Tao Upanishad #123

I see Lao Tzu—in many scenes. At times sitting by a waterfall. A tender stream of water descends upon hard rock. No one would even imagine that the rocks would give way; reason cannot accept that the rocks will break and water will carve a path. And yet in life it is so. Rocks slowly crumble into sand, they are washed away, and water makes its way. In the first moment even water might not trust that the rock it falls upon can shatter. But continuousness—what is weak becomes strong through unbroken continuity.
Lao Tzu is not sitting by a waterfall for nothing. The waterfall became for him a great inquiry, a meditation. He glimpsed something. He perceived the strength of the weak and the weakness of the strong. The stone broke, was carried away; it could neither divert the water nor break it.
How will you break the weak? Weakness means: already broken, yielding, ready to break. One who is ready to break does not challenge, ‘Break me!’ With one who is ready to break no one’s ego is provoked to say, ‘Let me crush it.’ Water is liquid, already broken, already flowing. What further can you make it flow? Rock is stiff, hard, fixed; it has no capacity to flow. Whenever the liquid and the rigid clash, the liquid wins, the rigid shatters—because the liquid is alive and the rigid is dead.
Life is always weak—repeat it as often as you wish, it will still be too little. Life is always weak; death is always strong. And yet, though death occurs again and again in the world, death never wins. It happens daily, and still it is defeated. Life rises beyond death again and again. After every death, life sprouts anew. On every grave flowers bloom; on every heap of ashes, new shoots arise. Death has come infinite times; it cannot efface life. And how fragile is life! What is weaker than life?
Death is like rock; life like a stream. In the end death becomes ash and is carried away; life remains. Whoever has known this has discovered the formula of nectar. He has known that even though one may have to die many times, death will not triumph. Death is dead—how can it ever win? Life is living—how can it ever be defeated?
I see Lao Tzu in other scenes as well. Lao Tzu sees: a small child riding on the shoulders of a strong man. He stands by the roadside; people pass by. He wonders: the man is so strong—why is he carrying the weak child on his shoulders? It is the child’s softness, his very weakness, that lifts him up. The strong goes below; the weak goes above.
Lao Tzu sees—perhaps on a full moon night, passing by a thicket—a powerful youth is bowed at the feet of a delicate-looking young woman, pleading for love. Woman is weak; she makes even the mightiest man bow. Alexander, Napoleon—at a woman’s feet they bend like beggars. Great armies cannot bend them; even if mountains should accept combat, mountains would have to be uprooted. The Alps had to bow before Napoleon; none had ever crossed them—he crossed. Alexander trampled the world; great warriors he ground into dust. But a delicate body, a woman, like a flower—and Alexander is there, on his knees.
Lao Tzu looks. A full moon night, a scene glimpsed in the thicket—he does not see it casually. Whatever Lao Tzu sees, he draws from it the essence of life: the weak wins, the strong loses. There is only one art of being strong: become weak. There is only one path to victory: become like water. Hence Lao Tzu sings such glory to womanhood as none in the world ever has. If ever it is asked who understood woman most, Lao Tzu is unmatched. And why this praise of woman? Because the feminine quality is soft, like water; it has a flow. Man is hard, like stone. And the soft always bends the hard. The rock always breaks before the stream.
Lao Tzu is passing through a marketplace. A fair is on. An ox-cart has overturned; an accident has occurred. The owner—bones and ribs broken. Even the oxen are badly injured. The cart is smashed to pieces. A small child was also in the cart; the accident scarcely touched him.
You must have noticed: a house catches fire—everything burns, yet a small child is saved. At times a little child falls from the tenth floor, then gets up laughing, unhurt. People say: Whom God protects, none can kill. This is not about God taking sides—what difference would God make between small and big?
No, the secret is something else. Lao Tzu knows it. The child is weak. Not yet hardened. His bones have not yet become stony. His current of life is still liquid. The stronger the bones become, the more injury they suffer. If an ox-cart overturns, an old man is hurt more, the child hardly at all—because the child is so soft. When he falls to the ground he offers no resistance to the earth. Within him there is no urge to protect himself; he becomes one with the ground. He goes with the fall. He surrenders, he does not struggle. Hardness is struggle.
When you fall, you fall fighting; you fall going against the fall; you fall protecting yourself; you fall in sheer compulsion. Your every effort is to not fall, to be saved, to save yourself to the very last breath. Then in every bone, every hair, stiffness arises to somehow be saved. And where there is the urge to save, everything hardens. The child does not even know what is happening. He falls as one goes with a river’s current. You fall swimming against the current. In your contrariness, in your stiffness, your injury is hidden. The child remains safe.
Lao Tzu stands by the riverbank. A man has drowned. People are searching for his body. At last, the corpse itself floats to the surface. And Lao Tzu is astonished: the living man drowned, the dead rose floating—what is this? Did the river wish to kill the living and save the dead? The living drown while the dead float.
No—Lao Tzu grasps the secret. The dead float, for what could be weaker than the dead? He is gone; now there is no resistance. The living man drowns, because he fights the river. If the living too were to become dead-like, the river would lift him as well. The whole art of floating is simply this: become as a corpse in the river. Those who are skilled in floating can lie in the river without flailing arms or legs—like a corpse. The river holds them. They have left it to the river. Weakness means: What power is mine? Therefore, why trust myself? They let go.
Thus Lao Tzu keeps drawing the essence from the little happenings of life. He did not learn from the Vedas or the Upanishads. He understood the scripture of life directly; he read life’s pages, life’s leaves. And the most essential formula he drew from them is this: in this world, if you try to be powerful you will be broken; if you learn the art of being powerless, you will be saved.
Devotees sing: The strength of the weak is Ram. What occurs by nature they attribute to Ram. In the language of the bhakta, Ram means the total existence.
Lao Tzu is no devotee. He does not use words like Ram or Paramatma. Yet he is saying the same: the strength of the weak is Ram. The more one is weak, the more the strength of Ram comes to him. Lao Tzu too says: the weaker you are, the more existence grants you its power. And the more you are stiff with your own power, the more existence turns away. When you are stiff, you are alone; when you are humble, the whole existence is with you.
By nature, the weak will become strong and the strong will remain weak. The longing to be strong is the ego. And it is hard to find a greater disease, a greater calamity, a greater malady than the ego. Ego is the cancer of the soul. As yet we have no cure for bodily cancer; how then will there ever be a cure for the soul’s cancer? Ego means: I will fight, I will win, I will stand by myself. I need no help of any Ram, no help of existence. I alone am enough.
How do you imagine you are enough alone? You cannot live even a moment if breath does not come, if there is no oxygen in the air, if there is no sun, no warmth—will you survive? If rivers dry, the stream of water within you will dry. If the sun goes out, the warmth in your body will be lost. If breath does not come, you will collapse in a single instant. Yet your ego says: I will live on my own; I need no support. Can you live even a moment without support?
You are connected. Existence gives to you twenty-four hours a day; therefore you are, though you have forgotten. For existence makes no noise in giving, nor does it beat a drum when it donates. It is not apparent that you live, moment to moment, by the support of existence. You could not live for a moment against it. But the ego creates the illusion: I will live by my own power. That very day you become weak. He who says, I will live by my own strength—he is weak, though he thinks himself strong. And he who says, Without the strength of Ram there is no other strength—he appears weak, but his strength is incomparable.
Now let us try to understand these utterances of Lao Tzu.
‘There is nothing as yielding as water, yet in conquering the hard, nothing surpasses it. For water there is no match; it is unique. There is no substitute for it.’
What is water’s weakness? Understand. Pour water into a glass—it assumes the shape of the glass; put it in a pot—it takes the pot’s form. Water has no form of its own. No personality of its own. This is its first weakness. It has no figure of its own. So weak that it cannot preserve its own shape; whatever mold you give, it becomes that. It does not insist even a little: What are you doing? Why are you making me take the shape of a pot? Water has no retaliation, no opposition, no resistance. As you mold it, it is molded. Not once does it raise its voice: What are you doing—spoiling my shape! So we will feel: very weak. No personality, no proclamation of ego.
You cannot shape a stone so easily. It will put up all kinds of obstacles. You will need chisel and hammer; you will have to work skillfully and hard—only then can you shape the stone. Inch by inch it will fight; every moment it will resist. Even if you are carving a beautiful statue, the uncarved stone will oppose. It will say: Leave me as I am. Who are you to change me? It will fight your chisel and hammer; it will struggle. That is the stone’s strength. It will not let you transform it so easily. Without struggle you will not gain an inch.
But water is so yielding it does not raise resistance for even a moment. You mold here, and it has already flowed there. No chisel needed, no hammer; no struggle required. Yet this is its strength too. A stone—however strong it appears—can be broken, shaped, sculpted. Have you ever seen anyone carve a statue out of water? The stone fights, but it can be molded. Water is totally ready to be molded. How will you mold it? Suppose you think you have given it a form, still water remains absorbed in its formlessness. Pour it into a glass and you think it has acquired shape. It has not. Take it out of the glass, it is formless again. Water remains absorbed in the formless. The very weakness that appears on the surface is its great strength. Water is formless; stone is form. Water is closer to the Divine. Water has no ego.
If you congeal water into ice, struggle begins. Ego too has three states. When water freezes into ice: one who is deeply egotistic has an ego like stone, like ice. The ego’s second state is liquid like water. This is the humble man; as you mold him he yields; wherever you lead he follows; he offers no resistance; he does not struggle; he is willing to go where the winds take him; he has no will of his own; liquid. And then the last state of ego is like vapor. It dissolves; not even as much remains as water; it merges into the vast sky. As ice melts into water, it approaches the formless; as water turns to vapor, it merges utterly with the formless.
Search within—what state is your ego in? Usually you will find it like a rock. Ever engaged in struggle, ever on guard lest someone attack, lest someone laugh at you, lest someone hurt you. You guard yourself all the time. And there is nothing within worth guarding. You keep watch in vain; there is no treasure yet to guard. You struggle all the time for nothing. People fight all their lives that no one may melt them, no one may hurt them, no one may bring chisel and hammer and give them a little shape. Even tiny children fight. Tell a small child: Don’t go outside! That very moment he wants to go. For you have challenged his ego. You are asking: Who is bigger? Whose ego is greater? Who is strong?
Mulla Nasruddin was instructing his son. The medicine was set out; the boy refused to drink it. The mother was exhausted—she had done everything. Even beating was done. Tears had dried up, yet he sat there: if he won’t drink, he won’t. Nasruddin said, Look son, I know the medicine is bitter. I too was once a small child like you; I too had to drink medicine. But I was not like you; once I resolved, I would say, Let it be bitter—still I’ll drink! And I would prove firm in my resolve—and drink it.
The boy looked at Nasruddin and said, I too am firm in resolve. I have resolved not to drink. Let the medicine sit—let’s see what happens! I am your son after all. My resolve is firm too.
Even small children learn the art of ego—how to defend oneself, one’s position. And they know what to do to keep themselves safe. Slowly they become skilled.
It is written in Nasruddin’s life that at home, when he was a child, his name was “Upside-down Head,” for whatever you told him he did the opposite. The family learned, and Nasruddin’s father learned too, that if you want something done, say the opposite. The arithmetic was simple. If you want him not to go out, tell him: Look, go out! If you don’t go it won’t be good. Then he will sit at home. If you don’t want to send him out, order him to go out; he will remain in the house. Then, by any means, he cannot go out.
One day the two were returning from outside the village. Sacks of salt were loaded on the donkey. They had gone to buy salt. While crossing the bridge over the river, the father saw the sacks leaning more to the left and thought—if not balanced, they may fall. But to get Nasruddin to do anything, the opposite must be said. So the father said, Look Nasruddin, the sacks are leaning too far to the right. Tilt them a bit to the left.
They were leaning left; they had to be tilted right; exactly the opposite was said. Nasruddin did exactly as his father said. The sacks that might have fallen later—instantly fell into the river.
The father said, Nasruddin, this is quite contrary to your usual ways!
Nasruddin said, Perhaps you don’t know that yesterday I turned eighteen—now I am an adult. Children’s ways no longer suit me. Now I will do what ought to be done. Now please give thoughtful orders.
Even little children become absorbed in struggle. What to say of the old—children too get distorted. Then this distortion follows lifelong. And you writhe and cry.
People come to me and say, We have no sense of the heart; that there even is a heart—we don’t know. Do not think this is true only of others; you too do not know the heart. That thumping—this is not of the heart; it is of the lungs. You are merely aware of the circulation of blood. The true throb of the heart you have not yet heard. Only one who breaks the rock of ego can hear it. Then the whole face of life changes. Then you see something else entirely. Then this entire existence is revealed in its complete splendor.
Because you do not have a heart—the strings of the veena lie snapped—how can existence sing its song? How can it sing its song upon the veena of your heart? The egoist has no heart. Ego demands a price. The first sacrifice is the heart—because heart means fluidity.
The more “heartful” a man is, the more fluid you will find him. That is why we say—if a man has no fluidity we say—his heart has turned to stone. We say—even a stone would melt, but this man’s heart does not. The idiom is precious. This happens when the ego grows so strong that the heart hides behind its ramparts—behind the stones of ego. It is lost to you. It is within you still, but lies lifeless, inactive.
The heart is liquid; and the soul—the Atman—is vaporous; ego is like frozen stone. Hence ego lives in your skull, in the brain, in thought. All that is dead. Ego gathers those bones and ribs together—those skeletal thoughts—and sits stiff upon them. That is its field. Below that, deeper, it has no movement.
Below it is the heart, where all is fluid, like water. And deeper still is your Atman, which is like vapor—merged, void—what you cannot touch, cannot see, cannot grasp, with no possible contact or vision—because you are that.
Whoever wishes to undertake the inner pilgrimage must first melt the brain’s ice. When it melts, for the first time the liquid heart is revealed. Then even the liquid heart must be vaporized through tapas, yoga, meditation. And as the liquid heart becomes vapor, for the first time you experience the inner sky of the soul. All doors fall, all walls dissolve. Infinite sky. As infinite as the outer sky is outside you, so infinite is the sky within—not a whit less. And the beauty of the moon and stars outside is nothing compared to the inner moon and stars. Then the sunrise outside has no meaning, for Kabir says: within me a thousand suns arose at once.
When you behold the inner sky you will understand at what great price you had adorned your petty ego, at what price you carried this trivial ego. You were worshiping a stone, while the living within was throbbing. The bird was present within who could fly in the sky, but you forgot the bird and clutched the iron cage—and worshiped that.
Lao Tzu says: ‘There is nothing as yielding as water, yet in conquering the hard, nothing surpasses it.’
And if you wish to conquer the hard, become like water. And what is harder than yourself? If you wish even to conquer yourself, become fluid like water; only then will you win—otherwise not. This talk of victory is not for conquering others; ultimately it is for self-victory.
He who sets out to conquer another will, of course, be hard. Have you ever seen anyone in a quarrel pick up water to strike someone? People throw stones, not water. When you go to fight another, all your logic will tell you: become like a stone! Crush the other under the stone!
But beware—when you become a stone for the other, a great event is occurring within; you are unaware. When you become stone for another, you become stone toward yourself as well. For your behavior toward others becomes, ultimately, your behavior toward yourself. The practice you do with others becomes your prison—you will be locked in that very practice.
If you wish to be stone-like to the other, the other is present twenty-four hours a day. At home—wife, sons, children, servants. Outside—the market, the crowd, enemies on every side. For the hard man there are no friends anywhere—only competitors, rivals. Whether you go out or come home—you are continually struggling with others. Even in your dreams you are fighting others. If you practice hardness twenty-four hours a day, do you think you will be spared hardness toward yourself? The habit will become so strong you will be stony toward yourself as well.
I rarely come upon a man who loves himself. Thousands come close to me—closer perhaps than they come to any other—lay their hearts bare before me. Even if they do not, there is no way to hide from me. Yet it happens at times that I see a man who loves himself—rarely! Most who come despise themselves. They do not know it, but by hating others, by being stone toward others, by constant practice, they have become stone toward themselves. Now being stone is their natural habit; it has become second nature. Even when they sit alone, where there is no other, they sit like stone. To be rid of this stoniness is not easy. It has entered their very fibers. They condemn themselves; they hate themselves.
Your behavior toward others—remember—ultimately becomes your behavior toward yourself. Jesus has a famous saying: What you would have others do to you, do that to them. Its deeper meaning is not only that you should do as you would be done by; the deeper meaning is: what you do to others, in the end you will do to yourself. It will become your style and method of life.
Therefore, do not create for yourself—even by mistake—the convenience of being stone. Even in the hardest times, do not become hard. Remain fluid. If you are ever to descend into the deep experiences of life, you must melt. Even if the other showers abuses, remain fluid within.
Jesus has very lovely sayings. There is deep accord between Jesus and Lao Tzu. Jesus says: If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt as well; if someone forces you to walk two miles bearing a load, go with him four; if someone slaps your right cheek, do not delay—offer the other as well.
What is the meaning of these things? Their only meaning is: do not be hard, remain fluid, remain like water. If he says two miles, say: I am ready for four. Be ready to flow. Be willing to go along. Cooperate—even with the enemy.
And if you cooperate with the enemy, you will find the enemy is no longer an enemy, for the art of cooperating transforms the enemy. If you can cooperate even with enemies, imagine how much you can do with friends. And when you can do so much with friends, you cannot calculate how much you will be able to do with yourself.
The enemy is the farthest from you. Between are friends. Then you. The enemy is your training ground where you will learn what to do: become hard? If you become hard with the enemy, hardness will continue with the friend as well. The humility you display will only be on the face; it will not be real within. And with yourself—the ultimate friendship—you will behave the same. Buddha said: You yourself are your friend and you yourself are your enemy. If you practice hardness—hatred, jealousy, envy—you will become your own enemy. You yourself are your friend if you practice love, compassion, fluidity, if you practice flowing.
Have you ever observed? Each small thing deserves contemplation. When you are full of hatred, all flow within you stops. And when I say flow stops, I mean it literally; it happens exactly so, word for word; this is no symbol. When you are filled with hatred, you close; your life-energy does not flow outward. And when you are full of love and compassion? Then your energy flows; fountains spring around you. When you are loving you are spontaneously eager to share, to give, to make the other a partner, a participant. Your hand extends to take the other’s hand. You open your doors. You wish someone would enter your innermost being and share your treasure. When you are filled with hatred, instantly all doors shut. You stop within yourself; the flow stops.
Not only that—go near a man full of hatred and you will feel as if passing by a stone that has no sensitivity. From which there is no response, no reply, not even an echo. Dead valleys too resound with echoes; but a man closed by hatred, hardened, becomes worse than valleys. Sing a song—no resonance arises in him. Extend your hand—none extends from within him toward you. You go near—he withdraws. Even if physically he does not step back, within he steps away.
Go near a man full of love—you will feel an invitation, a call. There you are never an uninvited guest. Finding a loving man, you will feel as if he has been waiting for you for lifetimes, sitting with doors open, not knowing when you would arrive. You are not uninvited there. At the door is written: Welcome. You will find he is ready to share whatever he has. His hands are outstretched. He is eager for embrace.
Henry Thoreau in America was a great thinker and seeker. He slowly realized—there, shaking hands is the custom—he experienced that it does not feel the same with everyone. From some hands something flows toward you. From others, nothing flows. Some hands seem vampiric, as if they have sucked you and given nothing. Some hands fill you, nourish you, and take nothing, ask nothing.
You too pay attention: when you shake hands, does any life-energy run from the other’s hand to welcome you? The body is an electric current. Scientists say: bio-energy. Life-energy runs in a circuit around you.
A man filled with hatred toward others and toward himself hardens this life-energy; it turns stony. A man fluid like water makes it fluid. And the wonder is— the more fluid it becomes, the more new springs burst within you. For within you is the infinite. Within you is the ocean. The more you share, the more you become aware of new springs within. The more you give, the more you receive. Let water flow out from here and within you new springs will refill you. The more you dam it, the more you will rot. Then you become a puddle breeding only filth, a home for mosquitoes, stench rising. The continuous stream of life is halted.
Paramatma is ready to flow from your well at every moment, but you are not ready to flow. Offer a little cooperation. Flow a little—and see. There is no need to be so miserly. And for the very life for which you are so stingy—that life is infinite. However much you squander, it will not be exhausted. However much you share, it will not be diminished; it grows, and keeps growing.
Lao Tzu says: ‘There is nothing as yielding as water, yet in conquering the hard nothing surpasses it.’
If you are ready to flow with love, you will win even the hardest—not because you wanted to win; whoever wants to win cannot be fluid—but because there was no desire to win at all. You only wanted to make life a participation. Whether friend or foe—that was his perspective—you wanted to give to all; you were eager to share, and you had no conditions. You will find the hardest yields.
There is an episode in Buddha’s life. He was passing near a mountain. The villagers stopped him: that road had turned desolate; none went there because a murderer had taken up residence. He had vowed to cut a thousand throats and wear a mala of their fingers. His name became Angulimala—Finger-Garland. He had already killed nine hundred ninety-nine. People were so frightened that there was no measure to it. Even his mother had stopped visiting him, for he was so crazed, waiting for the thousandth man, that he might even sever his mother’s head and make a garland. When even the mother is afraid to come—imagine the danger! When even a mother has turned to stone—imagine the danger! When even a mother has stopped giving—you can imagine!
The people said to Buddha: Do not go there. He is mad. He will not care who you are, nor understand. His intelligence is destroyed.
But Buddha said: Think also—he is waiting for the thousandth man. If no one goes, what will become of that poor fellow? Consider his pain. How long will he wait thus? And what was to be done with this body has been done; what was to be attained has been attained. What better use is there for this body than that this man’s vow be completed? Who knows—once his vow is fulfilled, the madness may drop? I must go, said Buddha.
The village heard: This Buddha seems more mad than Angulimala. Even Buddha’s disciples were afraid. They had taken vows to stay always by his side—those vows were forgotten. It was delightful to walk near Buddha—there was prestige in it. Now there was danger. Those who walked near Buddha came in the gaze of great emperors. Today who would go? Their pace slowed. For the first time Buddha walked alone on that path. The companions were there, but far behind—their feet suddenly slowed. Such a thing had not happened before. And when they saw Angulimala—sitting on a rock sharpening his axe—they halted.
Angulimala raised his eyes. He saw these beautiful Buddhas approaching in ochre robes; a miracle occurred. It looks miraculous to us because we do not grasp the definition of love, nor the mathematics of love. But it is no miracle—it is straight mathematics. He saw Buddha. For the first time in his life, a feeling of compassion arose. This man looks so helpless, so weak—is it right to kill him? A bhikshu? And such luster and peace on his face that for a moment even Angulimala felt pity. Some life-energy is flowing; water is breaking stone; the stream is felling the hard rock.
Angulimala grew a little anxious. Those from whom others were afraid had never made Angulimala anxious. But now he was uneasy: this is getting excessive. He stood and shouted: Stop there, monk! Come no closer! Perhaps you do not know; did the villagers not tell you? You seem a stranger, you have walked this path unknowing. I am Angulimala. Perhaps you have heard the name. See—this garland is made of nine hundred ninety-nine fingers. One man is lacking. Even my mother has stopped coming; if she comes, I will cut off her head. You turn back. Seeing you unknowing, I feel pity for you.
Angulimala cannot understand. How could he? This pity is not arising because of Angulimala—otherwise it would have come before. He had killed nine hundred ninety-nine and no pity arose. Today suddenly compassion is arising. It is not because of Angulimala; it is happening because of Buddha. That flowing stream of love transforms the other. It is an unknown force; it cannot be seen. Traveling from one heart to another, somewhere in between you cannot catch hold of it and examine what it is like. Perhaps it leaps; perhaps it does not travel the whole path at all—here one moment, there the next, with no journey in between. Such is its velocity.
They say light travels at one hundred eighty-six thousand miles per second. But light they have caught—love they have not yet caught. Perhaps love’s speed can never be measured. Nor should it be. For love is a light deeper than light, the great light. When even the suns turn cold, love does not cool. When the suns are extinguished and death’s darkness falls upon them, still the song of love is hummed. The veena of love continues. Darkness or light, day or night, life or death, joy or sorrow—nothing can erase love.
Angulimala does not know, but compassion has been born in his mind. Buddha smiled and said: Angulimala, you have been waiting for one man. I thought: all the work of this body is complete, what was to be attained is attained, what was to be known is known, there will be no return—if I could be of this small use that your vow is fulfilled! Therefore I am coming knowingly; I am no stranger. Do not pity me. I am not a beggar for your mercy. I have come to give, not to take. The work of this body is done, Angulimala—you may, without fear, kill me.
Such a man had never come before. Those who had come either feared death and ran, or they were brave and drew their swords to fight. With those two kinds Angulimala was well acquainted. He could handle them. No obstacle. But this man is of a third kind. Angulimala looked from feet to head: not to speak of a sword—there is nothing at all in his hands but a begging bowl. Angulimala spoke again; he felt great pity, as if a small child were coming, and his hands trembled. He said: I tell you again—do not come closer! I am a bad man; stop right there!
And Buddha said a rare sentence—very dear to me. Buddha said: Angulimala, I stopped long ago; since then I have not moved. When the mind stops, how can there be movement? I tell you—it is you who move; I do not move. Look carefully.
It is not safe to talk with Buddhas. Angulimala got caught. He laughed loudly and said: You are mad. I suspected only a madman would come thus. You say a walking man is standing, and me standing you call moving! I do not understand—what do you mean?
Once someone begins questioning a Buddha, he is gone—there is no way to save him. Angulimala asked—and there he was defeated. He forgot that he had to kill this man; that he was the executioner; that he had to cut this man. When you must commit an act of violence, do it quickly with a Buddha. Delay is dangerous. Give a little opening and the Buddha’s energy will saturate you, surround you from all sides, disarm you.
Buddha came near. He said: Look carefully—look into my eyes. The mind has stilled; desires have stopped; what movement can there be?
Such difficult questions Angulimala had neither thought nor faced. He was a simple fellow.
It is hard to find men more simple than criminals. The “virtuous” are a bit crooked; the wicked are straightforward. Their arithmetic is clear. They play no hide-and-seek, no trickery. They are evil—that is clear to them. They are not hypocrites. If you seek hypocrites, you must go to temples, mosques, gurudwaras. You will find them with tilak on their foreheads, turning beads. Among criminals you will not find hypocrisy. They are simple people—bad, dangerous—but not hypocrites.
He put his hand upon his head and thought. He said: You put me in a puzzle. Buddha said: Do not get into argument—otherwise you will be entangled. Do your work. Lift your axe and cut me. But before cutting, I ask one thing. Before you cut me, fulfill one dying wish. This tree here—cut a few leaves with your axe and give them to me.
He lifted his axe—what leaves, he lopped off an entire branch—and said, Here. What will you do with it?
Buddha said, Half the work you have done; half remains. Now join it back.
He said: You are certainly mad. Can a broken branch be rejoined?
Buddha said: One more question—then I will ask nothing. Cut my neck—finish it. Do you call a man brave who can break but cannot join? Do you call him powerful who can destroy but cannot restore? Or is he powerful who can make whole? Even children could have broken this branch, Angulimala—you are no brave man. We had thought to meet a brave one. You have killed nine hundred ninety-nine—did you ever think that you cannot create even an ant, cannot make a dry leaf green, cannot rejoin a broken twig, cannot make it live? To kill is very easy, Angulimala—but to make live?
The axe slipped from Angulimala’s hand. He fell at Buddha’s feet. He said, Teach me the art of making live. I thought this was power, but it is now clear—this is no power.
The power of ego is no power. It destroys; it does not create. Take this as the definition of power: true power is always creative. Weakness is always destructive. But weakness appears powerful because it destroys. Hitler, Napoleon, Mao, Stalin—all are weak people. They seem powerful because they are adept at destruction—descendants of Angulimala. Even Angulimala would be embarrassed. He killed only nine hundred ninety-nine; how many did Stalin kill? Hard to calculate—perhaps ten million. And Hitler? Perhaps more than ten million. Annihilation is not power. But the annihilator annihilates forcefully, and to the onlookers it appears as if great power is being displayed.
Creation is powerful, but it looks weak. Seeing a poet write a poem—has it ever occurred to you that he is powerful? Seeing a painter paint a canvas—do you feel he is a mighty man? Or a sculptor carve a statue? Who would think painters, sculptors, musicians, dancers are powerful? But I tell you—they are the truly powerful. They appear weak; their weakness is like the softness of water. Hitler, Mao, Stalin appear powerful; their power is like stone. Under them someone may die. Through them there can be no shower of life upon anyone.
Do not seek power in politics, nor in wealth, nor in position—there are only stones there. The more wealth you have, the more your soul shrivels and turns stony. The higher the post you reach—you cannot reach unless you have a stony heart. You will have to step on people’s hearts, cut heads, make people your ladders, use people as means. Deception, dishonesty, hypocrisy—you will have to do it all; only then can you reach high positions. You will become stone. By the time one becomes president, the inner soul is dead. There is no one there; corpses sit upon thrones.
Creation is real power, but it is not seen; for it is like the fluidity of water. Honor those who create; withdraw honor from those who destroy. Too much worship has been offered to Angulimalas. There is danger in that worship, for you become like whom you worship. Whom you honor you become like. Whom you take as your ideal, unknowingly you begin to mold yourself in his image. Too long have stones been worshiped. Understand the stream—the stream of creation. Seek the things that appear weak; there great strength lies hidden.
Someone draws a melody on a veena. What power is there? Throw a stone and the veena will break, the music be lost. The flower of music is very delicate. But if only you would let it shower upon you, you would be renewed; you would discover new dimensions within yourself. In your own courtyard you would find not a yard but the sky. Small, petty boundaries would drop. A glimpse of the infinite would begin.
A dancer dances. His ankle-bells ring. What is there? From the energy of the body he brings forth music; he brings forth rhythm; through the motion of the body he creates an invisible realm. For a moment this world is lost if you lose yourself in his dance. Through the doorway of his dance he gives you a glimpse of another world. It is very powerful—but how fragile. Lift a stone and throw it—the dance will stop, the dancer will fall. All that is significant here is as weak as a flower.
And Lao Tzu says: ‘In conquering the hard, nothing is stronger than it. It has no substitute. That weakness overcomes strength, and softness defeats hardness—no one knows it, nor can anyone bring it into practice.’
No one knows it—because if you knew it, it would happen of itself in your life. This is subtle; delicate to understand.
Lao Tzu says: Whoever knows—it happens. Between knowing and being there is no gap. In the outer world there are things you first learn; after knowing, you have to practice. In the inner world the rule is unique: there, knowing is enough. Know—and it is. If you understand this—not because I explained, not under Lao Tzu’s influence, not under Jesus’ impact—if you understand in the radiance of your own intelligence; you meditated, you reflected, you looked at life, you went place to place, lifted the veil of nature and tried to see who is victor. Ultimately who wins—the weak or the strong? You sought true strength. You saw the source of real power. You—remember, you. You may see because I show you—that will be borrowed. Under the impact of my words you may see—a dream-vision. Not under my influence. My words should only provoke you to set out and search in life with open eyes—that is enough. The day you see in life that weakness conquers hardness, that woman wins over man, that the humble overcome the arrogant, that the one who has “nothing” defeats the one who has everything, that in a bhikshu you see the hidden emperor—then will you need to practice being weak? What is the point of practice!
It is like this: you were carrying a stone in your hand. Suddenly, life brought you near a mine where diamonds and jewels lay; you saw that what you held was a stone. Will you need to practice letting go? Will you go to a guru and ask how to drop this stone? Is there any practice needed to drop? Practice is needed to hold; dropping happens in a moment. Practice is needed for grasping; letting go just happens. Will you go ask someone? Saying “you will drop it” is not accurate either—it will drop of itself. As soon as you see it is not a diamond, your fingers open.
You have wandered for lives in search of power. You took it for diamond. The day you see that weakness is strength, in that instant the stone will fall. Suddenly you will find everything is changed. No practice is needed. Practice has no purpose then. Just as when you wish to go out you walk through the door. You do not think—where is the door? You do not ask—where is the door? You do not ponder—how to go? You simply go. The door is visible. What to ask? What to think?
If a blind man wants to go out of this room, he will first ask—where is the door? He will grope. He will wonder if the man he asked is trustworthy—what if he is joking, making the blind man bump and fall and laugh at him! Even if told, the blind man will probe with his stick, for many times people have joked. There are people so stony they laugh when a blind man falls. The blind man will think, consider, calculate, test with his stick, approach the door and exit with great arrangement. All this is because he cannot see. If he could see, he would not ask anyone. No need at all.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: ‘No one knows it; no one can bring it into practice.’
Because until you know, how can you practice? And once you know, there is no need to practice—it will come into practice by itself. Thus the essential thing is to know. Knowledge itself is revolution. But knowledge must not be secondhand, stale; only then is it knowledge. It must be one’s own, original, directly known, pratyaksha—not paroksha—not someone else’s telling. Otherwise you will remain blind. However much the Vedas proclaim that only Brahman is—who knows, someone may be joking. People joke with the blind. Who knows—those who wrote the Vedas may themselves have been deluded? How to trust? The Upanishads shout—you do not trust. Trust will come only when you see, when you have a glimpse. And if you want that glimpse, set the Vedas and Upanishads aside. Only then one day will the Vedas and Upanishads become true for you. You can be a witness to their truth, not a follower. If you accept them and proceed, you will never arrive. If you set them aside and proceed, you will surely arrive. And one day you will testify: the Upanishads speak true.
Principles cannot be learned from scriptures; scriptures contain principles. They can only be learned from life. There is no substitute for the scripture of life. The day you know from life, that day all scriptures will be true for you. And note, I say all scriptures.
So long as you proceed by believing scriptures, if the Veda is true then the Quran will be false; if the Quran is true the Veda will be false, the Bible false; if the Bible is true, the Dhammapada will be false. Proceed by scripture and you will be a Hindu, or a Muslim, or a Christian, or a Jain, or a Buddhist, or a Sikh—not religious.
The day you read the scripture of life—no one owns that scripture. It is neither Hindu nor Muslim. The day you read life’s scripture, you will testify that the Quran speaks true, the Bible speaks true, the Veda speaks true, the Upanishads speak true. For you have now learned life’s language. Sanskrit can no longer deceive, Arabic cannot hide. Whether the truth is said in Arabic or Sanskrit or Hebrew—makes no difference. You have learned it from life. In whatever tongue, in whatever form, you will recognize it. You have known the taste of water; now whether the water is of Manasarovar or of Kaaba—no matter. You know the taste. You will sip and know; your lips have learned the flavor. Then all scriptures become true.
As long as for you one scripture is true and another false, understand—you are avoiding the scripture of life. The scripture of life is the source from which all scriptures are born, from where all the wise bring tidings. You too must bring tidings from that source. There is no other way.
‘Therefore the sages say: He who absorbs the world’s insults becomes the guardian of the state. He who takes the world’s sins upon himself becomes the emperor of the world. Straight words appear crooked.’
When someone abuses you, you can do two things. One, what you usually do: when someone abuses you, you abuse back. If he appears stronger, you abuse within while smiling without. If he appears weaker, you abuse aloud.
In a small school a priest was teaching children that one must forgive, forgiveness is a great virtue. When someone abuses you, forgive. He then asked a small boy: Do you understand? The boy said: I understand completely. Those older than me I forgive very easily; but to forgive those younger than me is impossible.
I easily forgive the strong; to forgive the weak is impossible. To forgive the weak is impossible; the strong you do forgive—because of the hassle. But the day you forgive the weak, a transformation happens in your life.
So one behavior is to abuse back—either aloud or within.
I have heard: in the First World War, a simple soldier was decorated for bravery. An ordinary soldier was made a major. One day he was walking with a general; all the soldiers saluted. Each time he heard the salute he murmured softly: The same to you. The general was puzzled. He said: Why do you keep saying, “The same to you”? You salute outwardly and whisper, “The same to you”? He said: You don’t know what they are saying within. I know; I was a soldier. Inside they are abusing; outwardly they salute. So I whisper: the same for you. I know their real state; I’ve been a soldier.
This is the natural behavior of man: if someone abuses, he abuses back—if not outwardly, then inwardly. Otherwise he feels restless.
Lao Tzu says: when someone abuses you, drink it; do not answer. Do not react outwardly or inwardly.
Lao Tzu says something so profound that if you can do it, you will be astonished to see how much energy you have wasted till now. When you silently drink someone’s abuse, it strengthens you, empowers you. First, you save all the energy you would have spent in abusing back—being angry, agitated, restless. And second, the energy he hurled toward you through his abuse—you absorb it, you assimilate it. By abusing, he has become weaker; by abusing, he has become small, shriveled. You assimilate his abuse; you become stronger. Though the world will say: how weak this man is—people abuse him and he does not even reply! They will call you weak. But if you ask the scripture of life—you are becoming strong.
Upon Lao Tzu’s words a whole discipline developed—jujutsu, judo, aikido—by many names this science evolved in China and Japan. Not only for abuse—Lao Tzu says: even when someone hits you with a fist, drink his fist. A punch is pure energy; do not throw it back—absorb it, assimilate it, accept it. As if someone has offered a gift—drink it. Those who practice jujutsu rightly—it is very difficult, for it is utterly against the whole arrangement of your life: if someone hits you, drink his energy—such events occur that the weakest person can throw the strongest flat on his back—only by drinking his energy.
Now, in the West there is a great movement among women. In all big cities there are classes in jujutsu—especially for women. In the movement for women’s freedom—since a woman cannot fight with men in any other way, if she learns jujutsu, even your wrestler cannot defeat a woman.
The art of drinking energy. The other hurls a fist—give your body a space for it. Do not become hard; do not harden your bones—otherwise they will break. Drink it. Allow his fist to fall as upon a pillow—and the pillow yields. Make your body a yielding pillow. You will suddenly find a deep current of energy has entered your body—and the other has grown weaker. Let him rain ten or five blows and let him weaken. They say that if for three minutes someone remains in the state of jujutsu, even the strongest will pant and collapse of his own accord.
And this is no tale. Millions practice jujutsu in Japan and China. Now the trend is spreading in the West. I too feel women everywhere should learn this art. Otherwise women will never become strong. A woman’s strength is in her weakness. If humankind is ever to see women free, Lao Tzu will be their guru—no other. For Lao Tzu has taught the art: how weakness is strength. Then no one can rape a woman. A woman who knows jujutsu—no one can rape her. Goons cannot attack a woman who knows jujutsu.
It is a unique art. Now much work is being done in the West, and scientists are agreeing: it is true. For a punch means the man is gathering considerable energy in his body and throwing it. Do not return it; assimilate it. Drink it. Let it sink. Digest it.
‘He who absorbs the world’s insults becomes the guardian of the state.’
He alone is the protector of society. The saint is the society’s security. Wherever a society lives under a saint, it lives in great safety. The saint is like a vast tree—beneath which there is shade; in whose shadow you may sit. No one can shake that shadow; there will always be a shower of coolness there. For he has learned the alchemy of transforming the world’s insults into peace; the world’s anger into love.
This is the true alchemy. You have heard of alchemy and of alchemists—who try to turn iron into gold. Do not think they try to turn iron into gold. Iron and gold are symbols. Iron is anger; gold is love. Iron is unconsciousness; gold is awakening. Iron is hate, jealousy, envy; gold is compassion. Turning iron into gold means only this: whatever the world gives you—even if it throws thorns—within you there should be the art by which the thorns become flowers.
And this is an art. If you do not fight; if you accept; if you accept with wonder; if you accept even an abuse with a sense of wonder—that surely there must be a secret behind this too, surely some hidden mystery. And if existence has arranged such that abuse comes, existence knows more than we do. He who gave birth, who gave life, certainly knows more than we. Existence is far greater than us. In this moment it has sent abuse—there must be some secret, some hidden thing. Let us not be impatient. Let us accept. Then you will find fragrance of joy arising even in sorrow. And compassion will be born even out of anger. Within you every thorn becomes a flower. Firebrands are thrown, but within you all becomes cool.
‘He who absorbs the world’s insults becomes the guardian of the state. He who takes the world’s sins upon himself becomes the emperor of the world.’
Wherever anything evil is happening, wherever sin is—he who feels responsible, who understands that his hand is in it, who takes it upon himself—that one becomes the protection, that one is the emperor. Those on thrones are not emperors. Emperors are those whom you may never even find. Emperors are those who have taken your sins upon themselves, who have arranged the cooling of the fire of your sins within themselves, who are the process of your purification.
Christians believe about Jesus that he took upon himself the sins of the whole world—absorbed them upon his cross. All the suffering that should have come to the world because of sin—he bore in that one moment upon the cross.
This is significant. This is what a saint means. Because of this many symbols spread in the world. Symbols slowly become meaningless.
You sin; you go bathe in the Ganges. The symbol is precious, for a tirtha means a place where your sin is taken away. Originally, people did not go to the Ganges for bathing, but because saints dwelt on her banks. The Ganges later became important as symbol. Whether saints remained or not, the Ganges became important. But because saints dwelt there, the Ganges became a tirtha.
To go to a saint means: there is someone who will turn your iron into gold, who is like a philosopher’s stone—paras. His touch will transform you, will turn your distortion into virtue. He will transform your lowness. He will make your downward energy upward. The meaning of the saint’s touch is only this: he will take your sorrow, your pains, your sin, your darkness—and give you light. A saint can take your sin because he knows the art of turning sin into virtue. You think you gave him your sin—but the saint knows the art of extracting virtue from everything. Your sin becomes virtue in the saint. You become light, and the saint fills you with virtue.
What does this mean? Its secret meaning is only this: as iron is drawn to a magnet—and if it remains by the magnet long enough, the iron too acquires magnetism—just this much. This is the meaning of satsang—being near a saint: if you remain near for a little while…
Remaining is difficult, for your habit of sin will tell you to go away. Remaining is difficult, for the saint will transform you and your ego will obstruct. Remaining is difficult, for your intellect holds many doctrines; the saint will break all your doctrines. You will be annoyed, angry. Your beliefs will be shattered. The idols you thought divine—he will call them stones. You will be uneasy. Your intellect will not agree. Your ego will refuse. Your whole personality will demand sin. And your old life-pattern will pull you back.
Therefore, remaining near a saint is hard. If someone remains—to remain needs great patience, great capacity, the art of waiting, the capacity to avoid haste and judgment—if someone remains near a saint, slowly-slowly, even if he does nothing, only remains, lets the saint meet him within and soak in, lets his energy unite with the saint’s—if even a little touch happens—then, as the story of paras says, it turns iron into gold. Such a stone does not exist; it is a tale. But the saint has such a paras. The saint is such a paras.
Lao Tzu says: ‘He is the emperor of the world.’
And then he says: ‘These straight, simple words appear crooked.’
For you seek the emperor upon a throne; he is not there—the throne is empty. There sit corpses, sinners, murderers. You look in capitals—he is not there. You look among rulers—he is not there. You look among the powerful—he is not there. The saint is fluid, like water; vaporous, invisible. You will have to search deeply. And you will have to seek in places you never thought of. He might be your neighbor—and you never looked there. For can one ever see a saint in one’s neighbor? Impossible!
I have lived in many towns. People come from far corners of the world, but the neighbor does not come. I have learned this rule: it is a sure rule. I lived eight years in one house. The gentleman who lived right above me never came to meet me. Almost every day we met on the stairs or the road. We exchanged greetings. That too I had to initiate. He never took even that risk—greeting first. After eight years—he was a college principal; he was transferred—when I came to speak in his town, he heard me. He came weeping and said: What a misfortune—that I lived for eight years right over your head! I said: That is why it was hard to come to the feet. You were on the head—coming to the feet becomes very difficult. Never mind—late or soon, you have come; it’s not too late. Coming now is fine.
I have lived in many cities of the land. And I was amazed—then I took it as a principle: the neighbor will not come. He cannot. For in your neighbor—and God? Impossible! While you are there—and in your neighbor? Impossible!
Even the straightest facts look crooked because of your crooked mind. God is in the neighbor. And not that He is not in you—He is in you too. But you can neither accept Him in your neighbor nor in yourself. God is not hiding far away in some sky; He is hidden in the little events of life here. God is not a truth you will one day finally unveil; truth is hidden within every fact. The fact is only the veil; lift it a little and truth will begin to be found right there.
Lao Tzu has lifted the garments from many facts. And this is a most profound fact: in life, be soft, then you will be alive. If you are hard, you are dead. Be weak, and only then will you remain strong. Become strong, and you will have lost yourself. He who saves himself will lose; he who loses himself utterly and becomes completely weak—surely Ram is his. The strength of the weak is Ram!
Enough for today.