not happy. The poor too could earn bread enough for themselves; in the evening they would sit, beat the little drum, sing songs; when rains came they would sing Alha-Udal. Late into the night they would sit by the fire and gossip; they would sleep deep. The poor have no vast ambitions. People have no vast ambitions. A few deranged ones have, whose frightening ambitions can never be fulfilled. For their unfulfillable ambitions, the people’s simple aspirations—which could always be fulfilled and should be fulfilled—do not get fulfilled. Society is harassed because of a few madmen.

Nature has enough of what is needed. The earth can give enough food to fill the belly. But if, in place of the belly, there is madness, then no earth can produce enough to fill madness. There is water enough. The sky is vast; there can be shade for all. But as soon as a few mad people—the “ambitious”—as soon as society falls into their net, obstacles arise. For the satisfaction of those madmen everyone else is sacrificed; and even then those madmen are never satisfied—if only they were, even that would be something.

Lao Tzu says: people’s unrest arises from the excessive weight of government. Government snatches away people’s bread; it interferes at every moment. The interference is such that a man feels he is not free at all, free to do anything. Dependence stands on all sides. And the regulations of dependence are so many that now it is difficult to find a person who does not feel himself a criminal. For if you are to live, you will have to break some rule or other; otherwise you cannot live. Either die, commit suicide—or become a criminal. The state has left only these two options. Everyone feels himself a criminal, because he feels—somewhere a tax was saved, somewhere some rule was broken; something was brought which should not have been brought; something purchased that should not have been purchased; something sold that should not have been sold. Every moment one feels that somewhere one is committing an offense. And that is not a good situation, where the entire society is filled with self-guilt and where every moment they are afraid—will I be caught today or tomorrow? When will this secret be exposed?

And no one is a real criminal. The rules are criminal; excessive rules are criminal. Suppose someone were to make a rule that you cannot breathe in the open air. Then if you breathe you will feel like a criminal. And such a time will come, because the air is becoming poisonous. In the West it already has. In the West little children go to school wearing masks attached to an oxygen bag—because the air on the streets, due to excessive cars, has become toxic; to drink it is dangerous.

There is every possibility that within fifty years a time will come when only the rulers will breathe in the open sky, because only they will have the facilities. Others will hang their little bags and go to the office as now they carry tiffin boxes—going with their own oxygen bags. Even air will become scarce, it seems. Food is scarce, water is scarce; air will also become scarce. It seems life itself is becoming scarce. Who is sucking away this life? Where does the energy of life vanish? Who swallows it?

Wherever you live, the state’s hand is in your pocket. Whatever you do, whatever you make, whatever you earn, the greater portion goes to the state. You are left only with enough that you stay alive and keep working—do not die.

Mulla Nasruddin bought a donkey. The seller said, “I am very attached to this donkey; I sell out of compulsion. It is a very dear animal. Give it this much food regularly, this much water, arrange these things, and it will always serve you.”

The seller was very sad, parting from the donkey. Nasruddin said, “Do not worry.” But after reaching home he calculated that the food suggested was too much. “First let me see if half will do.” He began to give half the food. The work went on; though the donkey became a bit thin. Nasruddin said, “Now you look better, more shapely.” Then he thought, “If half works, why not try half of that?” He halved it again. Even then the work went on, but the donkey became thinner. But thinness comes gradually; Nasruddin did not notice. Then he said, “If it works on so little, it might work on nothing too; it will only get a little thinner—what else?” He stopped the food entirely. The day he stopped the food, the donkey died the next day. Nasruddin said, “Had it lived a few days more it would have become accustomed to no food at all. It died before its time.”

It died before its time! Not because food was withheld—its time simply came! If it had lived a little longer the habit would have fixed; it would have lived without food!

The people keep dying; the state keeps finding excuses. Why is it so? Sometimes it says, “The population increased, hence this.” Sometimes, “There was war, we had more expense.” Sometimes it dumps it on nature—“the clouds did not rain”; sometimes, “too much sun”; sometimes, “there was flood.” But there is one thing the state never looks at: you keep sucking away the food, your vast body keeps growing vaster, and the people are crushed under it, dying under it. You blame the clouds, blame the rivers, blame numbers, blame everything—only never blame yourselves, which is ninety percent of the cause. The state is ninety percent the cause of people’s hunger, illness, poverty, unrest. But how will the state blame itself? No one blames himself.

Lao Tzu says, “...it arises from the rulers’ interference. That is why they are unruly.”

Do not punish them; fill their stomachs. And their unrest will vanish. Do not send them to prisons. They need clothes and shelter. Even their minimal necessities are not being met; that is why they are unruly.

A very important thing Lao Tzu says further: “People are not afraid of death because they are anxious about earning their livelihood.”

Understand this. I have insisted on this again and again.

Human life has three rungs. First, his body; second, his mind; third, his Atman. And whoever climbs these three rungs attains the fourth, which we call Paramatma.

One whose bodily needs are not met will not be able to climb to the second rung. One who is hungry—so it has been said, Bhukhe bhajan na hoee Gopala—the hungry cannot sing the Lord’s name. How will he do bhajan? The hungry man does not need bhajan; he needs bhōjan. When hunger fills the life-breaths and every pore is hungry, how will you do bhajan? Then Brahman will not be remembered; only food will circle around you. And it is not your fault. It is natural; absolutely right. It must be so; it is nature’s law. Do not condemn yourself that when you sit to pray, thoughts of food arise. It simply means you are hungry. The first need is the body. If the body is not fulfilled, the needs of the mind cannot arise. Not only will the hungry not do bhajan; the hungry will not even be able to think, to reflect.

Now scientists say that if children do not get proper nutrition their intelligence-quotient remains low. If children do not get a nutritious diet in childhood, their intelligence remains weak for life; it can never reach heights. There is not enough life-energy to take it so high.

When the body’s needs are met, the mind’s needs arise—that is the second rung. The body’s needs are bread, water, a roof, clothes. Very small needs.

And remember: there is a great difference between necessity and desire. Necessity is natural; desire is deranged. To eat when hungry is natural. But if even after a meal one goes on thinking of food day and night, an obsession has formed—he is mad after food. If, once the belly is full, one still goes on eating, he is deranged; he needs treatment. He will kill the body with food.

When a need is fulfilled, to go on clinging to it like a madman is disease. Desire is disease; necessity is natural. Fulfill necessity and beware of desire. Necessity is for bread and water; desire is for taste. Necessity is for clothing—to cover the body; there is cold, there is heat. The body can be covered; but the body of desire you will never be able to cover. However precious the garments you get, desire will persist. Desire is insatiable. Necessity is very innocent, very simple. It has no complexity. Necessity can be fulfilled even by a beggar; the emperor’s desire is not fulfilled. Fulfilling desire is not in the nature of things.

When bodily needs are met, the mind’s needs arise. There is music, literature, dance, poetry. As soon as bodily needs are fulfilled, the mind’s needs begin.

When the mind’s needs begin to be fulfilled—you have listened to much music, you got a little peace—but that peace aroused the longing for a greater peace. You tasted a little of meditation; now music no longer seems enough. Now you want to enter that music which is eternal, which is not produced by man, which rises from Paramatma. Now you want to be lost in the music whose notes are silence. You read poetry, sang songs, hummed; you heard the birds’ songs; you saw flowers blooming; you recognized beauty; you knew tone, understood rhythm, felt the meter; but all this will fall short.

The mind gives only a glimpse, for the mind is a mirror. Reflections form in it—but reflections are good. If you become entangled in reflections, there is danger. That whose reflection was forming in the mind, if, seeing it in the mirror, you turn your back to the mirror and set out in search of that whose shadow was appearing—then the third journey begins, the third rung. Having fulfilled the mind’s needs, one sets out to find that which was reflected in the mind. Then the needs of the Atman arise—prarthana, puja, archana, dhyan become juicy. Then sannyas.

A hungry man cannot even understand a song. If you play the veena by a hungry man’s ear, it will feel like a nuisance of sounds. He will say, “Stop! This is not the moment to listen. Stop this veena! It hurts; it wounds the heart.” If a hungry man looks at the moon, even the moon seems sad. If he looks at a flower, he feels like eating it, not savoring its beauty.

As the body’s needs are fulfilled, the mind’s needs arise. Those who remain entangled in bodily needs—turning necessity into desire—are unfortunate. They make the first rung their home. It was a staircase; one had to go beyond. Much mystery still remained. They have made a house on the steps outside the mansion. It was necessary to pass over the steps, but not to stop upon them. Whoever turns necessity into desire will stop on the steps. He will spend his life in eating, in wearing clothes, in building houses. Many are living like this on the steps. There is no end to their misfortune. They do not know that steps lead further; steps are not a home.

The second place is the mind. Some get lost there: music, painting, film, the novel—this becomes their color and tune. Necessary, but not enough. One must wake from that too; go beyond that too. Then, sometime, the glory of meditation, of sannyas, dawns. And even that is a staircase; one must go beyond it too. Then one enters the life of Paramatma, the temple of Paramatma. Then the river falls into the ocean.

Lao Tzu says, “People are not afraid of death.”

Because the one who becomes afraid of death becomes religious. The fear of death catches you only when life’s needs are fulfilled. The fear of death arises on the second stage. When the body is hungry, life is not yet there; why would you worry about death? First the belly has to be filled; who cares for death? You are engaged in earning a livelihood; life itself is not settled—where is the leisure to think of dying?

So Lao Tzu says, “People are not afraid of death because they are worried about livelihood.”

Their bellies are hungry; they cannot do bhajan. Even the awareness of death does not arise in them. Buddha became aware of death because the body’s needs were fulfilled, the mind’s needs were fulfilled, and there was nothing in life left to know. When nothing in life remains to be known, only then does the eye turn upward; only then comes the remembrance that this life will end—what is beyond it? Is there life beyond death?

In Buddha’s time a great religious flowering happened in India because the country was prosperous; people’s bellies were full; their granaries were not empty. They were happy. Thousands and thousands followed Buddha. Thousands and thousands followed Mahavira. The country must have been in an amazing state of peace. There was no hunger; bhajan was possible. In Buddha’s time India saw the peak of its prosperity.

Lao Tzu says: people are not afraid of death, because they do not have life. They have nothing to lose—what will death snatch? They are engaged in somehow arranging bread and wages.

A poor man cannot be religious. Leave aside individual exceptions—that is another matter. But the rule is that to be religious at least the body’s needs must be fulfilled; otherwise a person will remain entangled there.

I see that if a wealthy person comes to me, his questions are sometimes religious; if a poor person comes, his question is never religious. People ask me, “Why don’t you do something for the poor? Here in your ashram the poor find no entry.”

There are reasons. Whenever a poor man reaches me, I find myself helpless—because what I can do is not what he asks. What he wants has nothing to do with me. No bridge forms between us. A poor man comes and says, “I have no job.” He does not ask about meditation. He has nothing to do with prayer. He wants my blessing to get a job.

If my blessing could get jobs, I would bless everyone at once. Why do it again and again? Something can be had from my blessing, but not a job. That is not your real demand. Then I am in a dilemma.

Someone comes and says he is ill, “Give me your blessing.”

The sick should go to the hospital. He has no reason to come to me; he needs treatment. Whenever a poor man comes I see that none of his concerns are religious. Even if he wants to come to me, it is for that reason.

Sometimes a wealthy man comes and his concerns are religious—sometimes. Then he asks, “The mind is restless—what can I do?” The poor man never asks that the mind is restless. Restlessness of the mind arises only after a certain growth. Right now the belly is restless; the mind has not the means to be restless. When the belly is full, the mind will become restless. When the mind is fulfilled, the soul will become restless. In truth, only when the soul is restless is there any meaning in coming to me. If the soul is restless, something can happen from my blessing, from being near. What I can give you is of another kind. What you ask for, I do not have.

Thus, when a poor man comes near, he puts me into a quandary—what to do? I understand his pain, his difficulty—clearer even than he does. I know how pitiable it is when a man says he has no job! I know how painful that is when a man is sick and cannot arrange treatment—only then does he come to me; otherwise he would go to the hospital. His aspiration is very small. He asks for a needle; I am ready to give a sword. What will he do with it? He says, “My clothes are torn; if I get a needle I will sew them.” If I give him a sword, what will he do? He will only tear the clothes more. Clothes are not sewn with a sword.

A poor man’s mind cannot rise to religion. Leave the exceptions. Once in a hundred, some poor man may also be religious—but he needs great intelligence. A rich man can be religious even without intelligence; a poor man needs great intelligence. The poor man needs enough intelligence to see the futility of what he does not have.

Very difficult! You do not see the futility even of what you have; how will you see the futility of what you do not have? Those who have palaces do not see there is nothing in them; you, who have no palace—how will you see there is nothing there?

Hence the exceptions. Sometimes one in a hundred, a man of genius understands by thought alone—without entering palaces—that there is nothing there; without acquiring wealth he understands there is nothing in wealth; without getting position he understands there is nothing in position. Many say this. The poor often say, “What is there in wealth!” But they say this to console themselves. It is not understanding; it is consolation. They are explaining to their minds that there is nothing there.

It is the same as the fox who jumped for the grapes. She could not reach; the distance was great. She looked around to see if anyone was watching—there was the question of embarrassment. A rabbit was peeping. The rabbit asked, “What is the matter, aunt?” The fox said, “Nothing; the grapes are sour.” To say “my jump is short” hurts the ego. “The grapes are sour; no need to jump; I have left them as useless”—this is easier.

Many poor will be heard saying, “What is there in wealth! What is in palaces! What is in status!” Do not think they have understood. It is only consolation. It is the poor man’s way to explain to himself. He says: that which cannot be attained has nothing in it—otherwise we would have attained it and shown you. The grapes are sour!

But sometimes a poor man truly understands—because understanding is gathered over infinite births. In some birth you have been rich, lived in palaces, known great pleasures. So based on that gathered understanding, sometimes some poor man can be religious. Otherwise a poor man’s aspiration cannot reach religion. His jump is short. His demand is for small things.

Now you can understand my difficulty. I want to give him something—certainly I want to—but what I want to give is not useful to him. What he has come to ask for is neither with me, nor is it worth giving, nor worth asking. He will gain understanding only when he passes through the experiences of life.

When a person’s means of livelihood are fulfilled, when life becomes steady, then the thought of death comes. In the race to earn a living, who thinks of death? A man lives and dies—without ever noticing that death was coming. When you can sit quietly, stop running for a while, rest under a roof—then sometimes a thought comes that death is approaching. Even to think of death, a little facility is needed. And the one in whom the thought of death arises alone can be religious. That is why animals and birds cannot be religious; they have no awareness of death. There is not enough wakefulness for death to become evident. In those whose minds are struck by the thought of death, a new chapter opens.

“Because they are anxious for livelihood, that is why they are not afraid of death. Those who do not interfere with their livelihood have the discernment to raise life higher.”

And Lao Tzu says: the state should do something so that people’s livelihood is not interfered with. At least let their livelihood be fully theirs—only then will the discernment of life rise higher. Let their bodily needs be fulfilled—so they can rise above the body. Let their mental needs be fulfilled—so they can rise above the mind; so that Self-awareness can dawn in their life. That morning in which the needs of the Atman are felt, the restlessness and thirst of the Atman, the pang and longing of the Atman arise.

That man is unfortunate in whose life the thirst of the Atman has not arisen. He keeps wandering outside the temple; he never enters within. Blessed is the one in whose life the pang of the Atman has arisen; in whom the Atman has fluttered its wings and been filled with the longing to seek the sky of Paramatma. In such a person’s life, discernment touches its ultimate peak.

And have the discerning ever been unruly? Have the discerning ever been criminals? Have the discerning ever wished to devastate and destroy life?

Lao Tzu says: as long as people live only on the plane of the body, they will remain unruly. They can be inflamed any time. They are dry fuel; anyone can set them on fire. And once it catches, the winds spread it. Until the discernment of life rises, punishment will not lift it up; nor will killing them. Because they do not fear death. Threaten to kill—they will not be moved. Threaten to snatch—they will not be moved. Put them in prisons—they will not be changed. Because, in reality, the prisons are better than their homes; at least there they get two meals regularly. Prisons are more comfortable. By putting them in prisons you will not save society from unrest; rather you will teach unrest. By killing them, by threatening to annihilate them, you will bring about no transformation—because they have no worry about dying; they are worried about living. Who worries about dying? Kill them; your bullets will pierce their chests but not change them. Your whips will lash their bodies but will not awaken them.

Awaken them. And there is only one way: that the state should not exploit them; let the state allow them to live in their own way; do not stand in the middle. Do not suck away their wealth so much that nothing remains for them. As soon as their bellies are full, as soon as they have some ease, no one will be able to make them unruly; no one will be able to push them towards crime. And slowly the vision of death will begin in their lives. Through that vision they will become religious.

No one becomes religious by studying scriptures; to become religious one must study the scripture of death. No one becomes religious by the babble of pundits and priests; to become religious one must hear the sound of death. Death is the greatest guru. But those entangled in livelihood cannot hear that sound; and those entangled in livelihood get involved in all kinds of crime, unrest, rebellion, revolt, destruction.

Lao Tzu’s aphorism is clear. He says: leave people to their nature. Do not over-plan them, do not over-govern them. They were not born for government; they were born to live. And they will find their own way of life. Animals and birds find it; why would man not find it? But the state says: “We shall intervene, because you will not find it rightly. You will not be able to fill your stomach rightly; therefore we shall arrange it. You will not be able to run the factory rightly; therefore we shall nationalize.”

And all nationalization is only statization; the name “nation” is false. The sum total meaning of nationalization is that all power is in the hands of the state. Trade, business, industry, agriculture—everything in the hands of the state. And the stronger the hands of the state become, the more the people wither. Then you say, “People make unrest.” To stop them you either kill them or put them in prisons. The more you kill and imprison, the more others become unruly. Still the simple point is not seen—that this is a symptom of disease. The disease lies hidden in the state.

If the state is minimal, it is a blessing; if it becomes much, it is a curse. A certain dose of state is necessary—and that dose should be like a homeopathic dose, not an allopathic one. Just a tiny dose of state is needed.

Let me remind you once again. The work of the state is negative. Its work is only this: to stop people from obstructing each other’s lives. Nothing more. As long as people are doing their own work and are in their own joy there is no need for the state to intervene. The state’s work is like that of the policeman at a crossroads. As long as people are moving to the left, he need not come in between nor say anything. Yes, when someone begins to walk in the middle of the road and becomes an obstacle, then he needs to intervene. As long as people are walking their own path and doing their own work rightly, let them do it. More than the policeman at the crossroads the state has no need to be.

And there is no need to give so much respect and reverence to state officials. They are servants, not masters. You do not touch the feet of the policeman at the crossroads; nor is there any need to touch the feet of the big policemen sitting in Delhi—the President, the Prime Minister—nor any need for their laudation. And yet they overshadow the entire society. All the newspapers are filled with them. All radio, all television filled with them. On all sides their praises are sung.

This praise has a dangerous result: those not in power also become mad to reach power; a race for power is born. All the ambitious want power. Then a terrible struggle arises—and that struggle becomes the cause of unrest.

There is no need to give great honor to the rulers. They are doing a job; they have a utility—finished. Their utility is not such that they should be placed upon our heads. The sanitation worker is sweeping the road—fine, thanks! The policeman at the crossroads is doing his job—thanks! The Prime Minister is doing his work in Delhi—thanks! The matter should end there. Nothing more is needed.

The day we reduce the honor we give to politicians, that day the madness in others to enter politics will diminish.

Greater events than politics are happening in the world—honor them. Someone is singing a song; someone has created a new song; someone has raised a new tune on the flute; someone has added a new color to dance; someone has painted flowers so that even God is envious—give them joy, give them praise, give them honor. For they are adding to life; enriching it; turning it into a greater festival.

What does the politician do? What gift does he give to life?

At most his situation is like the watchman at the gate. Fine—if he does his work well, thanks! If not, catch him by the ear and remove him.

There are poets, painters, dancers, sculptors, musicians—who rain day and night upon life, who fulfill the needs of the mind—thank them. There is the farmer, the laborer—thank him, for he fulfills the needs of the body. And there is a saint who rains upon the thirst of the soul, who, becoming a cloud, showers—thank him.

The politician’s work is enough in a corner. To spread over the whole of life like the sky is a deranged idea. But politics has spread so badly that it has left no space for anything else. This indicates that people are unclear where the disease is, and treatment goes on; so the treatment becomes more dangerous. The disease lies very deep—in the honoring of politics.

Dethrone politics! Not because someone else is to be seated on the throne. Politicians also shout, “Dethrone them; the people are coming!” But they shout so that you get down and they get up. Do not dethrone politicians to enthrone others; dethrone politics itself. Politics is no more than a service. Whoever does it well—give him a certificate of thanks. But nothing more. Yet we have allowed it to cover the sky of life 24 hours a day. Terrible consequences have followed. The protector has become the devourer. The servant has become the master. And the people are crushed, shrinking. Their souls are lost, their minds are lost. Even their bodies are not fully saved; they too are being lost.

Lao Tzu’s analysis, Lao Tzu’s diagnosis, is unerring. And until this diagnosis is applied, the world will remain in anguish. If there is a revolution worth making, it is Lao Tzu’s revolution—the revolution of removing politics from its pedestal.

Enough for today.