Tao Upanishad #122

Jesus has said: Those who are first here shall be last in my Father’s kingdom, and those who are last here shall be first there.
The last becomes the first; the first become the last.
Ordinarily, man runs to be first. And the one who runs to be first will, in the end, find that he has become last—and badly last. And the one who consents to be last finds, finally, that the whole of existence has made him first. It may look like a riddle, yet it is one of the keys of life. And it needs to be understood very delicately, layer by layer.
In everyone the desire to be first is present; the desire itself is not wrong. There must be a secret behind it. In truth, each person is made to be first; none is destined for less. There is no way to settle for anything less than the Divine. If you settle for less than that, you will remain miserable and impoverished, there will only be pain. An anguish will surround you; a restlessness, a lack, something lost—something that could be attained and was not. As if a tree were deprived of flowering; leaves have come, greenness has come; yet no buds, no blossoms, no fruit. As if the tree has remained barren—so will you feel.
Hidden in the aspiration to be first is this deeper reality: your destiny is to be first. You are born to be first. Your very nature is to be first. You are not to remain behind anyone. And the First is Paramatma. All else is behind That. Hence until you become Divine, until you attain that supreme state, you will run and race, desire and wander, lose and fill with melancholy—and miss again and again.
The desire is right, but desire alone is not enough—understanding is needed. It is true you want to be first; but if you choose a wrong way to be first you will never be first. There is a right way to be first, and a wrong way. Understanding is lacking; the feeling that has arisen is perfectly right. You are born to be enthroned. That is your rightful nature. But which throne?
On the thrones made by men you will never be fulfilled—until Paramatma seats you upon the throne. Until then all thrones are makeshift; today they are, tomorrow they are snatched away. What can man’s gift endure? And man gives with one hand and with the other is ready to take back. Man’s throne is man-made. What is man’s power? You want a position—that is fine. You want the supreme position—that too is fine. But becoming a president or a prime minister will not help. There too you will find: worldly posts have been attained, but the inner longing remains unfulfilled. The spring seems near, yet the thirst does not quench; then that spring was a deception, a mirage. Even upon the highest posts the supreme cannot be attained. There too hunger remains the same, thirst remains the same, the race continues the same. Wealth is gathered, yet the supreme wealth is not found.
The aspiration itself is right, but we go wrong in how to fulfill it. Religion is the method to fulfill your ultimate yearning. Adharma also offers a method to fulfill it—but a wrong method. Adharma too says: ‘Come, I will show the way.’
It is told: when Jesus came near the supreme moment—when his prayer was to be fulfilled, when God was ready to receive him—just a moment before Jesus was to disappear and the Christ be born, the devil appeared. The devil said, ‘Whatever you seek, I am ready to grant. Do you want to become emperor of the whole world? Speak, and I shall make it so. Do you want wealth? Boundless wealth? Kubera’s treasure? Speak! Whatever your desire—tell me for what you pray.’
Jesus said, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan! I am not asking of you. Whoever accepts anything from you will remain lost forever. Better to be poor than to possess your riches. Better to be a beggar than to reign in your kingdom. For you are a mirage. You are deception.’
Whenever one sets out to seek, a thousand deceptions also spread their nets. No Satan tricks you—it is your own mind that chooses the cheap road. It says, ‘Do you want a throne? Go to Delhi. Want wealth? Earn wealth. The market is there—steal, cheat, loot. This is the way. Why go to the temple to pray? What are you worshipping for? We have the technique right here. The mind will give you a path.’
And following the mind’s path you have wandered birth after birth. Still the goal is not in sight—it is as far as it was on the very first day of your consciousness. Not an iota of journeying has truly happened. You have walked much, but only round and round a circle. Your pilgrimage is like the bullock at the oil-press. It walks the whole day and reaches nowhere. In the evening it stands exactly where it began. Still it walks all day, in the hope that perhaps it will arrive somewhere.
To keep the bullock walking, the owner ties blinkers to its eyes so it cannot see to the sides, only straight ahead. When a horse is harnessed to a carriage, it too is blinkered to look only ahead. Looking straight ahead creates illusion; the path’s circularity is not seen. If it could see around, it would know: ‘I am going nowhere—just circling.’
The mind, too, moves like the bullock on a fixed track. It cannot see that it is circling the same place. Stand a little apart from the mind; watch with a little wakefulness. The same anger, the same lust, the same greed—you have repeated them again and again. What is new? Each time you did it, each time you repented. Even repentance is not new; that too you have repeated. But you do not see. You think a journey is happening. No journey is happening—you are only moving, not arriving. Not a fragrance of contentment descends. Not a drop of fulfillment showers. No lamp seems to be lit anywhere. The darkness remains as it was.
The aspiration is right—to attain the supreme state; but the methods are wrong. And to the one who puts the methods right, the aspiration is fulfilled. Buddha again and again said: Do not ask me of the destination—the destination you already know. Learn only the methods from me. Do not ask of the goal—you too know it; ask only of the path.
In Buddha’s sayings there is little mention of the goal—only of the path.
Who does not know the goal?
Even if the eyes are blind, a man seeks bliss. Even if the legs limp, a man seeks bliss. Sick or healthy, child, youth or old—man seeks bliss. Plants and birds too are seeking bliss. The path may be wrong—the goal is not wrong for anyone. The melody within is tuned toward the goal. But how to reach? Where is bliss? Where is the kingdom of Heaven? ‘Tao’ also means ‘the Way’. Tao is not the goal. There is no need to give a goal. You were born carrying its news. It is your blueprint; it is written in every fiber of you. You need learn it from no one—you have come already knowing it. If you had not, no one could ever teach you.
Think a moment: if there were no yearning for bliss within you, Buddha could beat his head and die—could anyone plant such a yearning? If the longing is within, someone can awaken it; if the yearning is within, someone can set it aflame. If there is no yearning within, what can be done? If the presence of a Buddha has an impact upon you, if a Sadguru inspires you, it only means this: what you always wanted, he has refined and clarified; what was already inside you, he has made manifest; what was unknown, unfamiliar, hazy—he has made clear.
No one can give you a goal. What can be given is the Way. Tao means the Way.
The most important collection of Buddha’s utterances is called the Dhammapada—meaning: the Right Way. ‘Dhamma’ means right; ‘pada’ means that upon which one walks—the path, the footstep. Buddha says: You already have everything—only the way to reach it is needed.
What is the Way? The Way is: if you want to be first, become last—you will be first. If you insist on remaining first, then enter the race to be first—by your own choice you will remain last. But then do not weep; do not repent. Do not say, ‘I ran so hard, labored so much, suffered so much, and still I am last.’ You are last because of yourself. If you truly want to be first, then drop the race to be first. Why? Because the race to be first will deprive you of your own nature. The moment you enter into competition with someone, your gaze turns outward.
If you press the essence, the very extract, out of this race to be first—what is it? It means: the race to push the other behind. You become related to the other. You begin to watch the other. You start responding to the other’s moves. You struggle with the other. You engage in trying to erase the other, to trip the other—because it seems the only way to be first is to eliminate the competitors.
The one who enters the race to be first gets entangled with the other; and the one entangled with the other loses himself. To gain oneself is to be first—because you are already Divine. There is only one way to lose your Divinity: become entangled with the other. Then your gaze cannot return to yourself—how will it?
The politician is always thinking of the other. In Indira’s dreams there will be Jayaprakash; in Jayaprakash’s dreams there will be Indira. Neither knows himself. Where is the leisure? The gaze is on the other. Even the one who has reached the post looks at the other—people are pulling at his feet; he must guard himself. For the others also want to be first. And in this world, all cannot be first. All cannot sit on the Delhi throne. Otherwise the throne would have to be made as vast as India; then it would no longer be a throne—it would be the country itself. You are already sitting on a throne; then there would be no need to go to Delhi. A throne is for one. And fifty crores of competitors will be pulling each of your hairs from every side.
So the one seated is also not at ease to consider himself. He must protect the seat; he must protect what he has gained—else in a moment it will be lost. Enemies surround him on all sides—only enemies. And the one who has not reached the seat—how can he calmly meditate? How can he close his eyes? How can he enter prayer? He thinks: ‘When I reach the throne, when I possess all, then I shall worship. What is the hurry now? If I begin to worship now, these others who are overtaking me will get even further ahead. Millions are on the road seeking the throne. If I sit to pray by the roadside, I shall be lost and left behind. There is no leisure—run, race! Do not sleep; do not even eat properly.’
Love is lost—prayer is far away. The seeker of position can neither love, nor sit for two moments to listen to a song; he cannot relish music, cannot look at flowers. All his energy has to be poured into competition. It is a ferocious struggle. In that struggle there is no ease. He thinks: ‘When I reach the throne…!’ And the man who reaches is frightened all the time—because a crowd of competitors is approaching; all are ready to take his life.
Seated on the throne, he looks at others; not seated, he looks at others: ‘Let none get ahead!’ Those behind must be kept behind; those ahead must be pulled back. Not a moment to lose. Life appears a tussle, a deep struggle—a war. How will you look within?
The one who has entered the race to be first looks at all others, but cannot look at his own being. And the one who cannot look within—how will he be first? For you are already first. Your Paramatma is hidden within you. Where are you searching? Upon whose doors do you knock? You knock upon others’ doors while your Divine is hidden within. You have brought it with you. It is your innermost, your nature.
Hence the wise say: the one who runs to be first will remain last in the kingdom of God.
The running is not wrong; the yearning is right. But the method went wrong. If you truly want to be first, Jesus is right—stand at the last. For the one who stands last has no fear—nothing can be taken from him. He has nothing—what will you snatch? So he can sit at ease. He can close his eyes and meditate. He can descend into his nature. He has no competition with anyone. He is last. There is no one behind him who might overtake him. Those ahead are pleased: ‘You are sitting in meditation? Very good—blessing! Sit just like that.’ Otherwise one more competitor would be added.
That is why worldly people touch the feet of sannyasins. They say, ‘Great grace! You have taken sannyas—very good!’ They are saying: ‘Good—so many competitors less.’ If your own son takes sannyas, you are miserable; if another’s son takes sannyas, you go to thank them: ‘Fortunate you are to have birthed such a son.’ And if your son becomes a sannyasin? Then the spine of your ambition breaks. You were hoping to ride on his shoulders; your legs are broken from your own running, and he was your crutch. What you could not achieve and rotted with, you hoped to fulfill through him—and he is taking sannyas!
When Buddha took sannyas, think how his father must have suffered. Only son. The empire’s expansion and care were hoped from him. In old age he left home—ambitions smashed to pieces.
No, when another’s son takes sannyas, you are delighted. You may imagine that you respect sannyas—but you are mistaken. If you respected sannyas, you would have taken it yourself. Had you understood sannyas, you would have inspired your sons too: ‘Go—why delay? Why waste this life?’ You have neither respect nor love nor faith for sannyas. You only offer thanks because the number of competitors has decreased—‘Good, you too became a sannyasin.’
Because of Buddha’s name, the word ‘buddhu’—‘fool’—became popular. Perhaps Buddha’s father first said it: ‘What Buddha! He is a buddhu—left everything and fled.’ Others, the ‘wise,’ would have said so too. When someone’s son sits to meditate, the father says, ‘Why are you sitting like a buddhu? Get up—do some work; the world will not run by such sitting.’ Behind the name of so great a being as Buddha, a word like ‘buddhu’ became an abuse—there must be a reason.
And not only Buddha—many wise men have suffered thus. After Gorakh came the phrase ‘Gorakh-dhandha’—Gorakh’s tangle. Gorakh discovered profound methods of meditation, a subtle web of techniques. People began to say to one another, ‘Get up—why are you stuck in this Gorakh-dhandha?’ Meaning: entangled in Gorakh’s knots—beware, if you get caught, you are gone!
Behind Mahavira there came ‘nanga-luchcha’—‘naked and shameless’. You may never have suspected—but when you abuse someone you say ‘naked and shameless.’ It came from Mahavira. He remained naked, and plucked his hair; he would not cut it. He said: ‘Even such small dependence on means is futile. If something can be done without instruments, why depend on instruments?’ So he plucked his hair by hand. ‘Nanga-luchcha’ arose from Mahavira: those who go naked and pluck their hair.
See how your hidden aspiration has expressed itself toward great beings—you have abused them. You talk of worship—but when someone’s son or husband left home to follow Mahavira, people said, ‘Why are you getting into the talk of naked and shameless fellows?’ When someone began to get entangled in Gorakh’s ways, people said, ‘Beware! Save yourself—this is Gorakh-dhandha; there is no substance in it.’ Gorakh is forgotten; Gorakh-dhandha is remembered. How many know Mahavira? Of the millions who use the phrase ‘nanga-luchcha,’ hardly any know Mahavira. Everyone uses ‘buddhu’—but who is connected to Buddha?
Life is very intricate. The greatest intricacy is this: what you set out to attain—if it is already given to you—then every attempt to acquire it becomes a hindrance to its realization. How will you attain what is already yours? There is only one way: drop all running to gain it; sit silently a while and recognize who you are. In that recognition your throne is given. You are already enthroned. What other throne are you seeking?
Therefore Jesus says: The one who is last is first in my Father’s kingdom. He is. Not that God has a special love for the last and so lifts them onto the throne. Whether God is or is not, the last will reach the throne. The last is already on the throne. In being last, the throne is found. For when you stand behind all, at the very end of the line, no one jostles you.
Stand in a queue and see. If you are at the very end, no pushing, no shoving. If you are in the middle—you will be pushed. If you are first—you may even be beaten. At the end, you have no enemy; all are your friends. You will have everyone’s friendship. If you stand first, all are your enemies—even those who appear friendly are enemies, for deep inside the same wish burns in them: ‘When will you move? When will you be gone, so we can mount in your place?’
To stand last can happen in two ways. One: you tried to be first but your feet would not hold—you were weak, the jostling was heavy, others were stronger and pushed you back. Do not think that this sort of ‘lastness’ will make you first in God’s kingdom—for though you stand behind, your desire is still to be first. You are helpless; in such helplessness you will not know your nature.
So I add one point to Jesus. Not all who are last will be first in God’s kingdom. For of a thousand who stand last, nine hundred and ninety-nine stand there out of compulsion. Compulsion is no liberation. They are forced to be there, but their souls are writhing—their dream is to be first.
No, such people will not be first. Whether you reach in actuality or only in dreams—it makes no difference. Sitting on an empty chair, a fancy takes you: ‘I am the prime minister.’ For a while you relish it; you even begin to make plans—what you will do in the world. No difference—whether you dream or actually arrive—your inner longing is racing to be first.
The last is he who is last by his own seeing; whom no one has pushed back—he himself moved back. Not from weakness, but from deep understanding. Not helplessly, but with awareness.
Even ‘by his own choice’ is not quite right, for it suggests a slight difficulty that had to be consoled; as if he somehow managed to resign himself. No—‘choice’ is weak. If we must say it rightly: the one who stands last in celebration—with a shout of ‘Ah!’—in joy. One who, being last, knows life’s fulfillment—who, standing last, thanks God; who says, ‘I have attained—this is the attainment.’ Not consolation, but great contentment, deep satiation. He dances in joy—because he is last. He sings—because he is last. Now he can sing—for the race to be first is no more. Now he can dance—because he is last. Now he can give thanks, now he can pray. Now he can bend his knees before the sky. His feet have no other work now—now they can bend in prayer. His heart has no other entanglement—now it can be drunk with rasa. One who, intoxicated with rasa, stands last—only he reaches in Jesus’ sense.
Therefore, not all who are last will arrive—because not all are truly last. The last is the one who is last with gladness, with heartfulness, with totality. This is what I call a sannyasin. Sannyas means: to stand last with a cry of ah!—one who has dropped all competition. Competition means politics. Competition means the urge to cut the other’s throat. Competition is the race of ego. The last becomes humble; the ego’s race is over. The one who stands last stops looking at the other—as if the other is not. He is alone. This vast sky, these innumerable stars—are for this alone. The other disappears, for the other exists only so long as you think of him.
Understand this. The other exists only so long as you are lost in thoughts of the other. When there is no thought of the other, the other is gone. Whether he is or is not, it no longer matters. The sky becomes yours alone; now you are utterly free to fly. Your wings are no longer bound. The one who has dropped the race saves all his energy—that very energy becomes wings toward Paramatma. Now your flight is free. And remember: on the journey toward God there is no competition—none are racing with you.
I have heard: A new shopkeeper came to Mulla Nasruddin’s town. He wanted to open a shop. Nasruddin was an old shopkeeper, so the new man took his advice about the town and market. In conversation he said, ‘I am an honest man; I want to work honestly. Honesty is my business.’ Nasruddin said, ‘Then be carefree; you can come without worry. You have no competition in this town—who competes in honesty? Had you been dishonest, you would be in trouble. Honesty? Come at leisure. You will be alone; no quarrels with anyone—do your honesty at ease.’
Who competes in honesty? And in religion, no one is racing with you. You run alone. Wherever you stand—you are first. Even if you do not run—you are first. No one is racing with you there. Indeed, it is such that in the realm of religion there cannot be a competitor—for entry into that realm happens only when competition drops. Otherwise, none enters religion.
If you ask me for a definition: the world means the realm of competition; God means the realm without competition. There you are utterly alone. Mahavira called that state Kaivalya—absolutely alone. So alone that only you are; nothing and no one remains. No walls anywhere. No one to obstruct. No chains. Naturally—you will be first. Where you are alone, how could you be second? Who will make you second? If you wish, you can even stand in a queue—yet you will remain first.
George Mikes has written about England: it is the only country where, even if one man is at the bus stand, he stands in a queue. In the whole world, only there. One man—no one else around—yet he stands in a queue.
In God’s realm, if you wish, stand in a queue—you are both last and first.
A few more points, then we can enter this sutra smoothly.
The race to be first arises from a deep inferiority inside you. Why do you want to push another behind? You fear the other might push you behind. You fear your inferiority might be exposed, that someone may defeat you.
My observation is: people seek security at every moment. Even with your closest friends you seek security. You avoid any talk that might lead to controversy and you might lose. You avoid discussions where conflict may arise, where a contest may happen. You keep saving face. From all sides you try that no situation comes in which you may appear behind in any way.
Plainly it means: deep down you know you are behind and inferior. Otherwise why such a complex of inferiority? What is all this fear? If you see this rightly, you will see that the race to be first arises from inferiority. Therefore in politics you will find the most inferiority-ridden people—either in madhouses or in capitals. The mad too have become mad because inferiority made them so inferior that they began to fantasize being something great.
When Hitler was alive, many in madhouses declared themselves to be Adolf Hitler. What was their trouble? They could not be Hitler; then the only way to be free of inferiority was to believe they were Hitler. You cannot convince them otherwise. Entering the mind of a madman is difficult; he builds a fortress around himself.
Kahlil Gibran writes: one of his friends went mad, and he went to see him. In the asylum’s garden the man sat on a bench, very cheerful. Gibran had thought he would find him sad; finding him cheerful, Gibran felt a little sad. He was so cheerful—as if he did not know he was in a madhouse. Gibran had gone to console, but there was no place for consolation. The man was more cheerful than he had ever been outside. Gibran sat near him. Seeing his cheerfulness, Gibran asked, ‘Do you know where you are?’
The man said, ‘Who would know better? I have left that madhouse from which you have come—on the other side of the wall. Here there is great peace. A few people only, and all sensible. I shall not mistakenly return to your madhouse again.’
Gibran had gone to console—no room for it. You think they are mad; the mad think you all are mad.
Every person makes a circle around himself and lives within it. What you think of yourself—no one in the world thinks of you that way. Have you noticed? You think yourself beautiful; no one thinks you so beautiful. You think yourself intelligent; no one thinks you that intelligent—not even your wife, nor your son. Inside, you keep thinking yourself to be who-knows-what—that is madness. A little more of the same…
Pandit Nehru went to a madhouse at Bareilly. A madman was being released that day—his release was done by Nehru’s hand. Out of curiosity he asked, ‘What was this man’s madness?’
The man answered, ‘My madness? When I came three years ago I believed I was Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. But thanks to these people—they set me right. That hassle is gone.’ Then he asked, ‘And you—who are you? I did not ask.’ Nehru said, ‘I am Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru.’ The madman burst out laughing. ‘Do not worry—give them three years and a chance. They set me right; they will set you right too.’
The madman has his own world. And remember: so long as you have any private world, you are more or less mad. The wise has no private world left. In the wise, no self-image remains; he holds no image about the other, and none about himself. He becomes empty. And emptiness is liberation. As long as you think, ‘I am this, I am that,’ know that you are trying to cover what you are. The foolish man thinks himself wise; the ugly thinks himself beautiful. This is the way to escape from ugliness and to cover it. The poor and mean think themselves powerful; the helpless think themselves very important. Whatever you think you are—watch—it will be the opposite of your actual state. And whatever you think, it is wrong.
To stand last means you drop all racing—outer and inner. Neither outwardly are you in competition, nor inwardly. Only then does your derangement calm down; slowly, what you are begins to be seen. That is Self-knowledge. Self-knowledge is not gained by chanting ‘Ram-Ram,’ not by covering yourself in ‘Ram’s cloth,’ not by turning a rosary. Self-knowledge will be yours if you gather the strength to stand last. There is no other way. All other ways are deceptions, tricks. They are like this: the illness is cancer, and you are applying ointment. It is meaningless. The disease is deep; you massage the skin. In this way you may delude yourself, forget yourself, deceive yourself—but you will not be transformed.
To stand last means: to know yourself as you are. And when there is no competition—what fear remains? You will open yourself and see. If you are poor, then you are poor; if you are foolish, then you are foolish; if you are ignorant, then you are ignorant. Before whom must you claim knowledge? When there is no competition, whom will you deceive?
Remember: only when you cease deceiving others do you cease deceiving yourself—both are linked. Deceiving others deeply means deceiving yourself. When you succeed in deceiving others, you are deceived too: ‘So many people think me intelligent—surely I must be intelligent. How can it be otherwise? So many would not be fooled by my words—there must be something in me.’ You go to deceive others—and deceive yourself. If you remain in this deception, you have wasted much life; you will waste this one too. Time to awaken—enough sleep already.
If you want to awaken, step out of the line—go to the back. There is nothing to lose by leaving the line—except your self-deceptions. There is nothing to gain by standing in line—no one has ever gained anything. Alexanders have not—what will you gain!
A thief entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house. Seeing him, Mulla hid in a big cupboard, turned his back to the door, and stood hidden there. The thief came and, lighting a lamp, was astonished to find Mulla in hiding. He said, ‘Nasruddin, I thought you were a brave man! Why are you standing here in fear?’
Mulla said, ‘Brother, I am brave indeed. And who told you I am standing here out of fear? I am standing here out of shame. I have lived in this house twenty years—searched and searched, found nothing. Now you have come to search. I am ashamed—you will go away empty-handed. You came from afar, made so much effort, and will get nothing. Shame for my poverty—there is nothing here. If you agree, I will even help you search. I tried for twenty years and found nothing here.’
Ask the Alexanders; in the end they too stand hiding in cupboards—found nothing; stand in shame. At death Alexander said, ‘Let my hands hang out of the bier—for I want people to see clearly that I too am going empty-handed.’ And it is the only bier in the world with hands hanging out—for it was his command, and it was obeyed. His hands hung beyond the bier. Millions came to see. They asked, ‘What is this? We have never seen such a bier!’ By evening the capital knew: it was Alexander’s wish that his hands hang out, so people might recognize: ‘I too go without gaining anything—empty-handed.’
Where even Alexander goes empty-handed—what will you do standing in line there? Those who reached ‘first’ also go empty-handed. There is nothing to lose if you leave the line; there is much to gain.
But to leave the line feels frightening. Those standing in line will say, ‘Ah—he ran away! Took sannyas? Escapist!’
Those who stand in line will, of course, say so—for only then can they continue to stand in line. Otherwise your leaving will fill them with shame and poverty. When they call you escapist and coward, they are saying, ‘We are not escapists—we will stand firm.’ They are protecting themselves. Many stand in line only out of fear—that if they step out, people will say, ‘He ran! Abandoned the field! Showed his back! We did not think you so weak!’
They said this even to Buddha. Buddha’s own charioteer said it when he took Buddha to the forest. He did not know what Buddha was doing. When Buddha stopped by a river, he said, ‘Now return.’ He removed the ornaments from his hands and neck and gave them to the charioteer. The charioteer said, ‘This is escape. Even I must teach you? You are being cowardly. The brave fight—they do not show their backs.’
Buddha said, ‘I am fleeing a place where a house is on fire. When a man runs out of his burning house, do you call him a coward? Will you say, “Stand inside! Why show your back? Burn if you must, but do not step out.” If a man stands bravely inside, will you call him brave or stupid?’ The charioteer said, ‘I see no fire. A palace—what fire? A beautiful wife—what fire?’
Buddha said, ‘What you cannot see, I can—because you have no eyes to see. There is nothing but flames. No palace, no beautiful wife—only flames. I am not running away.’
Life is so complex that sometimes the ‘escapists’ are the courageous, and those who stand and fight are weak—hence they stand. But the crowd is with those who stand; crowds do not make truth. Whenever you move to leave, to step back, the crowd will cry, ‘Where are you going? Have you lost your courage? Where is your bravery? Stand firm—break, but do not bend! This is the sign of the brave.’
A sannyasin appears an escapist. He is not. He moves away from where the fire is.
Now let us enter Lao Tzu’s sutra.
‘The Way of Heaven, the Tao’s way—is it not like the bending of a bow?’
Lao Tzu says: Heaven’s Way is like this: as an archer draws the string, the bow bends. The arrow flies only when the bow bends. And when the string is drawn, what happens? The end that was up comes down; the end that was down rises up. And the greater the archer, the more fully it happens. The upper end comes down; the lower end rises.
Lao Tzu says: ‘The Heavenly Tao—the Way of Heaven—is it not like man bending a bow? The summit comes down; the lower end rises.’
And a balance is created. What was ahead is pulled back; what was behind is brought forward. Life comes into equilibrium. Excess disappears.
Balance is the very essence of Lao Tzu’s words. Being first is not meaningful; being last is not meaningful. Here you will see the difference between Jesus and Lao Tzu. Jesus says: the one who stands first should become last—for that is the way to be first in my Father’s kingdom. Lao Tzu does not say this. He says: first and last are two halves of the same duality. Lao Tzu goes deeper than Jesus. Either you stand first, or, if you drop all, you stand last. Lao Tzu says: the Way of life is balance.
So he does not say that the last will become first and the first will become last. He says: those who are last will come a little up; those who are first will come a little down; and at a certain point both will merge in a single rhythm—balance will be created.
‘The peak comes down; the lower end rises. The excess length is shortened…’
The bow was long; its breadth was small, its length too much—an imbalance. When the string is drawn, the length is shortened.
‘The excess length is shortened; the insufficient breadth increases.’
In the drawn bowstring, the bow’s breadth and length become equal.
‘Heaven’s manner is to take from those who have excess, and to give to those who do not have enough.’
For Heaven is continuously creating balance. Those who stand behind are brought forward; those ahead are brought back. Those who have much—He takes from them; those who have little—He gives to them. Mountains He brings down; valleys He fills up. From the arrogant He cuts away; to the humble He gives. From the stiff He snatches; to the bending He distributes. Where there is lack He fills; where there is too much He removes. All of nature is engaged in a profound effort toward balance.
‘Heaven’s manner is to take from those who have excess, and give to those who do not have enough.’
Therefore, if you wish to be first, stand last—Heaven’s law will pull you forward. And if you want to remain last, then strive to be first—at last you will find you have been pulled back. Lao Tzu’s way of seeing goes deeper than Jesus, but the method remains the same as Jesus’. Do not think, ‘Let me stand in the middle.’ You will not even find where the middle is. And to stand in the middle means the struggle continues; some will be behind you, some ahead. Those behind will want to come ahead—then you must protect even your middle. Those ahead will not let you pass. Those behind will pull you back. In the middle too the struggle continues. Therefore the method is what Jesus says; Lao Tzu’s understanding takes you to a higher peak.
Lao Tzu does not say: standing last, you will be first. And this is worth understanding. Man’s ego is such that he can stand last only in order to be first. Deep down he still wants to be first. Not acknowledging Jesus openly, he believes: ‘This is the way to be first—stand last.’ So he stands last. But he does not want to be last—he wants to be first.
Man is so cunning, so sly—he even plays tricks upon himself; he steals from one pocket and puts it in the other. So there is danger in Jesus’ statement: you may become humble only so that your ego is fulfilled in God’s kingdom.
On the night Jesus was to die, his disciples asked him: ‘In the kingdom it is certain you will sit close to God; what of us twelve? Where will we stand, where sit? In the divine court, what will be our places? Of us twelve, who will sit near you and who far?’
These disciples did not understand Jesus at all. They are with him to get an easy chance at being first—‘Our own man is God’s son.’ Nepotism there too: ‘When you sit near God, what will be our positions? At least tell us before you go.’ This is no sign of religiousness. Jesus’ words and his living essence were both destroyed by Christianity, for these twelve, who founded it, had no understanding. Even in the kingdom their competition continues—the lure to be first continues. And as long as you wish to be first, remember—you will remain inferior.
When we say, ‘Stand last and you will be first,’ it does not mean we are giving you a trick to be first. It only means: whoever becomes last, becomes first—that is its consequence, it happens of itself. But to be last means to drop every desire to be first. Only then does the great event happen. Hence Lao Tzu does not tell the last, ‘You will be first.’ He cuts that statement—because it gives you a chance to deceive yourself.
Lao Tzu says: Heaven’s way is to take from those who have too much and give to those who have not enough. Therefore in the kingdom the last will not become first and the first will not become last. In the kingdom no one will remain first and no one last. In the kingdom each person will be himself. ‘First’ and ‘last’ are comparisons with another. In the kingdom, to be first would still imply others behind—then your gaze is still on the other. In the kingdom each person is himself. Comparison dissolves. In the kingdom you are you, I am I. Neither you ahead of me nor I behind you. Neither I ahead nor you behind. Each will blossom to his total flowering. Is the lotus behind the rose or ahead? The lotus is lotus; the rose is rose. Who is behind? Who ahead? In the kingdom all will bloom—there will be no ahead-behind. The very idea of ahead-behind belongs to the world; it is the comparison of the ego.
Lao Tzu says: all will become equal in a harmony. All will have equally. All will be unique in their ownness—yet all will have equally.
‘Man’s manner is not this.’
Man’s manner is the very opposite of Heaven’s.
‘He takes from those who do not have.’
You take from the poor and offer to the rich. From the destitute you snatch, and lay it at the feet of the emperor. The one who needs nothing—you offer to him; the one who needs—you refuse and snatch even what he has. You pick the pocket of the beggar and fill the pockets of kings. You invite to feast those whose bellies are already full—who will only taste here and there and leave most uneaten. And the one who knocks at your door in hunger—you say, ‘Move on—do not stand here.’ The hungry who knocks is driven away. The full-bellied, whom you invite—whatever you have prepared will be left upon the plates.
In fact, you are pleased only when someone leaves it all—that means a great guest came to your house. If someone eats everything you served, you think: ‘We invited some poor wretch by mistake!’ Etiquette says: when invited, even if hungry, do not eat—because you were not invited for hunger’s sake. Had it been for hunger, they would have driven you from their door. You are invited because your belly is full—because you have plenty, they want to give more. So do not reveal your hunger; sit at the plate with a little indifference—taste the soup here, break a small piece of bread there, leave most as it is. Only then will the hosts be happy: ‘A great person came.’ If you finish everything, even they feel sorry: ‘What beggar did we invite! A mistake. No second invitation.’ Man’s ways are strange.
It happened: Ghalib, a great poet in Urdu, was invited by the emperor of Delhi to a festival, a great banquet. The emperor loved his poetry. Friends said, ‘If you go, think carefully. These clothes of yours are not suitable—they are torn and old, not fit for the emperor’s court. Dressed like this, no one will even recognize you. The guards may not let you in.’ Ghalib said, ‘The invitation is for me! I have the card—I will show it.’ They said, ‘Do not be deluded. No one will ask for the card. Dressed like this, they will ask—and not even believe how you got one.’ But Ghalib did not like it. ‘They invited me, not my clothes.’
He went as he was. The gatekeeper did not let him enter. There was almost a scuffle. He pulled out his card. The guard said, ‘Throw it away! You must have stolen it. Get out, or we will have you arrested.’
Ghalib returned home, sad. His friends had arranged everything—borrowed a fine sherwani, a turban, shoes. He said nothing; he wore the borrowed clothes and went back. The same guards bowed. It is not people who are respected, but clothes. No one even asked for the card—Ghalib had his hand in his pocket, ready to take it out quickly. He moved on.
Inside, the emperor seated him near. When he began to eat, the emperor was surprised by what he was doing: he took sweets and touched them to his coat—‘Eat, coat!’ He touched the turban—‘Eat, turban!’ The emperor said, ‘Forgive me. Poets are expected to behave oddly—but this odd? What are you doing?’ Ghalib said, ‘I came before, but they sent me back. Now the clothes have come. I came, but was turned away. Now those by whose grace I am here must be fed first. I am number two now.’
Man’s behavior is opposite to Heaven’s. Here, what exists is given to those who have; what little is, is taken from those who have not. Heaven’s behavior is the reverse. To those who have not, it gives; from those who have, it takes—for Heaven is balance. Heaven is neither the poor man’s nor the rich man’s, for both poverty and riches are illnesses—both are excess. The rich has an excess of riches; the poor has an excess of poverty. A little poverty must be taken from the poor and given to the rich; a little wealth must be taken from the rich and given to the poor. The middle is always balanced and healthy.
‘Man’s manner is not this. He takes from those who do not have, and gives—to those who have excess—in the name of taxes, in the name of gifts.’
‘Who is there who has enough to give to the whole world?’
Man gives to the one who already has. Heaven gives to the one who has not. Lao Tzu lifts the sage even above Heaven. He asks: Who has enough to give to the whole world—who gives without taking from anyone? Heaven takes from someone to give to another. But who has enough to give to all?
‘Only the man of Tao.’
Understand this a little. The sage is above Heaven. In the sage there is Heaven; in Heaven there is no sage. The sage’s circle is wider.
There is a Jewish tale: a fakir named Zusya dreamed one night that he had reached Heaven. He was astonished—he had never imagined it. In Heaven there were great saints of ages—countless ancient ones. One sat under a tree praying, another knelt by the road with folded hands. He was amazed: he had thought that at least in Heaven there would be freedom from prayer. Prayer was to reach Heaven—why pray here? And the whole of Heaven was humming with prayer and worship. It is right—if it goes on here too, then where is release? He asked an angel: ‘What is happening? Is this Heaven or Hell? We thought people pray when they are unhappy. Here there is only bliss—why are they praying?’
The angel said, ‘Heaven is in the saint’s prayer. Heaven is not here as a place—because of their prayers there is Heaven. Heaven is in the saint’s heart. Leave this confusion that saints go to Heaven; wherever a saint goes, Heaven goes.’
Heaven is no geography—no ticket to buy to arrive. Your religious leaders have made it so, as if Heaven were a location. Give two alms here and your ‘reservation’ is confirmed there. No one will stop you. There is no door, no porter—these are stories. Heaven is a state of feeling. In a moment of prayer you are in Heaven—or better: Heaven is in you.
The saint is above Heaven. Heaven can only balance. Balance is good, but not enough. Balance is like a man who is not ill—medically there is no disease, the doctor says he is fine. But you know: the doctor’s ‘fine’ is not enough. Health is an ‘ah!’—a thrill, an upsurge. Health is not merely the absence of disease. Health has its own positivity, its own creative force. Sometimes you find a well-being, a delight in every pore—one morning, suddenly, for no reason, you find everything thrilled, everything delighted.
The doctor cannot catch this delight. If you go to him and ask, ‘Tell me why I am delighted—where is the cause?’ he cannot find it. A doctor can only detect disease—at most he can say, ‘No disease—you are fine.’ ‘Medically fit’ does not mean supremely healthy; it just means no illness, balanced. Health is a flood—a river overflowing its banks.
Nature lives by balance; the saint lives by Samadhi. Thus Lao Tzu says: who has enough? Enough to give to the whole world?
‘Only the man of Tao.’
The saint does not snatch from anyone—his treasure is not of the snatching kind. He has his own wealth, which he gives. Whoever is willing to receive, he gives. And he has so much abundance. Another law operates for the saint. Man’s law is: take from the one who has not, give to the one who has. Nature’s law is: take from the one who has, give to the one who has not—so that balance is. The saint’s third law is: whatever you have—keep pouring it out. The more you pour, the more it grows. Give. Do not take from one to give to another. The saint has from his own heart to give.
Kabir has said: ‘Both hands keep emptying—that is the work of the saints.’
Keep emptying! As if you are drawing from a well—fresh springs gush and the well fills again, and again. So the saint keeps distributing himself. And he has so much that it suffices for the whole world. That wealth is of another kind—it increases by giving. This world’s wealth decreases by giving.
A beggar stood at a door. The mistress of the house gave him food and clothes. She felt compassion—his face had the air of a once-prosperous man, a certain refinement. Though his clothes were torn, an aura of culture was there. After the food and clothes, she asked, ‘How did you come to this state?’ He said, ‘Soon yours will be the same. Mine happened thus: whoever came to the door—I gave. Asked for food, and I gave clothes too. Soon yours will be the same.’
Worldly wealth decreases when given. If you see rightly, do not call wealth ‘wealth’ if it decreases when given—it is misfortune, not fortune. True wealth is known only when you give and it grows.
The saint has such a wealth—of joy, of meditation, of Samadhi—which grows the more it is shared. It cannot be diminished. There is only one way to make it less—do not share it. Then it will stagnate. That is why Buddha goes to the forest when he is ignorant; Mahavira to the mountains when he is ignorant; Jesus to solitude, Mohammed to solitude. But when the treasure descends, they run back to the marketplace—to distribute. To receive, one must be alone. To give, others are needed. All the wise go to solitude to seek; but when they find, they rush to society. Otherwise the spring will stagnate. The well from which no one draws becomes foul. Now people must come with their thirsting pots and lower them into the saint’s heart—fill and draw. The saint goes door to door to share, to give. Whoever is willing, he is ready to give. Sometimes a moment comes when even if you are unwilling, he gives—for the question is not of your taking, but of his giving, else it will stagnate.
In Tibet there was a great saint, Milarepa. All his life he refused to teach. He wrote no scripture, nor did he explain to anyone. When someone came to be his disciple, he would set such difficult conditions that none could fulfill them. Then, near death, he announced, ‘In three days I will die.’ He said to a man near him, ‘Run to the market and call whoever is willing to receive.’ The man said, ‘All your life you placed such conditions that thousands came, but the conditions were so difficult none could fulfill them, and you accepted none as a disciple, gave initiation to none. Have you gone mad at the end? You say: anyone at all! What of the conditions?’
Milarepa said, ‘Do not worry about conditions. Those were because I had nothing. Now I have. Do not worry about who is willing—whoever you find! Beat a drum in the market: Milarepa is giving—come! Whoever wants to receive—come.’
A moment comes when you have so much that you must give—otherwise it becomes a burden. The saint has enough to give to the whole world—because his wealth does not diminish.
Seek that wealth which does not lessen by giving. Only then can you be a sovereign; otherwise you remain a beggar. Wealth that lessens by giving will keep you a beggar—small or great, poor or rich, you remain a beggar. Even the greatest rich man is a beggar—for his wealth will lessen by giving, so he keeps asking: ‘Bring!’ He keeps calling: ‘Come, bring more!’ His run for ‘more’ never ends. Because wealth increases by asking, by snatching; by giving it decreases. The saint has a wealth that increases by giving, by sharing.
‘Only the man of Tao. Therefore the sage acts, but does not possess. He accomplishes, but does not claim the credit. He has no wish to appear superior.’
‘The sage acts, but does not possess.’
He gives, but not even to the extent that you should become obliged to him. That would be possession; that would be ownership over you. This is rare: the saint gives and makes you the owner. He gives and does not even want you to be indebted. If a saint has even the desire for your gratitude, there is still a flaw—he is collecting the wealth of your thanks. A saint means: you can give him nothing; he has gone beyond your capacity to give. Even if you give all you have, still he stands beyond your giving. And what he gives you—do not fear to receive it.
You even fear to receive—for you have learned that whoever gives, binds you; an obligation is created. You have only received worldly things—if you take a few coins, the weight sits on your chest. The giver looks at you on the road as if to say, ‘I gave you two coins.’ In this world, whoever gives, possesses you. ‘I gave you love,’ they say. Leave aside others—even a mother, whose love is called purest, says to her son, ‘I bore you, raised you, carried you in my womb in suffering—and you do nothing for me!’
If even a mother’s love possesses, what to say of other loves? What to say of hatred? Here, people give only to own you. Here, giving is part of politics. Therefore you fear to receive even from saints—lest they too possess. But a saint is one who does not possess.
There is a story: Junun, a Sufi fakir, became so utterly realized that angels appeared at his door. They said, ‘God has sent word—we wish to grant you a boon; ask whatever you desire.’
Junun said, ‘You are late. Had you come years ago, there were many desires. Now I can give to God. Now there is so much—His grace rains as it is. I need nothing. He has already given so much that if He ever needs, I can give to Him.’
But the angels insisted. It happens: when you do not ask, the whole existence wants to give. When you asked, every door rejected you. The angels said, ‘No, it would not be right—ask for something.’ Junun said, ‘Then give as you think right.’ They said, ‘We give you this boon: whomever you touch—if he is dead, he will live; if ill, he will be well.’ He said, ‘Wait—do not give it yet.’ ‘Why?’ they asked. He said, ‘Give the boon to my shadow, not to me. For if I touch someone and he lives, he will have to thank me. I will stand there before him. And in this world people fear even to thank; they would rather die than be obliged—because it hurts their ego. Better give the boon to my shadow. I will pass by, and wherever my shadow falls, the man will be healed. So that no one will know I have done it. I will have gone, and who needs to thank a shadow?’
Junun is speaking with great understanding. Even if saints wish to give, you are not ready to receive. When a saint tries to pour, your heart’s bowl contracts. You have grown so small—even receiving you fear. From many experiences you have learned: whoever gave, enslaved. On the basis of that, you behave with saints too. A great mistake. A saint is one who gives and frees; gives and makes you master.
‘The sage acts, but does not possess; accomplishes, yet does not claim the credit.’
As if the shadow has done all—he has done nothing. Therefore a saint never says, ‘I did this, I did that.’ Where there is the voice of doership, there is no saintliness. The saint becomes like a bamboo flute—songs are of God. The saint becomes a mere instrument. He removes himself completely. He becomes transparent. If you look deeply into him, you will see God standing there; you will not find him standing there.
Hence we have called Buddha Bhagwan, and Mahavira Bhagwan. Buddha is exactly like you—but those who looked carefully found there was no ‘Buddha’ left—he was just an instrument. The house was empty; upon the throne sat only God.
Therefore it is said of Buddha: for forty years he spoke without stop—and not a single word did he speak. For forty years he walked without stop—and not a single step did he take. Understand this: God spoke; God walked. Buddha ended the day he attained Samadhi.
‘He accomplishes, yet does not claim the credit—for he has no wish to appear superior.’
The wish to be superior arises from inferiority. The saint has attained Paramatma—no trace of inferiority remains. Nothing remains to be achieved. What inferiority now? Destiny is fulfilled; the goal is realized; the destination has come—nothing beyond it. To try to be superior, to take credit—this is foolish. If someone seeks credit, know that his goal has not yet come. If someone wants to be superior, know that he is still on the road, a traveler, not yet arrived.
Among the tests to recognize a Sadguru, one test is this: he will not wish to be superior; he will not claim credit. Even if you attain knowledge near him, he will say, ‘You attained by your own cause—I was only an excuse.’
When Buddha was dying, Ananda began to weep. Buddha said, ‘Stop—why do you weep?’ Ananda said, ‘Without you, how will I attain?’
Buddha said, ‘Fool! You were always going to attain by yourself—whether I stayed or not made no difference. My presence is only an excuse. If you have loved me, my presence will remain forever. You can use that excuse whenever you wish.’
Scientists use a phrase: catalytic agent. Some events happen in the presence of something—the presence alone is needed; it does not act; it is not consumed. Hydrogen and oxygen will unite, but the presence of electricity is needed. Not because of electricity—electricity itself is not used; but without its presence the union does not happen. Presence is needed—just presence.
So the saint becomes a catalytic agent. In his presence certain happenings occur. He does not take the credit.
You set out, and if a bird sings by the road you think it sings because of you; if a flower opens you think it opens for you. The egoist thinks himself the center of existence—everything happens because of him.
The saint’s ego is gone—everything happens by itself.
So Buddha said, ‘You will attain by your own cause. Your own lamp will be lit. My presence or absence is not the question. And if you need an excuse—I will remain present for you forever. Only the body falls; I remain.’
Saints do not desire even a trace of credit. Only then are they saints. Saintliness blossoms when all inferiority falls. One who has attained the utmost inner supreme—what thanks will he ask from you?
‘Who has enough to give to the whole world? Only the man of Tao. Therefore the sage acts, but does not possess; accomplishes, yet does not claim the credit; for he has no wish to appear superior.’
Enough for today.