Tao Upanishad #125

Lao Tzu is not an idealist. This is his ideal. Understand this fundamental point first.

An idealist is one who, beyond the spontaneity of life and above nature, even against nature, fixes some ideal; one who tells man, “You should be such and such”; one who does not accept man as he is; one who creates a duality within man’s life. As you are, you are condemned; only when you become something else will you be acceptable. ‘Ideal’ means a seed of conflict in man’s life. ‘Ideal’ means a deep condemnation of man’s nature, and the fabrication—somewhere far away in the sky—of an image of what man ought to be.

Lao Tzu is not an idealist. Lao Tzu accepts human nature in its completeness. He does not say to you, “You should become this or that.” He says, “Drop the race of becoming.” As long as you desire to be other than you are, you will remain in trouble. Become what you are. Do not run—accept yourself.

Nature is the ultimate consummation; there is nothing beyond it. Beyond it is only the mind’s blind race, imaginations, and rainbow-bridges of dreams that no one has ever fulfilled—nor can ever fulfill—because they are in their very essence impossible. What is an ideal if it is not impossible! The very life of the ideal is its impossibility. There lies its appeal, its charm. The ego becomes eager about the ideal precisely because it is impossible; it is like Gaurishankar—a peak one can almost never climb. And even if someone were to climb Gaurishankar, no one ever climbs an ideal. The nearer you come, the more your ego raises the ideal higher. Hence you never arrive; the distance between you and your ideal remains always the same as before—on the last day too, it is the same distance.

The idealist hacks at himself, breaks himself to fit some image his imagination has fixed. Thus he becomes fractured, corrupted. The image dreamed of is never constructed; but the image nature gave him certainly becomes shattered and in ruins. You do not become a Paramatma; even your humanity is lost. You fail to become what you wanted; and what you were is lost as well. In your hands remains nothing but sorrow.

All idealists die unhappy because they die unsuccessful. If you examine the lives of idealists closely, you will not find men more tense than they. They turn every small thing into a problem; they entirely forget the art of living. They behave toward life as toward an enemy, not a friend.

It so happened I was a guest at one of Vinoba’s ashrams, in Bodh Gaya. I don’t know how they invited me. The young woman assigned to my meals and care, an ashram resident, appeared deeply sad to me, like a corpse. After a day or two I asked her, “Why are you so sad?” She began to weep, as if I had touched a wound. She told me her whole story.

She said, “I am a great sinner. None more criminal than I. I am dying pressed beneath my sin.” I asked, “What sin could you have committed? You haven’t yet lived long enough to have sinned so much. Tell me.” She said, “I joined the Bhoodan movement; Vinoba gave me the vow of Brahmacharya. I could not manage it. I fell in love with a young man. He too had taken the vow of Brahmacharya. So love began to feel like sin to us, for it was love through which the vow was breaking. We were filled with self-condemnation, guilt. We both prayed before Vinoba-ji, ‘Please suggest some way; we are in great difficulty. We cannot leave love, and we are not ready to break the vow either, for that would be sorrow for a lifetime. We are tangled in midstream.’

“First Vinoba was angered—for talk of breaking a vow is bitter to saintly men. Seeing no other way, he said, ‘Then get married.’ We were happy. Our marriage took place. We went to receive his blessings. He blessed us and, while blessing, said, ‘Now do this—since you are married, take a lifelong vow of Brahmacharya, both of you.’ Thunderous applause! A vast assembly. Vinoba’s flow of speech, the impact of his personality! Our hearts hesitated—‘Again the same trouble!’ But the ego arose. And in front of such a crowd, how could we refuse to take the vow of Brahmacharya? The ego lifted its head. Love was suppressed. Nature was suppressed under the moment’s impact. The gazes of so many people work greatly to inflate the ego. ‘What will people say—that Vinoba told us, and we could not take the vow!’ So both of us took the vow.”

“Then an even more terrible struggle began. Now we had become husband and wife. Until then we had been apart; now we were in one house. Now a twenty-four-hour state of conflict with nature began. At night,” she said, “he slept in one room, I in another. He would lock his door and throw the key through the window into my room, lest in some unconscious flow, in some surge of impulse, the vow be broken.”

“Could we sleep? Could we be at peace? Restlessness went on growing. I began to have hysterical fits. The young man could no longer bear this state, and set off on padayatra. When I came, my husband was not present. Still I cannot understand how the mistake could be Vinoba’s. How can saintly men make a mistake? They are always lifting you upward. If there is a mistake, it must be mine!”

She was filling herself with self-condemnation, thinking many times of suicide—lest the vow break; better to erase oneself. Can such a girl attain peace, meditation, Samadhi? The simple naturalness of life is destroyed. No doorway remains. She will only fill with guilt, will rot. Will the soul be born in her? Even her body has died.

Those who lead you against nature are enemies. And if there is a Paramatma, He is attained by flowing with nature, not by going against it. If there is Brahmacharya, its flower blossoms only through understanding of desire, not by fighting desire.

‘Idealist’ means one who thrusts you into a struggle against your nature. Once you are trapped, coming out of that net is almost impossible. The net is such that even to you it will seem perfectly right. What fault can there be in Brahmacharya? What is more beautiful than Brahmacharya? What more filthy than lust? Lust is dirt, Brahmacharya is a flower! But remember, the lotus blooms in the mud. Granted lust is mud, but the lotus cannot bloom against the mud. And granted Brahmacharya is a lotus, it arises only from the mud. The lotus is a transformation of the mud. The lotus is mud blossomed into its own perfect naturalness; what was hidden in the mud is revealed.

The idealist sets the mud and the lotus to fight. The moment the fight begins, you remain mud; the lotus will never be born—because the lotus is the very flow of the mud, it comes from the mud. Between mud and lotus there is no enmity; there is a deep friendship. From lust blossoms the lotus of Brahmacharya. The lotus of compassion arises out of anger. Renunciation is the essence of enjoyment. The Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhunjitha. Only those renounce who have enjoyed. If you never enjoy, how will you renounce? If you have not known enjoyment, how will you know renunciation? Renunciation is far off; enjoyment is the path; renunciation is the goal. If you drop the path, how will you reach the goal?

So there are two kinds of people in the world. And great discretion is needed in choosing, otherwise you will get caught in some net or other. One kind we can call idealists. Of the hundred famous figures, ninety-nine belong here. Ninety-nine great men are idealists. They have made the earth into hell. It is by treading in their footprints that you have gone astray. But the mathematics is such that you never understand that the ‘mahatma’ drowned you; you think you drowned yourself because you did not obey the mahatma. In truth, it is by obeying that you drowned. Yet logic inside will insist, “Had we obeyed and attained Brahmacharya, how could we have drowned? We drowned because we did not obey!”

This is a complex net. Complex because your mind says, “Had we done exactly what the mahatma said, and still not reached, then he would be at fault. We did not do it fully—how could we reach?” And what he told you was of such a sort that it cannot be done. Hence the net is terrible.

The mahatma said, “Fight against nature.” How will you fight? You are a puppet of nature. Every hair is of nature, every heartbeat, every breath. The very energy with which you go to fight is of nature. The Paramatma is hidden in nature. The Paramatma is no enemy of nature; He is hidden in it—its innermost form. If nature is the temple, the Paramatma is the installed deity within that very temple.

When you set yourself to do the impossible, a cruel net is born: the impossible is never fulfilled; and since it is not fulfilled, how will you say that what was told to you was wrong? It will feel as if you did not accomplish it because of your weakness. You will then fill with self-condemnation, with blame, begin to loathe yourself, see yourself as a mine of sin. What a strange thing—mahatmas do not give you the soul; they pollute your soul.

I do not call them mahatmas. For me the definition of a mahatma is: through whom you become available to your soul. Lao Tzu, in my sense, is a mahatma. Perhaps once in a hundred, a great man like Lao Tzu appears who accepts nature and, in that deep acceptance, finds the thread by which you, slowly, without entering any impossible process, arrive at the goal. And a guru is one who gives you such a path as—with ease and simplicity—brings near life’s ultimate conclusion.

You will be surprised, because the ‘ideals’ Lao Tzu suggests do not look like ideals to you at all. Lao Tzu does not talk of Brahmacharya, because he knows that if you learn spontaneity and live desire naturally, Brahmacharya will arise on its own. There is no need to preach it. Brahmacharya is talked about precisely where it fails to flower. There it is praised and glorified. That very praise is smoke, beneath which a hidden desire lies. And people struggle all their lives and attain nothing. Yet you do not wake up.

Mahatma Gandhi strove all his life for Brahmacharya; to the end he did not attain it. Still you do not wake up. And if Gandhi could not, do you think you will? Does it not occur to you that you cannot labor as he labored? Tireless labor—there was no lack in his effort. But just labor does not bring the goal closer; the direction must also be right. However fast you run, you do not reach by running alone. Sometimes one who walks slowly arrives, if the direction is correct; and a runner goes astray, if the direction is wrong. In truth, if the direction is wrong, better to go slowly; running you will go too far. If the direction is wrong, best to sit still. Do not hasten to run, or you will have to make the labor of returning.

Gandhi labored greatly. His endeavor, in itself, is unique. Few have labored so. But because of that labor, nothing was attained. Gandhi was an honest man; thousands of your mahatmas are not even that honest. What Gandhi did not attain, he confessed he did not attain. Your mahatmas do not confess. They go on declaring they have attained what they have not, what they have not even smelled. Gandhi is honest, but wrong. One does not become right merely through honesty. Honesty is good in itself. Therefore I have hope that in a next birth Gandhi will take the right road, because the thread of honesty is in his hands. Your mahatmas will wander for many births; even honesty is not with them.

Gandhi confessed that even at seventy years of age he had nocturnal emissions. And so it will be. The fault is not of desire; the fault is Gandhi’s fighting against desire. Whatever you fight will surround your dreams. What you struggle with all day—by day you can struggle, for the conscious mind is at work. But at night the conscious mind goes to sleep; the mind that took the vow, the resolve, goes to sleep. Another mind awakens at night, one that knows nothing of your vows. At night the natural mind awakens. The cultural, social, civilized mind is fatigued—it sleeps. It is very small, a tenth part of your mind; it tires quickly—stops with the day’s work and affairs. At night the other mind awakens—nine times bigger—the mind of nature. It knows nothing of your being a mahatma, nothing of your vow of Brahmacharya; it has never heard the news. There is a great distance between your conscious and unconscious; news does not reach, there is no channel of communication. And you do not know how to convey it. Is fighting any arrangement for communication? To convey news means conscious and unconscious come near. Fighting increases distance. With whom you fight, the distance from him increases. Can there be closeness with an enemy?

The gap between Gandhi’s conscious and unconscious is greater than yours; a vast distance! He threw the unconscious far away as if it had nothing to do with him. There is fear and enmity with it; it is the very cause through which desire grasps the mind again and again. At night, the conscious mind sleeps; the unconscious awakens. This unconscious knows nothing of being a mahatma, nothing of civilization or culture; it is natural—like animals, ordinary people, birds. Its desire is untouched, indomitable; it will rise and weave dreams. What you could not live awake, the unconscious will live in sleep via dreams. Nocturnal emission is natural.

Ninety-nine out of a hundred of your mahatmas will be afflicted by it. But who will speak? Who will take the trouble? They will not agree either. Gandhi was honest; he acknowledged it. In that very acknowledgement lies his possibility of transformation in future births. But Gandhi will leave behind followers; they will fall into great difficulty—near a state we might call almost derangement.

Now Gandhi says, ‘There is a vow of non-taste—do not taste!’ The argument seems to you sound: what is there in taste? Food—what’s in food? Voices of condemnation carry long reasonings; what is there in food? Anyone can condemn food. It strikes you too, for sometimes you overeat; the stomach aches; weight increases; fat accumulates; illnesses come. You feel you are suffering by overeating. You say, “What is there in this taste? A touch upon the tongue, and the taste is gone. And life long the same repetition.” So—non-taste is a vow! Do not taste! Eat without taste!

Now you are in trouble. How will this be? How will you eat without taste? And the more you try to eat without taste, the more intense the craving for taste becomes.

To ruin his meal Gandhi kept neem-chutney beside him. Is there such a thing as chutney of neem! But for one who has taken the vow of non-taste, it is useful. Yet neem-chutney is also a taste; it is bitter taste. With it you can kill taste, but you cannot attain non-taste. It is a trick to conceal, a way to ruin food. Remember: bad taste is not non-taste; it is taste. But if you keep eating neem-chutney, food’s taste will be spoiled; how will you attain non-taste?

Still, disciples are found even for such things. And then there is the aura of a majestic personality. Louis Fischer came from America to meet Gandhi. He too was served chutney with meals. Sitting together, he saw Gandhi relish it. He tasted it. How was he to know it was neem! It was bitter poison. His whole mouth was ruined. But how to tell Gandhi? Here is the trouble. Gandhi was taking the chutney with delight; each morsel of other food, he mixed with chutney. Louis Fischer thought it must be some Indian custom, some esoteric thing—if so great a mahatma does it, there must be a secret. Best not to make a fuss, not to say anything. Westerners, in this sense, are considerate—respect the other’s culture; there must be a meaning, a religious significance; Gandhi would not do it without purpose. But he saw: if I mix this chutney with food, the entire meal will be spoiled; there will be a gagging. So he thought, “Better to gulp this chutney down at one go—let the nuisance happen once—and then eat peacefully.” He gulped it. Gandhi said, “Bring more chutney. It seems Louis Fischer liked it very much.”

This is how disciples get trapped. They gulp down the entire chutney to save face. But there is no saving. Louis Fischer, such an intelligent man, did not have the courage to say, “I will not eat this.” The impact of great men looks like a kind of slavery—as if you were a slave, as if you had lost inner discrimination—whatever influential figures do must be right. Often, influential people go wrong, because the source of their impact is ego. They have decorated their ego well; sometimes it shows through. History will forget even that.

A disciple of Gandhi came to me—Swami Anand, you may have heard his name. We slept in the same place one night. He told me: when Gandhi first returned to India from Africa, he worked as Gandhi’s press reporter. Gandhi gave a speech in which he used crude, abusive words against the English—words people did not expect from Gandhi. In his report, Anand dropped those crude words, thinking Gandhi had said them in excitement and would later regret it. The next day, Gandhi read the report, called Anand, patted his back, and said, “You did right; this is how it should be. What slipped out in excitement need not be carried to the public. A reporter should be like you!”

Swami Anand was impressed and happy. He told me to show how Gandhi praised him. I said to him, “Had I been in Gandhi’s place, my relationship with you would have ended that day—because you spread falsehood. If Gandhi used abusive words, they should be in the report. You are dishonest, and your Gandhi too is dishonest who patted your back and said you did right.” For Gandhi it seemed right: in moments of excitement, when the guard of the ego is not on duty, things slip out. But they are real—otherwise from where would they come? They were inside, hence the outburst. Unguarded moment—Gandhi was not on guard, swept away in speech. But that is the reality. If it were not inside, how would it come out? You spread a lie. I said, “Think: had Gandhi not abused, and you had added abuses in the report, what would he say? Would he pat your back? He would dismiss you at once: ‘How did you add lies?’”

If abuses are not said and you add them, it is a lie; and if abuses are said and you remove them, is it not a lie? A negative lie. Why not keep Gandhi’s image straight and true? Later, history will write that Gandhi never used an abusive word against the English. And Gandhi’s image will be false; then people will be inspired and misled by that.

Gandhi used to say he had no great attachment to politics. But against Subhas he put up Pattabhi Sitaramayya for election. Then a slip occurred: Subhas won, Pattabhi lost, and Gandhi let slip, “This is my defeat. Pattabhi’s defeat is my defeat”—then Pattabhi’s victory would have been Gandhi’s victory. Not impartial! There was full planning—skillful politics—to defeat Subhas. But such facts get erased gradually.

In the last part of his life, Gandhi himself began to suspect that a lifetime of Brahmacharya had brought no essence; toward the end he turned toward Tantra—the very Tantra I am speaking of. I am abused for it—let it be. Gandhi’s whole life says that in the end he remembered: he had wasted his life. Brahmacharya is not attained like this! There are other ways to attain it. He turned to Tantra. But the disciples panicked; they had followed him all their lives because of Brahmacharya—he was the great Brahmachari. They too had taken vows. “Now what is happening!”

You will be surprised: that part of Gandhi’s life the disciples have dropped; they do not mention it. In Gandhi’s biographies, that part is omitted. Thus a false image is made. After a lifetime of experience, Gandhi’s feeling that perhaps in Tantra there is a way to Brahmacharya is a declaration that the path of struggle leads nowhere—not even for a great man like Gandhi; how then for you?

But Gandhi’s disciples caught him by the neck when he experimented with Tantra. Disciples began to leave. Among the disciples it spread: “This man has gone wrong, fallen at the end.” Those very disciples are now great Gandhians, who in the end abandoned him. Later power came into the hands of Gandhi’s disciples; those who left returned. Now they are great Gandhians. But at the final moment they all opposed him, because he was doing something beyond their understanding. Gandhi slept beside a naked young woman for a year. This was alarming to them.

But even that experiment could not go deep for Gandhi, because of lifelong conditioning, a lifetime’s notions. He gave that experiment his own definition—it did not remain Tantra. He took from Tantra, his attention turned there; but he defined it in his way. Thus truths are distorted. He said, “I do not do this Tantra-experiment to attain anything; it is only a test. I want to examine whether Brahmacharya has reached deep in me or not. If a naked girl sleeps by me at night, does desire arise in my mind? I am examining that.”

If desire does not arise, why examine? Is there any need of a test? When you do not have a headache, do you go to a doctor and ask, “Please examine whether I have a headache”? When it is not there, you know it; when it is there, you know it too. If the whole world says, “You have no headache,” and you have it—what difference will the certificate make? Who can know your headache but you? No one can. Your head, your ache. Is any test needed to know whether it is there? When desire is in your mind, do you need to ask anyone whether it is there?

He did a Tantra experiment, but by explaining it in his own way he ruined it. Gandhi died unsuccessful regarding Brahmacharya. But in this Gandhi is not to blame. He labored sufficiently; the road was wrong. His labor is worthy of reverence, but his direction was deluded. He had to go east; he started west. He ran a lot, exhausted himself, left nothing undone—but the direction was wrong.

Lao Tzu moves by accepting nature. He does not ask you to become some ideal person; he asks you to become ordinary—that is enough. Not extraordinary—just ordinary. Become so ordinary that no one is aware of you and you are aware of no one. Become so ordinary that there is no quarrel, no struggle in your life. When thirsty, drink water. And when thirsty, what need to drink water “without taste”? Drink with full taste! But turn taste into gratitude toward the Divine—into thankfulness. If you are to eat, eat with taste!

Remember, religious preachers tell people that to take taste in food is like animals. They are utterly wrong. Animals do not taste their food at all; only man does. It is man’s dignity and height. Animals do not taste food. Their eating is mechanical. Let a buffalo loose—a bundle of grass is tied there; she eats that same grass, choosing and rejecting none. Does she taste? Never imagine it. No animal takes taste in food. They eat absolutely without taste; the question of taste does not arise. Hence animals go on eating the same food continually, never changing. Where there is taste, there is change. If you take the same taste every day, you will be bored. The buffalo is never bored—clear proof that there is no taste for her. Try eating the same vegetable every day—today it will be nice, tomorrow ordinary, the day after boredom will arise; on the fourth day you will fling the plate at your wife: “Enough!”

Taste means change. Animals do not change; obviously they have no taste. Eating! Animals are already achieved in non-taste; only in human life does taste arise.

Have you seen animals mating? There is no rasa, no savor for them. Watch two animals mating—you will find no rasa in them. They do it mechanically—as if compelled. After mating, you will not find any peace upon their faces, no expression of joy. They mate, get done, and go their way. Only man can savor intercourse; savor food; savor fragrance. Animals smell more keenly than man, but there is no savor in smell. Have you seen a bird with a flower tucked behind its ear? Or a buffalo bringing a flower close to smell it? Animals’ power of smell is intense—they can smell from miles away—but there is no savor in it. Animals live entirely in non-taste.

In man, taste arises for the first time. It is possible only on higher rungs of consciousness—not on lower rungs. Therefore if you cultivate non-taste you can become like animals, not like the Paramatma. You will be like the Paramatma only when, in your tiny tastes, the supreme Taste begins to descend. Then the rishis of the Upanishads could say: Annam Brahma! Surely these are different men than Gandhi. Gandhi says, “Neem is Brahma,” and the rishis say, “Annam Brahma!” They say, taste—so much taste that out of ordinary food, Brahman is revealed! You drink water, and with such satisfaction that the touch of water at the throat becomes the touch of Brahman! A gust of wind brings the fragrance of a flower. Do not sit there with pinched nose, a mahatma’s pose—for in that fragrance the Paramatma has come toward you. That gust has blown the Paramatma toward you. Do not stiffen like a mahatma and block your nose—non-taste.

No—Lao Tzu does not want to make you ideal; he wants to make you natural. Once in a hundred, a great man wants to make you natural. Why? Because you do not want to be natural. There is no thrill for you in being natural, for there is no struggle there, no gratification of the ego. Therefore among your hundred mahatmas, ninety-nine promise to gratify your ego—the thrill of struggle, the delight of challenge, the pleasure of victory. If not conquering others, then conquer yourself! The mahatmas say, “What is it to conquer another? The real victory is to conquer oneself.” But the flavor of victory remains.

Lao Tzu says, “What is this conquering—of others or of yourself? No need to conquer at all—for conquering means violence, struggle, duality, quarrel, tension, anguish. Whether you conquer the other or yourself, the fight remains.” Lao Tzu says, “Do not fight—accept.”

Those who teach you to fight make an impact upon you, for you stand ready for a fight. If not with others, then with yourself. Without fighting the ego does not form.

Understand this well. I repeat it a thousand times: you are eager for a fight, waiting, searching, “Where can I find one?” Surely, fighting with others is expensive, for the other will not sit idle. Hence the brave fight others; cowards fight themselves. For there is danger in fighting the other; fighting oneself carries no danger—the other part is unarmed. Fighting oneself means you split yourself into two: body and soul—make them fight! Lower nature and higher God—make them fight! Upward-flowing energy and downward-flowing energy—make them fight! You make two parts: the dark side and the light side. This is the full moon; that is the new moon—let the struggle begin! Auspicious-inauspicious, violence-nonviolence, taste-non-taste, desire-Brahmacharya—set them to fight!

The whole game is that you must, somehow, fight with yourself. Fight—and the ego gets formed. Hence the sort of ego your sadhus carry—sharp, keen, edged—is not found in the non-sadhu. The non-sadhu fights others. That fight never concludes; victory is never final—because the other will return prepared. Today he is defeated; tomorrow he comes again. And if this other is defeated, there are thousands of others to defeat you. Fighting others is endless; it will never be decided that you have certainly won. But fighting yourself is very convenient—you mount your own chest.

This is the hardest task in the world, to sit upon your own chest. Think—how will you sit upon your own chest? Yet many have. Those who do are your mahatmas. But even that fight never completes, for upon whose chest you sit, he too is you. You may suppress him for a moment; he will surface today or tomorrow. And remember, whenever a mahatma gets off his own chest, such a devil will spring out as never springs out of an ordinary man—because his devil is utterly fresh, unused. His mahatmaship is stale, second-hand; he has used it fully. But his devil is fresh, untouched; he has not allowed it to be used; it sits inside. Non-taste is exhausted, but the longing for taste sits inside—virgin, fresh. Brahmacharya is decrepit; desire waits to shove Brahmacharya down.

In my observation, if a young man takes a vow of Brahmacharya he may succeed for a few years. But around forty or forty-five, upheaval begins—for the power of Brahmacharya starts to tire, and the youthful strength that was suppressing it also weakens. If your mahatmas fall, they fall around forty-five. At forty-five, beware of mahatmas—for the youth needed for suppression is slackening. Old Brahmacharis fill with desire.

Now the whole thing has turned upside down. In youth being full of desire would have been no harm—it was natural. Had they truly lived and understood desire then, by old age they would have gone beyond it. But in youth, they took pleasure in fighting Brahmacharya; then in old age desire—fresh and untiring—attacks. Hence old men’s minds are dirtier than young men’s. Yes, the mind of an old man is fresh and healthy only if he has lived desire through and gone beyond; tasted taste, and taste has become Brahman; lived lust so that it has naturally transformed into Brahmacharya.

Without experience, there is no purity. Hence Lao Tzu says to you: experience! And simple experience of life—this is for the individual and for society too.

Lao Tzu’s suggestions are deeply natural. No one will listen. My suggestions too are simple and natural. No one will listen. Even if they hear, they will not do—for there is no gratification for the ego. I am teaching becoming a nobody; you want to become somebody. If you cannot be in the world of wealth, be in the world of religion. Look at your Shankaracharyas on their thrones! See their stiffness! The shopkeeper on his stool has a bent back by now; but a Shankaracharya’s spine never bends. The politician running in politics gets tired, sometimes even thinks of religion; but the Shankaracharya is the pure peak of ego.

There is no gratification for your ego in Lao Tzu. And if you can listen to him, the inner Paramatma can be fulfilled within you.

Let us understand Lao Tzu’s sutra.

“A small country with a small population.”

Lao Tzu is not in favor of big nations; nor am I. Big nations are like plagues. The bigger the nation, the greater the violence. The bigger the nation, the greater the politics, the greater the turmoil. The bigger the nation, the greater the terror for others. And a big nation means trying to force people of diverse types, customs, ways of life into one sack. No one will be content.

And what is the attraction of a big state? Gandhi did not want India to be partitioned. Good slogans conceal strange motives. ‘Akhand Bharat’—the Jana Sanghis keep shouting: ‘Undivided India!’ The bigger the state, the greater a politician becomes who sits upon it. The leader of a small country has only as much value as the smallness of the country. No politician wants to make the country small. Pakistan cut even its Muslims in Bangladesh. It is an Islamic state; yet they butchered Muslims in Bangladesh—because if Bangladesh is separate, Pakistan is half-dead that very day. Mr. Bhutto is halved now. The strength is gone. A big country gives big power.

But do not think others are different. In Nagaland, India is doing the same. The Nagas want to be separate. In Kashmir, both Pakistan and India have done the same. Kashmir wants to be separate. Today or tomorrow Tamil Nadu will want to be separate. You will do the same. You too, as Indians, will butcher Indians—just as happened in Bengal. No politician wants the country to grow smaller. A smaller country means the politician becomes small. If the country is the size of a district, the prime minister’s status is not more than a deputy collector. The bigger the country, the greater the spread of ego and its pleasure.

And a big country means there will be violence, because so many different peoples will be forced into one mold. Now there is an effort to make Hindi the national language. This is coercion, for it is not the national language of the whole country. The Tamil loves Tamil, the Telugu loves Telugu, the Bengali loves Bengali, the Marathi loves Marathi. There is nothing wrong in these desires. It is simple that every person wants to speak his mother-tongue, rejoice, sing, create his songs. But one language has to be imposed by force, because the country is big—today or tomorrow. And the quarrel over Hindi will continue. In this way force has to be used in everything. The more diverse the people, the more compulsion there will be. A big country becomes a great war of violence. The attraction of being big is for fighting some great enemy—if you are small, you will be defeated. Being big is for the taste of war.

Lao Tzu says, “Let there be a small country with a small population.” He means: people of one type, speaking one language, one custom—small enough to live like a family. No need for big nations. He is cutting politics at the very root. The politician will not tolerate small countries. He is expansionist, imperialist. The bigger the country, the more his talent is magnified and the higher the peak.

Lao Tzu says, a religious man will want countries to be small—so small that people of one kind can live like a family. A good world will be born only when there are many small countries. Small countries cannot wage big wars. If they fight, it will be a small scuffle—as if a hockey or football match. No great war can happen. Big nations bring world wars. With small nations, at most a petty quarrel—a village versus village. Even that will not be needed if Lao Tzu is heard.

“Where commodities are available tenfold or a hundredfold more than people can spend.”

How can that be? You must understand the difference between need and desire. Then it is possible. Human needs are very few; needs can be fulfilled, for everyone, without hindrance. Desire cannot be fulfilled; not even a single person’s desire can be fulfilled—how then everyone’s?

Desire means: demand for what you do not need. How will it be fulfilled? Need means: a demand for what is required; that can be fulfilled. Food is needed, water is needed, certainly; clothing is needed, a roof is needed—this can be fulfilled. Where is the difficulty? And once this is fulfilled, you can sit beneath a tree and play the flute. Where is the obstacle? The animals fulfill this; the trees fulfill this standing without moving anywhere—will man not be able to fulfill it, who is the peak, the finest creation of life’s evolution?

It can be fulfilled very simply. The earth has been very prosperous; it can be again. What must be stopped is man’s craziness. Some wants are unnecessary. You want the Kohinoor. Will you eat it, drink it—what will you do? If the child falls ill, will you grind the diamond into medicine? When hungry, will the Kohinoor fill your belly? Yet you are ready to go hungry, let the child die—but the Kohinoor must be had. You seem mad. Will you roam with the Kohinoor on your head?

It happened in Japan. There was a great fakir. The emperor was impressed. And when emperors are impressed, they have their language, their style, their madness. He had a velvet robe made, jeweled with priceless stones, and a crown. “The emperor’s guru!” The emperor carried them to the fakir’s hillside where he lived under a bush, and presented them.

The fakir said, “You will be unhappy if I return them; but do not disgrace me.” The emperor asked, “Meaning?” He said, “No one comes here; and from the capital none at all, who can understand these garments and this crown. My friends are wild animals: deer, peacocks—these come and go. They will laugh and mock me, ‘Look, the man has gone mad. What is he wearing!’ Do not disgrace me. I accept, but take them back. This language is useless here. What shall I do with it? The birds will laugh, animals will laugh. It will be a great dishonor.”

He spoke rightly. Animals do not care for diamonds. Is there any lack of beauty in them? When the peacock dances, which Kohinoors can compare? But you have forgotten to dance; now you want the Kohinoor. When the cuckoo sings, what diamond is needed? You have forgotten the song; you want the Kohinoor.

Life can be very simple—just a little understanding. Fulfill needs; otherwise how will you live? How will you sing? How will you dance? How will you give thanks to the Divine? Fulfill needs certainly. But try to understand: need is what is necessary; desire is what is utterly unnecessary—of no use—its only use is that it fattens the ego. The one with the Kohinoor, his ego grows—nothing else.

Desire is what feeds the ego; need is what satisfies the body. Seek satisfaction. Let your nature be fulfilled.

But your mahatmas teach the opposite. They tell you to cut down needs. They tell you to inflate desire till it touches ‘liberation’. The Kohinoor is worth two pennies—attain moksha! What will you do with wealth? Attain the Paramatma. They magnify your desire terribly.

What will you do with the Paramatma? When hungry, will you eat Him? When thirsty, will you drink Him? When your child is ill, will you grind Him upon the stone as medicine? What will you do? What will you do with moksha?

Your so-called mahatmas transport your desires from this earth to another realm; they do not transform them. And if the Kohinoor is obtained—still earthly—a little nuisance; but moksha? That is a greater nuisance. The Kohinoor is at least of this earth; it can be found; where will you find moksha? Now you are even more restless and mad.

So there are madmen for wealth and madmen for religion. In my experience, those mad for wealth can be brought to some understanding; the mad for religion will not even listen—for they already think religion is great.

Certainly, the Paramatma will come into your life—but not like a Kohinoor. He will come like food in hunger, like water in thirst, like a song and a dance in joy. Moksha can be yours; it will be yours when desire drops—for desire is the bondage. Need is freedom; desire is bondage. When you live only by need, you will find you are free.

How small are life’s needs! A little labor fulfills them. And labor too is a need—understand this. With a little labor, needs are met. That labor is necessary as well—without it you become dead. Labor is needed to keep life alive. Desire cannot be fulfilled, and it demands such labor as has no end—that labor itself becomes destructive.

If a man has not had a heart attack by forty, consider his life unsuccessful. Successful men must have it! Only then do they know success. Have you ever seen a beggar having a heart attack? There is no cause. He needs tension. Heart attacks come to those who have accumulated wealth and who thought, “We will now enjoy.” When the time to enjoy arrives, the attack comes. When they reach the post, the attack comes. When everything seems about to be right, they themselves become not-right. When hungry they did not eat—how could they, until the palace was built? Then the palace is built, the food is ready, hunger is gone. Now they cannot eat. In the meantime, they are ruined.

A strange thing: the house gets built; you become a ruin. Wealth is amassed; you become utterly poor. While all the instruments of life are arranged, the very musician who was to draw music dies. The sitar stands ready; the musician dies.

Needs are very few. One who discerns clearly what is need and what is desire—I call him wise. He may not know the Vedas or have read the Upanishads—no need. Do you not have the intelligence needed for this small thing? Everyone does. The Paramatma has given everyone that much. You do not use it. You are cunning with yourself. You deceive yourself. It is so simple. No great mathematics is needed to see what is desire and what is need.

Fulfill need—do not cut it. And check desire at the first step. For later it is hard to stop. If the race catches you, the tide rises, a fever comes—then stopping is hard. Stop at the first step, with understanding. Do not ask for useless things, for having them, what will you do? Meaningful is only that which gives contentment. Then you will find the flute of peace begins to play in life.

Lao Tzu says, “Where commodities are tenfold, a hundredfold.” If people live by needs, the supply is a thousandfold. There is more water than your thirst. There is more food than your hunger. There can be more clothes than needed to cover your body—no hindrance. But if you want to cover the body of desire, all the clothes in the world will not clothe even that one body of your desire. Strip the whole world; still you will remain naked—your desire’s body will not be covered. Recognize this. This is the beginning of revolution.

“People give value to their lives, and do not travel far.”

Lao Tzu says: give value to life. It is your great good fortune that you are alive. Nothing else is valuable; life is valuable. Do not be ready to lose life for anything, for nothing is more precious than life.

But you are ready to lose life for anything. Someone abuses you—you are ready, “Now life may go!” What has the man done? For one abuse, you are ready to throw away life? “We will earn wealth even if life goes!”

Thieves broke into Mulla Nasruddin’s house, put a gun to his chest, and said, “Give us the key—or life!” Mulla said, “Take the life; I cannot give the key.” The thieves were astonished: “Think a little—what are you saying?” He said, “Life I got free; for the safe I worked hard. Take life; the key I cannot give. The safe I have saved for old age. Take life; that will do; the safe—impossible!”

Consider where you are throwing life—sometimes for money, sometimes for position, reputation. Life seems to you to have been given free. What is most precious you throw away anywhere. There is nothing more valuable—yet you toss it away as if you do not know what you are throwing. And what trash will you gather by losing life?

People come to me. I say, “Meditate.” They say, “No time.” What are they saying? They are saying: no time for life. “Love!” No time. When will there be time? When you die? Will you then say, “I died; now how to meditate?”

You have no time for life. Do you ever sit for two moments as if there is no work? Do you ever pick up the flute and play? Or, doing nothing, sit and play with your children? Doing nothing, lie down beneath a tree, let the sun come, the shade pass—just lying there, doing nothing? No—you will say, “Where is the time?” Then you will never hear life’s music. For it is heard only by those who are in deep leisure, whom work does not make busy.

And work need not make you busy, if you live by needs. Busyness comes from desire. Two loaves earned—enough. You will find leisure then to live life. Otherwise, in the scramble morning becomes evening, life is spent. Only at death do you realize: “Ah! I too was alive! I could do nothing. The great opportunity slipped.”

“People give value to their lives,” says Lao Tzu. And he says a very unique thing: “And do not travel far.”

Why do people travel far? Long journeys are devices to avoid the inner journey. Instead of going within, they go here and there. Off to Kashi. Where are you going? “On pilgrimage.” Go within—Kashi is there. Off to the Kaaba. “Going for the Hajj.” Go within—there is the Kaaba. There is Mohammed too, Krishna too, Buddha too—there the supreme form of your life resides. There the Purushottam sits.

Lao Tzu says: do not travel far; do not wander here and there. Outer travel wastes time; there is no chance for the inner journey. And what will you do going there? Birds sing the same songs there; trees blossom with the same flowers; the sky is the same, the stars the same.

People come to me traveling around the world. “Just one day here—then Nepal.” “Why have you come?” “Just to come—London to here; from here to Nepal.” “From Nepal, where?” “To Kabul.” “Will you go on and on like this? Will you stop anywhere?” “No—long have I desired to go to Nepal. Long have I desired to come to you. Desire fulfilled—now going.” You will reach Nepal—what will you get there? The sky is the same everywhere; moon and stars the same; the same people; the same colors, forms, the same world. Even on other moons and stars, if men are there, all will be the same. Where do you want to go?

Lao Tzu says, “Let there be boats and carriages, but none to ride them. Let there be armor and weapons, but no occasion to display them. For counting, let people begin again to tie knots in ropes.”

Arithmetic has harmed people much. Think: if you could only count on your fingers, or tie knots in cords, how much wealth could you desire? How many knots will you tie? You will get tired. Arithmetic has made a great convenience: lakhs, crores—whatever you wish. Arithmetic has given vast speed to desire. For living, fingers suffice. No great numbers are needed. For desire, they do not suffice. Desire needs vast numbers, vast spread. Every number falls short; desire exceeds all numbers.

Lao Tzu says, let people begin again to tie knots on ropes—for arithmetic makes people cunning.

In truth, all education makes people cunning. A learned man and simple-hearted—this is rare. Education makes a man crooked, smart, crafty. Education gives the art: how to exploit others for one’s desires.

Lao Tzu says, let people become uneducated again—for education has given nothing. People lost their lives in education and gained nothing.

“For counting, let people begin again to tie knots in ropes. Let them savor their food.”

Have you heard any mahatma say: “Let them savor their food”?

“Let them make their garments beautiful.”

Have you heard any mahatma say so?

“Let them be content with their homes. Let them enjoy their customs.”

Lao Tzu says: make everything simple; nothing is lost by it. Take taste in your food—what is lost? If you do not take taste in food, that repressed craving will seek taste somewhere else; and that taste will make you unnatural; it will lead you into perversion. Take natural taste; do not leave room for unnatural taste. Take savor in small things—that has meaning. Take savor in bathing—also a unique experience, if you are present. The falling stream of water, beneath a cascade; in a flowing river, the flowing touch of water, its cool caress.

If you are present, willing to savor, small things are brimming with rasa—who then bothers about moksha? Only those worry about moksha whose lives have lost taste everywhere. Who worries about temples and mosques? Be content in your little home—that is the temple. Contentment is the temple. Make your small home a temple—be content. There is no need to make it big. Bigness breeds desire. It needs only to be filled with contentment. Then need is satisfied. How big a house does a man need? A small house and contentment—that is a great house. The biggest palace with discontent becomes small. In palaces you will find less space than in small houses.

I have heard: a fakir was going to sleep at night when there was a knock at the door. A tiny hut—only enough for husband and wife to sleep. The husband said to his wife, “Open the door. There is a storm. Some traveler must be lost.” The wife said, “Where is the space?” He said, “Enough for two to sleep—enough for three to sit. This is no palace where space runs out. It is a poor man’s home; how can there be shortage of space? Open the door.” The guest entered; they three sat. A little later, again a knock. The fakir said to the guest near the door, “Open it.” The guest said, “Where is the space?” The fakir replied, “This is no palace, madman! Enough for three to sit—enough for four to stand. It is a poor man’s house—there is much space. We will make room.”

He said a unique thing: this is no palace that space should fall short. How much space is in a palace, yet it is always less. Where desire is, discontent is, unsatisfiedness is—everything becomes small. Where satisfaction is—everything becomes big. A small house becomes a palace when joined with satisfaction. The largest palace becomes a hut when joined with dissatisfaction. What will you choose? A palace—or joining your little home with contentment?

Lao Tzu says, “Let them savor their food. Let them make their garments beautiful.”

Lao Tzu is very natural. This is utterly natural. The peacock dances—look at his feathers! The colors of birds! The forms of butterflies! Nature is full of colors. Man has come from that nature. Some colorful clothing suits well. It is so natural. When even animals and birds rejoice in color—

In ancient days men wore beautiful garments, a few ornaments. It was a splendid world. Later, things changed. Men no longer wear splendid clothing; women do. This is unnatural. The woman is beautiful in herself; she does not need beautiful garments. Look at nature. The peacock has the feathers, not the peahen. The male spreads the plumes. The cuckoo who sings is male; the female cuckoo has no song. Being female is enough. The male needs something; he is not as beautiful.

Hence in ancient times men wore a few ornaments and colorful clothes—not very costly; color does not cost much. Cheap colors are found everywhere. No need for diamonds and pearls—flowers will do. Ornaments can be made from bits of wood.

Lao Tzu says, “Let them make their garments beautiful.”

Your holy men do not allow you to take joy in these small things. They are harsh. They are enemies of taking rasa in life. Lao Tzu says, what is spontaneous is right. The spontaneous is the right. This is wholly spontaneous.

Look at the rooster—his comb. The hen has none. The rooster struts with such pride—the whole world is vanquished! Let people wear beautiful clothes, walk with grace, sing songs, dance, savor their food—a small roof, but a vast roof of contentment! Let them enjoy their customs. Do not be worried which custom is right and which wrong. No custom is right or wrong; all is in the joy. If you enjoy, it is right—celebrate Holi! Do not worry what psychologists say. Why the need to ask them? Will any decision be reached by asking psychologists?

The psychologist will say: Holi means people are repressed; they are venting repression. They have spoiled the joy of Holi too. Now you cannot spray a water-jet on someone—psychology says you are releasing repression. You cannot throw color or gulal; psychologists say you wanted to throw stones; you could not; this is a substitute. You smear color forcibly—this is violence.

They will not let you celebrate Holi; nor light lamps at Diwali. They will find some meaning. The psychologist’s one work is to sit and extract meanings and spoil the mystery of things. Their life is spoiled; they spoil others’ lives.

Lao Tzu says: do not bother what is the meaning of custom. If it gives joy, that is enough. Joy is the meaning. Celebrate Holi and Diwali. Light lamps sometimes; sometimes throw colors and gulal. Lao Tzu says, let life remain simple and natural. Do not impose heavy interpretations upon it.

“Let neighboring villages be within sight, so that they can hear each other’s dogs bark and cocks crow; and yet the people, to their last days, have never gone beyond their own country.”

He says: villages will be close, but what need to go to another village? Wandering is also a sickness of the mind. One’s own village is enough. One’s own sky is vast. One’s flowers, sufficient. So he says, villages so close that the bark of dogs and the cock’s crow at dawn can be heard, smoke from evening cooking seen rising—but why go even to those nearby villages?

The fulfilled do not go anywhere; the unfulfilled wander. The fulfilled rest. Fulfillment is a great stillness—a quiet lake in which not even a ripple of journey arises.

In the West people are very restless—therefore great travel has begun.

A friend came to me. I asked, “Where are you going?” He said, “Greece now. I have seen the whole world, only one dream remains—Greece. I am sixty-five; tired. I have seen the whole world; only Greece remains—lest it be left unseen.” I asked, “Having seen the world, what did you get?” He shrugged: “Nothing.” I said, “What will you get seeing Greece, when you got nothing seeing everything else?” He said, “I don’t want one thing to remain stuck in the mind. Who knows—what I did not find elsewhere may be in Greece!”

People wander—here to there. There is an unease in the mind. Hence, in the West, because of restlessness, speed keeps increasing. If you drive, notice: the day you are restless you press the accelerator more; you drive beyond limits. Restlessness wants intensity. So the West, being restless, keeps inventing new means. To the moon they must go.

You found nothing here—why go to corrupt the moon? Kindly confine your sickness to earth. Why think of corrupting the moon? Wherever your feet fall, trouble begins. But there is restlessness! One must go to the moon. Where will this restlessness stop?

Lao Tzu says: what need to go even to the neighboring village?

Understand the meaning. It means: when you settle within, all outer journeys cease; they become futile. You are so contented that where you are, that corner of the sky becomes moksha for you; heaven descends there. Where else to go?

He says: let the country be small, so that the net of big politics does not arise. Let people be without desires; let needs be fulfilled—so that the means of supply are a thousandfold beyond needs. Let no one feel poor. Let people forget education, culture, civilization, arithmetic—let them begin to count on their fingers or tie knots in ropes—so that cunning is lost. The civilized man is a well-hidden uncivilized man. Even the uncivilized are not so uncivilized; they are simple.

Lao Tzu says: let people become friends with nature again; drop enmity. Let the small things of life become prayerful—be thankfulness. Let no one condemn them. It is by condemning them that we have fallen into trouble.

Life is valuable in itself—its intrinsic value. Life is not valuable for some other reason. Life is the value—the ultimate value. Let people live, and let life become a dance and a song. From this song and dance the fragrance of the Paramatma will arise. From this song and dance, one day you will find, your feet have come to the temple’s door.

Other than life there is no Paramatma. The depth of life is the Paramatma. Other than life there is no pilgrimage. One who descends into life—he has reached the tirtha.

Enough for today.