Tao Upanishad #126

As man is, he is a lie—an untruth, a deep falsity, a deception—layer upon layer of falsehoods, like peeling an onion: with each layer removed, another appears. Such is man’s lie. A deep habit of untruth.

Truth in itself is neither honeyed nor harsh; neither sweet nor bitter. But man is so untrue that the words of truth will always seem harsh—because of your untruth. Truth is impartial. Truth has no taste. Truth is beyond taste. Yet you will taste it according to yourself. If you are true, nothing is more honeyed than truth. If you are false—as largely you are—then truth will hurt you from every side, it will sting, feel like thorns.

Understand this rightly; only then will Lao Tzu’s words be understood. Otherwise you will go astray.

For one who has renounced the falsity of the personality, who has become natural and simple, truth tastes like nectar. For him, only truth seems drinkable. He can remain thirsty for years, as in the legend of the chataka bird who waits only for the Swati drop. Lakes may brim with water, but it waits for the Swati star’s drop. In the same way, knowledge may be piled all around, yet the seeker of truth waits for the drop of truth. That alone is the nectar; that drop alone will become a pearl within his heart; from that very drop the door of his liberation will open.

Truth in itself is neither sweet nor bitter. One who has attained truth—who has become truth—will find it neither sweet nor bitter. Truth becomes one with his mode of being; no taste remains. Taste belongs to that which is alien to us. Do you ever taste yourself? What taste could your own being have! One who has attained truth will have no taste of truth at all; he will not even know what truth is, what untruth is. He will forget what the world is, what liberation is. All these become dreams that have broken; that sleep has vanished. One who has awakened in truth will have lost the tastes of dreams.

But you have not awakened; you are in deep sleep. Therefore whatsoever will awaken you will feel bitter. Whosoever will awaken you! For you have taken your sleep to be very sweet. So whoever breaks your sleep will appear as an enemy. At night you say you must rise at five in the morning, “Wake me then.” You yourself say it, and yet when someone wakes you at five he appears like a foe. Sleep seems so sweet; and your lies are so dear to you. Lies are what you have built around yourself. That is your house. That is your world. Its breaking feels as if you yourself will break. When sleep breaks it feels as if you are breaking.

There is no sense of awakening, only of sleep. In that sleep you have seen sweet dreams. True, there have been painful dreams too, but man lets the painful dreams slip from memory and keeps the pleasant ones. He casts pain out of memory and hoards the chain of pleasure. In remembrance of past pleasures, and in hope that such pleasures will return in the future, man prefers to remain asleep. So whoever tries to awaken you will appear an enemy. The morning azan rising from the mosque will not seem melodious; it will feel bitter. The bitterness is yours. Think also of this: you have been ill for many days; you have only just risen from a fever. Even a sweet delicacy will not taste sweet; your tongue is unwell. The sweetness of the sweet depends less on the sweet and more on your tongue.

You are sad; the full moon rises in the sky, and it too looks sad, as if weeping bitterly. If you are in great sorrow—someone has died, you are parted from your beloved, an accident has happened—it will seem that tears are dripping from the moon. Flowers will appear withered, trees silent with desolation. How you are is the interpretation that spreads around you. Then when your beloved returns home, even the moonless night will seem brighter than the full moon; in dried and withered flowers you will see the advent of new life; dry leaves will appear green. When it is monsoon within you, everything becomes monsoon. When there is desert within you, you see desert everywhere. For you are the center of your world, and interpretation rises from you.

So when Lao Tzu says that true words are not ear-pleasing, and ear-pleasing words are not true, he is saying something to you. He is not speaking about truth itself, for nothing can be said about truth. He himself says in the very first sutra of the Tao Te Ching: that which can be spoken is not the true; that which cannot be spoken is the true. So regarding truth he says nothing; he speaks regarding you. You have become so false that you have lost the taste for truth. You have gone so contrary that truth does not feel near but far, not just far but as an enemy.

I have heard: An opponent said to Bernard Shaw, “Stop spreading lies about me, otherwise no one will be worse than I!” Bernard Shaw said, “Wait—think carefully. Now I am spreading lies about you; if I begin to spread truths, then what?” Bernard Shaw is saying: these lies about you are already painful; if I were to publicize the truth, how much more pain would it bring! Be grateful I am not speaking the truth about you.

If someone speaks a lie about you, and if it is truly a lie, you are not disturbed. You are disturbed only because there is some truth in it. If there were no truth at all, there would be no disturbance. The more truth there is, the more the disturbance grows.

You are dishonest, and someone calls you dishonest; you unsheathe your sword, for now it is a matter of life. You are dishonest—and if it becomes known, your opportunity to be dishonest will be diminished. Dishonesty is possible only so long as people believe you are honest. So long as they believe you are honest, there is scope for dishonesty. Falsehood has no feet of its own; it rides on the shoulders of truth. If someone calls you false and you are indeed false, you will boil over with anger. That very anger shows truth has struck you. And had it been wholly false, you would have laughed and gone away.

That is why, when you abuse saints, they laugh and pass by. Not because you are dogs and they are elephants—that dogs may bark and the elephant does not care. No, that would be great ego. They laugh simply because your words have no force; the matter is not worth anger; it is fit to be laughed at. And they pity you—for how lost you are in untruth.

Truth hurts because you are false. Truth appears bitter because you are false. Whoever dares to tell you truth, with him you will become enemies.

It happened. I had an acquaintance, a well-known man, Seth Govind Das. He had been a member of parliament for fifty years—no one in the world had been a member so long. He had written nearly a hundred books. He spent his life in politics and literature. Then his son died—a deputy minister in Madhya Pradesh. He had great hopes and ambitions for him. His death was like the death of his father’s ambition. He became very sad, even contemplating suicide. For the first time he began to go to monks and saints.

In that moment of grief he came to me. He said, “I went to Acharya Tulsi, the famous Jain muni. I asked him to look into whether my son has been reborn or not. He closed his eyes and went into meditation. Then he said, ‘You are most fortunate—your son has become a god in heaven.’”

He came to me very pleased. He said, “This Acharya Tulsi is a man indeed. I have seen many monks, but none such a deep searcher.” I said, “I know a sannyasin who is far ahead of Tulsi Ji regarding heaven and hell. When you go to Allahabad, meet a Swami Ram. His investigation of heaven and hell is far ahead of Tulsi Ji’s. Tulsi Ji is still a novice.”

He said, “I will go.” He went. I had informed Ram Swami what to say. He closed his eyes—not just closed them; he fluttered hands and feet, shouted and screamed, and stood up. Sethji was greatly impressed: “Tulsi Ji didn’t even do this!” In that very possessed state he said, “There is a village near Jabalpur, its name is Saliwada.” Sethji was startled: “That’s my village—our fields and orchards are there.” Saliwada! “And there is a peepal tree there, very ancient.” Now it was certain—this man must be deep. “There is indeed such a tree.” “On that tree your son has become a ghost and lives there.” Shocked: “A ghost?” And Ram said, “Think carefully when you go, for he has become a dangerous ghost.

“When politicians die they do become dangerous ghosts. Have you ever heard of a politician going to heaven?”

All his faith wavered. He could not trust that this man was a saint. And then the swami said, “There is a temple in Jabalpur—Gopaldasji’s temple.” That is Sethji’s ancestral temple. “Your son comes there every evening at six and joins the worship.”

He returned utterly depressed. His son had died—he came back more miserable than that. He said, “Where did you send me! That man is wicked. It cannot be true; I cannot accept it. Tulsi Ji is absolutely right.”

I said, “Think a little. What proof have you that Tulsi Ji is right? His statement suits your desire, your ambition. How could it be that your son was not reborn in heaven! It satisfies your ego. Here too you wanted him to become Chief Minister; you thought that after Jawaharlal there is no one in India worth anything except Jagmohan Das—your son should be Prime Minister. If it did not happen here, at least let him be reborn in heaven. And if there is any chance that either of the two is true, it would be Ram Swami; for your son died under political tension—twenty-four hours of strife, conflict, upheaval, and intrigue; that drowned him. If such as these are provided heaven, where will monks and saints go?

“Ask Tulsi Ji again: if politicians begin becoming gods in heaven, what will happen to you? Where will you go? There will be no place left.” No, neither Tulsi Ji is true nor any Ram Swami is true. Ram Swami was certainly false—he acted everything I told him. But you want to hear only what nourishes your ego and your lie.

He never went to Ram Swami again. He told people, “He is no saint—an evil-natured man. My son died and he spoke such things.” Yet out of fear he stopped going to Saliwada; and he began going to Gopaldasji’s temple in the morning instead of evening—for who knows, it might be true. Inside, fear remained. And as long as he lived—now he too has gone—whenever he met me he would say something against that swami.

Truth versus untruth is not the main question. What confirms where you are—that sounds sweet. What confirms your desire—that seems sweet, pleasant, yours. What breaks your belief appears an enemy; the words taste bitter. One who shakes your roots—how can you take him as a friend? He feels like death. Hence you gave hemlock to Socrates, crucified Christ, stoned Buddha; and you worshipped tricksters, worshipped the false.

There is no inconsistency here; the arithmetic is clear. You are false; you can only worship the false. Tulsi Ji acted cleverly. When he closed his eyes and told you your son has been born in heaven—that is great cleverness, political cunning. He told you what you wanted.

What you want cannot be right, because you are not right. Therefore truth tastes bitter.

Let us try to understand Lao Tzu’s words.

“True words are not ear-pleasing.”

Because you are untrue; and your ears are so full of untruth that truth can scarcely enter. You will not let truth enter within, for it will unsteady you; it will come like a storm, like a gale; it will demolish your whole life. So first of all you do not listen to truth. If by mistake you hear it, you interpret it according to your own mind; you plaster it with your interpretation. Your interpretation is like coating a bitter pill with sugar.

You interpret bitter truths; and interpreting them, you become reassured. Either you do not hear, or you hear wrongly. And if a person manages to break both these defenses and brings truth inside you, that person will not appear pleasant. A guru can never appear pleasant—he will appear pleasant only when you are ready to disappear.

Many people come to me; they are of three kinds. One: those who come so that I may confirm their beliefs. They do not come to me; they come to have their beliefs confirmed. If I say what they already believe, their delight is worth seeing. Their ego is nourished. They were devotees of the Gita, and I praised the Gita; instantly I become a wise man for them. I become wise because they are wise, and since their faith is in the Gita, and I say the same, I am wise! They say, “You spoke exactly our thought; the heart is pleased; we go away very happy.”

Such chances seldom arise. I do not send such people away delighted. That would be an error—a wrong kind of delight; not medicine but poison. Their ego must be broken. And if their ego rests on the foundation of the Gita, then the Gita must be broken too, so that their ego can fall. If they have propped their ego on Krishna, then Krishna too must be pulled away, so that their ego can collapse.

A friend came a few days ago. With folded hands he said, “Everything else is fine, but please speak sometime on the Ramayana.” He had come to hear me. He is a devotee of Rama. I said, “I have no affinity with Rama.” Not that I have no affinity with Rama—but as soon as I said, “I have no affinity with Rama,” dark clouds gathered on his face. I said, “Tulsidas may be a good poet, but I do not trust his saintliness.” The ground slipped from under his feet; after that I never saw him again. He had come to stay ten days, to listen; by the next morning he had vanished. The settlement was over by evening.

He had come to hear praise of Rama. I have no difficulty praising Rama—but I do so before a Muslim, not before a devotee of Rama. People ask me, “Why are you speaking on Lao Tzu?” I say, “Because there are no Chinese here.” If I go to China, I will not speak on Lao Tzu, for there egos have been erected upon Lao Tzu. People will be pleased that I validate what they already hold.

Understand this little arithmetic of mine. I have nothing to take or give to Lao Tzu or Krishna. If anything is at stake, it is between me and you. It is you I must break; your ego must be overthrown. Whatever supports you have taken must be removed. Not that those supports were wrong, but from them you have erected a wrong ego. Therefore sometimes I will remove and sometimes I will place supports. If a Jain comes, I may praise Rama; with such a person the deeper issue is that what he believes should be satisfied, his ego filled; if I nod yes, I give him a certificate that he is right. When a devotee of Rama says, “Speak on Rama,” he is not saying he wants anything from Rama; he is saying, “Satisfy my beliefs; water my beliefs.” He has no concern with Rama; he wants his ego enlarged so he can go back and say, “I have always been right. Now I have more arguments and proofs for my rightness.”

I do not commit such mistakes. Only a very courageous person can stay with me; otherwise he will flee. There is no way for him to remain. He must be brave enough to see his ego shattering and yet stay. Only then is there meaning. Even if I gather your crowd but preserve your ego, what will I do with your crowd? I do not want your crowd; I want your egolessness. If even one person is with me in a state of egolessness, then the supreme flower of liberation can bloom in him.

The second kind are those who come hoping for beliefs, who have none; they come seeking something to rely on, some support to believe in. They are shaky. Perhaps education and the modern world have not given them firm foundations; they did not receive true religious education in childhood; their ego is unsteady and doubtful. They hope I will remove their doubt and give them beliefs. They come to receive beliefs.

They too are mistaken, for I do not wish to give beliefs; I wish to give knowing—no belief. Belief is untruth. Belief means: you have accepted what you do not know; you have accepted what you have not seen; you trust on loan what you have not tasted. Belief is seeing through another’s eyes. They want to see through my eyes. How will you see through my eyes? You can only see through your own. If you look through my eyes, your own eyes will go blind. I do not want to blind you; I want to give you your own eyes—not belief, not faith, but awakening.

The second kind is not as difficult as the first, but they are also bewildered. They came to strengthen their beliefs, and even the few doubtful beliefs they had—I break those too.

Then there is a third kind: one who has no belief and is not in search of any; he is the true seeker of truth. For him, truth is altogether honeyed to the ear; there will be a shower of sweetness upon him. Around him the tune of poetry will begin. I will wrap him like a song from all sides. Instantly, something new will begin to arise within him; the bells of the inner temple will ring; the lamps of worship will be lit; fragrance will rise from the incense. If you come empty, truth will be sweet—very sweet. What is sweeter? It depends on you—how you come.

One of the third kind seldom comes. The second kind can more easily be helped into becoming the third. The first kind is very difficult to turn into the third. First they do not stay to be helped; they flee. Touch their beliefs a little and they are gone. They are touch-me-nots.

You have seen that plant, the shy one. Touch it and its leaves close at once; it becomes like a corpse. Such are the first kind—touch-me-not. Touch their beliefs and they are finished; they close up. After that they want nothing to do with you; they will not even raise their eyes toward you. Their eyes have closed. For them you no longer exist, and they no longer exist for you; all bridges are broken. Such a person is most irreligious. And such people crowd our temples and mosques—so a great misfortune has happened: the irreligious have taken over religious places.

The second kind stands at the midpoint. He can become religious; he can become irreligious. If someone strengthens his beliefs and gives him new beliefs, he will join temples and become irreligious. And if by good fortune he reaches one who demolishes his wobbling towers, empties him, leaves him naked and void, with no notion left in consciousness—only then can he approach truth. With a void mind, truth is a rain of nectar; with a stuffed mind, truth is painful.

Lao Tzu is right. The void mind is one in a million. It is the exception, and exceptions only prove the rule.

“True words are not ear-pleasing.”

What a misfortune, that true words are not ear-pleasing! What a misfortune, that ear-pleasing words are not true! It should be the opposite—that the lie is bitter. But you have practiced lying well; by practice even bitter things begin to taste sweet.

The first time you smoke a cigarette—it is bitter. You cough; tears come to the eyes; there is no taste at all. You have to practice. In a few days you get used to it; the acrid bitterness disappears; smoking begins to seem sweet. You start drinking alcohol—it is acrid; you must practice. Once the habit is formed, there appears great sweetness in liquor—you run toward the tavern.

Practice lying, and lies taste sweet. And the practice is long: not only in this birth, but a long journey of past births where only lies have been nurtured.

I was once a guest at Mulla Nasruddin’s house. His wife was the daughter of a rich family. And as wives are trouble enough even from poor families, a wife from a rich family is much more trouble. In every small matter she reminded Mulla: “This splendid house would not be here if my father had no money; this car would not be standing in the porch; the chair you recline in would not be here—you would be begging—if my father had no money.” I was a guest. The meal was served in silver plates, and she began her refrain: “This food in silver plates—if my father had no money, Mulla, you would be begging!” Mulla said, “Now I will say the truth. Enough! If your father had no money, you would not be here either—let alone the chair and table. I did not marry you; I married your father’s money.”

Love is often a lie. In ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, it is for money, for prestige, for skin, or for such petty things that you could not imagine the madness! Money is often the motive behind the cover of love—prestige, position, family status, rich connections, financial advantage; sometimes the woman’s skin is beautiful—yet that is only surface, for a woman is not skin, she is much more. And the skin will be forgotten after two days; you must live daily with the inner being. Sometimes it is eyes that charm—but who has managed to live with just eyes! Sometimes the shape of the nose, sometimes the sweetness of the voice, sometimes even more trifling things—the gait of a woman, the way she turns—and a cover of love is put up for such small things. But this cover will tear, unless love itself is there.

Love is causeless; love has no cause—neither tilt of nose nor fish-like eyes. Love is a causeless state, beyond logic. You cannot say why. If you can answer why, your love is false. Seek for the why and fail to find any—then your love is true. Say: there is no cause; nothing is found—just the heart flows of itself. If you can state a cause, it is not love. The cause is what matters—wealth, position, prestige—whatever its name. And today or tomorrow it will be exhausted. Causes are never eternal; their life is momentary. Causeless love can be eternal. That alone is love. Even if the body of the beloved falls away, that love does not fall.

Just now I was looking at Jacqueline’s pictures. Her second husband, Onassis, has died. But there is no sadness or sorrow on her face. Likely the wealth of Onassis was the cause of love. Nor was there love for Kennedy, for as soon as he died, a new arrangement was made for a new marriage—perhaps prepared beforehand. Perhaps she fell for Kennedy because of his great possibilities—someday he would be President; he had talent, drive, speed, indomitable ambition. Perhaps by that very ambition this woman fell in love with him. Then there was immense wealth. Kennedy died and—Onassis. And Onassis was old—he died at seventy-nine; the gap is large; Jacqueline is forty-five. She did not marry for love with this old man. Among the wealthiest few in the world, Onassis—she loved his wealth. Now that Onassis is gone, all America is asking: who now? Whom will Jacqueline marry? It won’t take long. And now there is no time to delay; she is forty-five. Soon she will have to hurry—otherwise the time will pass.

Often behind the tale of love something else is hidden. Behind your friendships something else is hidden. Behind your smiles, something else is hidden. Nothing seems simple—that you just smile and there is nothing behind; that you just love and there is nothing behind; that you extend a hand of friendship to someone without cause and there is nothing behind.

The day you become true, every act of yours will be total in itself, and nothing beyond it—then truth will be very honeyed to you; nothing more dear. You will embrace it. Nothing is more beautiful. Nothing more musical.

But in your discord, in the clamor within, in your web of guile—when a ray of music enters, the ray does not seem musical because of you; it seems a disturbance. You have become so accustomed to darkness that when light comes to your door you close your eyes; you bristle. Your bristling is not because of light, but because of living so long in darkness.

“True words are not ear-pleasing; ear-pleasing words are not true.”

Try to become such that truth can be honeyed to you. And until then know that you have a journey to make until truth becomes honeyed. However much it may cut, however much it may slice your soul like a saw, still make yourself worthy so that truth becomes dear. For only through that love will a bridge to God be built.

And if untruth seems honeyed—and you know it is untruth… Someone says to you, “Ah, how beautiful you are!” You yourself doubt it; you have looked in the mirror many times. You cannot say with such confidence, “Ah, how beautiful I am.” But you trust the other. How beautiful untruth appears! And as long as untruth appears beautiful, pleasant, dear, how will you relate to truth? It will be impossible. Untruth will plunder you, will crush you; slowly you will become such a lie that you will lose even the trust that something like truth exists.

“The gentleman does not dispute.”

Only those dispute who have no trust in their truth. Dispute arises when you want to prove something before another. But this is complex. Whenever you want to prove something to another, in reality you want to prove something to yourself through the other. You are doubtful. The Hindu wants to prove that Hindu Dharma is supreme—this is a doubtful man. He spreads a net of logic to reassure himself. Whether he convinces the other or not, he will convince himself. We try to prove before others so that we may see in their eyes that our argument has force—and then we too may believe.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was passing along a street. His colorful dress and gait attracted a few street urchins. They followed him, some throwing pebbles, some mocking. To be rid of them, Nasruddin said, “Listen! Do you know there is a feast in the royal palace today for the whole city?” The boys fell in step with him and forgot throwing stones—eager to hear. Seeing them attentive, Mulla grew warm; his speech heated; he began describing what delicacies were being prepared in the palace: “And what are you doing here!” His words grew feverish, as often happens to speakers; speech warms into fever, and fever into delirium. He spoke with such emphasis and vividness that his own mouth watered.

The boys left him and ran toward the palace. Seeing them running into the distance, Nasruddin too began to run. He said to himself, “What are you doing, Nasruddin?” But he thought, “There must be something to it; otherwise how could the boys believe so quickly? Who knows—there may truly be a feast. What harm in going to see?”

He had fabricated the lie himself. Understand—such tales are not mere tales. You have fabricated many lies; and slowly you have believed them yourself. When you make another believe, you begin to believe; you see your picture in the other’s face and faith arises: it must be true. Those who keep proving to others are those within whom nothing has yet been proved.

“The gentleman does not dispute.”

A gentleman makes a statement. He simply says what seems right to him. He is not eager for dispute; not eager to prove anything; he is not a lawyer arguing some doctrine. He speaks his experience.

When the Upanishads were first translated into Western languages, the translators were amazed: there are no arguments in the Upanishads—only statements. “Brahman is; you too are Brahman.” But they give no argument; no syllogism in Aristotle’s manner as to why. No proofs. They simply utter statements. If you want to know, know it yourself. An Upanishadic rishi is not trying to prove anything. When everything is proved within, who cares to prove before anyone?

Those who try to prove before others do so to convince themselves. Those who have experienced—everything is proved within; they do not want to prove anything to anyone.

And note the irony: those who try to convince others by argument may deceive themselves but never the other. Have you ever observed that when you try to make someone understand by logic, you can perhaps shut his mouth—logic is a sharp weapon; it can close a mouth—but have you ever found that with logic you win the other’s heart? You can close the mouth; but by closing a mouth, is a heart ever won? He will squirm within; he knows inside that something is wrong. You are only arguing—and arguments can be given even for the most false of things. Logic has no concern for what you are supporting; logic is a prostitute—ready to go with anyone. Hence it is said, lawyers and prostitutes cannot enter heaven; they belong to no one.

Mulla Nasruddin once went to his lawyer. He described in detail a case to be filed against him, and asked, “What do you think—will I win?” The lawyer said, “Victory is one hundred percent certain. There is no issue; you have already won—only the court’s procedure remains.” Nasruddin bowed and began to leave. The lawyer said, “Where are you going? My fee? And all the arrangements?” Nasruddin said, “No need. I was presenting the case from the opposition’s side. Now there’s no need to fight. If from the opponent’s side victory is one hundred percent, then the matter is settled. It’s better to lose—why go to court?”

But Nasruddin is wrong; the lawyer would have said the same in any case. Present your case and he will still say, “Victory is certain.” It is not that victory is impossible; you just need a bigger lawyer. Courts do not decide between truth and untruth; they decide between small and big lawyers. How can courts decide truth and untruth? Only in Samadhi is the decision of truth possible. Courts can only decide who has the bigger lawyer, who charges higher fees—the rich win, the poor lose. It depends on the lawyer, on the argument—how expensive and sophisticated a logic you can buy. Logic has no side of its own; it goes with anyone.

The gentleman does not dispute because he does not trust logic; he trusts experience.

Understand this well. The pundit trusts logic; he argues. He can prove that God exists—or does not. Pundits create other pundits—atheistic pundits—for when you argue that God is, you drag God into the courtroom; now the atheist can argue as well. Have you ever heard of a theist turning an atheist into a theist by argument—or an atheist turning a theist into an atheist by argument?

Argument never transforms; the heart remains untouched. All real transformation is of the heart, of feeling. Your heart is won by love, not by logic. Logic will not even reach near your heart. The gentleman wins you by his being; his very presence is his only argument; his being is the only proof.

There was Meister Eckhart, a great German mystic. A logical pundit came to him and said, “Eckhart, I have heard you trust in God. Prove it before me—I challenge you!” Eckhart said, “We accept the challenge, but our ways of proving are different. You will talk; I will sit in silence. You will spread the net of intellect; I will let my heart flow. I cannot say whether our paths will ever meet, because we are different kinds of people. My very being is the proof of God. Look at me! Look into my eyes—do you see in them a lake whose end you cannot find? If you see it, how can it be without God? Come close—take my hand in your hand; feel—does a causeless love flow toward you? If you can feel it, how can it be without God? I will sit in prayer; sit, watch—see tears flow from my eyes in bliss. Understand my tears. Is that possible without deep love? Without deep pangs of longing? If there were no God, how could such a vast thirst for love arise in me? Know me—perhaps you will recognize. But I have no arguments; I myself am the argument.”

The saint himself is the argument. For those who can understand the saint, God becomes a certainty; for without God the saint is impossible. The saint becomes proof—the tiny ray of the Great Light in the deep darkness of this earth. Granted, the lamp is of clay—but the flame is His. If you recognize the flame in the clay lamp, you will trust the suns of the sky.

But the saint does not dispute. Dispute is violence; a sign of ungentleness. Dispute is a forceful attempt to press you down; a violent attack upon you. It means: I will prove and you must bow. Dispute is a sword—subtle, of words, of logic—yet a sword. And if you bow to dispute—if you accept arguments that your heart rejects—you will go astray. You can become a theist by argument and still not be a theist, for theism has nothing to do with argument. You can become an atheist by argument. The two are alike—no real difference. If you choose theism or atheism because of argument or thought, there is no great difference between you; you are two banks of the same river.

The difference is in one who has thrown the rubbish of argument aside and listened to the call of the heart—the invitation from his own depths. He leaves the concern of the surface, of the waves of thought, and dives deep, listens to the inner call, and follows it. That is the theist. But to even call him “theist” is not right; he is not opposed to atheism. He has gone beyond both theism and atheism, because he has gone beyond argument.

“The gentleman does not dispute.”

He is not eager to prove anything. If his very being is not sufficient proof, he does not worry; for if his being cannot prove, what else can?

“The wise person does not know many things; the one who knows many things is not wise.”

The wise person knows one thing alone; all his knowing is knowing of the One. He says the same thing in a thousand ways; he says one thing only. His note is one. Whatever instrument he chooses—sometimes the veena, sometimes the flute, sometimes the sitar, sometimes the tabla, the mridang—his note is one, his song is one. I speak to you every day—and can do so endlessly—but I have said nothing but one thing. Through many doors I lead you to a single door. Through many words I point only to the wordless.

Lao Tzu says: the wise do not know many things; they know the One—for in knowing the One, all is known.

When Uddalaka’s son Shvetaketu returned home from the gurukul, his father asked, “What have you learned?” He said, “I have learned everything—astrology, mathematics, grammar, language, geography, history, the Puranas, the Vedas, the Smritis, the Shrutis—everything.” The father said, “Have you known that One by knowing which all is known?” Shvetaketu had come with great pride, certificates in hand; the gurus had praised him, for he was brilliant; his memory was vast, the Vedas were by heart. He thought his father would be impressed. But the father’s question shattered him. He fell to the ground—his ego broken. He said, “No—I have not known that One by knowing which all is known. I have learned everything, but not the One. The gurus never spoke of it; such a question never arose there.” The father said, “Go back. What will you do knowing all this? It is valueless. Know the One—by knowing the One, all is known.”

Shvetaketu returned to know the One.

Lao Tzu says, “The wise person does not know many things; the one who knows many things is not wise.”

The insistence on knowing many is because you miss the One. When you attain the One, you are content; the thirst for knowing ceases. Therefore you keep knowing more and more, for the thirst does not end; your so-called knowledge is like drinking salt water—the more you drink, the drier your throat becomes. When thirst does not end, you think: drink more, drink more; perhaps I am not drinking enough—and so you go on collecting knowledge.

You may become an ocean of knowledge, yet the thirst won’t be quenched. For when has thirst been quenched by ocean water? Thirst needs a small spring of the One. However vast the ocean, it cannot quench thirst—its water is too salty. Know everything—your knowledge as vast as the ocean—and yet you will remain thirsty. Quenching comes only from His spring—the spring of the One. The Upanishads call that One Brahman; Lao Tzu calls it Tao. Call it what you like: Paramatma, Nirvana, Truth—but it is One. And that One is not far; it is within you.

In truth, one who knows himself knows all, for the Self is the distilled essence of the whole. The entire universe is hidden in the small body; the infinite sky is contained in your tiny heart. The seed contains the whole tree. One who knows the seed knows the tree, for in the seed the entire blueprint of the tree is hidden—every leaf concealed, not yet manifest. Within you the whole universe is concealed. Hence the Upanishads say, Tat Tvam Asi—you are That.

It was to Shvetaketu that this was said when he returned to his guru. He came back and said to his guru—sad and troubled—“I learned so much, but my father was not pleased. He asked a question I could not answer: Have you known that One by knowing which all is known?” The guru said, “Tat Tvam Asi, Shvetaketu—that One your father spoke of, you are That. Good you returned, for we can point to the One only when someone comes thirsty. Before, you were inquisitive to know all else; you have known that. Now you come with inquiry for the One; now you will know that too. But that One is you; there is nowhere else to go—go within. Ask no one else—dive within. Now scriptures are useless, leftover crumbs. There is no substance in the Vedas now, for He is wordless; now you must descend into silence.”

The wise know One and, knowing One, know all. The unwise know many and, knowing many, lose even the One. Master the One and all is mastered. Chase the many and you fall apart—you become fragmented. Hence you are a crowd inside; you have no individuality yet, for without the One, how can there be personhood? You are a crowd—many kinds of people within.

I have heard: When Bayazid came to his master, as soon as he entered the hut and said, “I have left all and come to your feet; do not keep me thirsty—now quench me,” the master looked around. There was silence; no one else—Bayazid alone. The master said, “You have come—that is right. But why have you brought this crowd along?” There was no one. Bayazid turned around to see: “What crowd?” There was none. “What crowd? I have come alone.” The master said, “Close your eyes—and you will find the crowd.” They say Bayazid closed his eyes and found the crowd.

For you are not one yet—you are many. In front of your wife you have one face; in front of a customer in your shop another; in front of your son another; before a servant another. Before the rich how your tail wags; before the poor how you strut. How many faces you have! How many forms! A crowd within you. No single note has yet sounded within. Who are you? Ask “Who am I?” and you will find no answer—for there will be many answers. Someone within will say you are so-and-so’s son; someone will say you are so-and-so’s father; someone—someone’s husband, someone’s servant, someone’s master. Ask “Who am I?”—a thousand answers will arise; the valley within will echo. None of them is true, for you can be only one.

You are not anyone’s husband, nor anyone’s friend or enemy. Leave all that. What are you in yourself? Those are relations with others; that is not your being. That is not your existence, not your nature. Those are roles assigned in a drama—sometimes father, sometimes son, sometimes friend, sometimes foe—fine; but that is not you. What is your essential nature—what you were before birth, what you will be after death, what you are in the solitude of Samadhi—who are you then? One who knows that One—who knows “Who am I?”—has known all.

Therefore we call the knower sarvajna—one who knows all. Do not take this literally, as is commonly done. Scriptures say Mahavira is sarvajna. Jains have taken it so literally that if you ask Mahavira how to patch a bicycle puncture—he would tell you! Sarvajna! If your car breaks down, he will be a mechanic; if you have a fever, he will prescribe medicine. That is not the meaning. Sarvajna means: one who has known the Self has known all that is worth knowing. Is knowing how to patch a puncture worth knowing? It has utility, not truth. Utility, yes—but no ultimate essence. Mahavira has known all means: he has known the One in which all is hidden. It does not mean you can ask him anything and he will know.

But Jains spread such wind that Mahavira knows all, everything.

Buddha has made a great joke. His joke is meaningful. He did not mock Mahavira; he mocked the Jains. But he had to mock Mahavira because the Jains were supporting their stupidity with Mahavira’s sarvajnata. His omniscience was becoming a prop for their foolishness. So Buddha said: “Some say the son of the Jnatas, Mahavira, is omniscient—but I have also heard that sometimes he stands begging before a house where no one has lived for years. What sort of omniscience is this—that he cannot see the house is empty for years? He walks at dawn in darkness and steps on a sleeping dog’s tail; only when the dog barks does he know there was a dog. What omniscience is this?”

Buddha is not mocking Mahavira—how could Buddha mock him? It would be mocking himself. He is mocking the Jains: “How foolish you are! You see Mahavira begging before an empty house and still call him omniscient!”

Sarvajna means: one who has known the Self has known all worth knowing. All else is not worth knowing. Why know it?

The wise do not know many things; they know the essential One.

There is a Sufi story: An emperor went on a journey. While returning, he wrote to his wives—he had a thousand of them—“I am coming home; send word of what you wish me to bring.” One asked for precious jeweled ornaments; another for golden vessels; another for rare fragrances—so on, a thousand. He looked at their letters and tore them up. Only one wife wrote: “You return home—that is the gift; nothing else is needed. If you come, all has come.”

The knower asks for God; the ignorant asks for everything else—even asks God for everything else. The knower desires only to know the One. If the One comes, all comes. If the Beloved comes, all comes. Asking for gifts is absurd.

Did it mean that with the emperor’s arrival jewels and golden vessels would also arrive, that all the wealth of the world would come? No. Not that. If you take it so, you have misunderstood. But for the heart that loves—everything has come. Jewels have arrived, golden vessels have arrived—in the coming of the beloved, everything has come. You may not see it; you see only the beloved, his hands empty. But for the loving heart, all has come; nothing remains worth having. There was no need to bring anything. You have come—everything has come.

The wise know the One; the unwise chase the many and go mad. If you run after the many you will certainly go mad. How will you travel in many boats at once? How will you walk in many directions? The seeker of One slowly becomes quiet, free; the seeker of many becomes more and more agitated until he is deranged.

Derangement and deliverance are the two poles. You stand in the middle. If you seek many, you move toward derangement—madness is the logical conclusion. If you seek One, madness falls away. You become peaceful, joyous, blossoming. A certain intelligence appears, a light of talent begins to arise. As you move toward the One, you become integrated. As you approach the One, the crowd thins; you too become one. The like knows the like; only when you are one will you know the One. When you are many, you relate with the many. Multiplicity leads to derangement; unity is freedom.

“The sage does not store for himself. He lives for others and grows ever richer. He gives to others and attains increasing abundance.”

The sage does not store for himself—because he does not live for himself.

There are two ways of living. One is living for oneself—which you know; hence you are troubled. One who lives for himself must live in enmity with the world. All are enemies. Living for oneself is to stand upon hostility. He will not truly live; his life will be consumed by hostility. The other way: live for the other—friendship becomes the foundation. There is no fear—no one can snatch anything; we live for the other. Mahavira said: “Mitti me sabbabhuesu; veram majjha na kenai.” My friendship is with all beings on the earth; I have enmity with none. No reason remains for enmity. Ambition is gone; the madness of living for oneself is gone. Lust gives way to compassion. Lust means: snatch; compassion means: give.

An ancient Indian tale: Gods, demons, and men went to Prajapati at the beginning of creation and said, “Give us instruction—what should we do?” Prajapati gave no discourse; he simply intoned loudly: “Give! Give! Give!” He did not actually say “Give”—dan, dan, dan; he only sounded, “Da, da, da.” The gods heard “da” and understood “dan”—charity, give. Men heard “da” and understood “daman”—repress, hold down. The demons heard “da” and understood “dushtha”—be cruel, be wicked, seize and torment. We hear according to ourselves; we do not hear what is said, for how could we?

“The sage does not store for himself.”

Not because storing is evil, but because sages have learned by experience: the more you store, the poorer you become; the more you give, the richer you become. In truth, you are master only of that which you can give. Have you observed the deep contentment that arises when you give? Which never arises when you take; and can never arise when you steal. When you pick someone’s pocket—even if you take a diamond—contentment will not arise; inside there will be restlessness, a stirring of the whole life. You are doing something against your nature; otherwise why the unease?

If you understand the hint of your unease, you will see that something contrary to your nature is happening. But offer even a simple thing as a gift—to a friend, at a wedding, on a birthday—or give a few coins to a beggar for no reason—have you noticed the profound satisfaction, a pervading contentment? As if this is natural; as if giving accords with nature, and snatching is against nature.

If you do not feel contentment when you give, know you have given for wrong reasons. Otherwise contentment will be there. A politician comes: “I need your support in the election.” You do not want to give; but if you don’t, he may someday take revenge—so better to give. The clever give to both parties. Be careful, for there is a danger you may become a devil; you are always ready for devilry.

I asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Two men are contesting from your area; which one do you consider good?” He said, “Each is worse than the other. Each is worse than the other; but thanks to Allah, only one of the two can be chosen—otherwise greater trouble. Praise be to Allah that only one of the two can be chosen—that is the only hope. Otherwise both are worse than each other.”

The politician comes and you have to give—smiling outwardly, but inwardly you feel unrest, not joy. A beggar stands on the road and pleads; what will people say if you do not give—“So miserly he would not give two coins!” Beggars make a noise to be seen, even hold your feet—making it a question of face. So you give two coins; but there is no contentment.

Contentment will arise when you give from the heart with no reason to give. If there is a reason, it is no longer charity; it is a business deal. You are buying reputation in the marketplace by giving two coins to the beggar; you will recover principal and interest from the same market. To the politician to whom you gave a thousand for his campaign, you will secure licenses of ten thousand. It is all business.

But charity is not business. Charity means: I gave, and in giving I received so much that the question of receiving more does not arise. I received more in the very act of giving.

The sage does not store because he has learned an art: by giving he receives so much that he will not risk losing by hoarding. He lives for others, because he has seen that the more you live for others, the more Godliness flows through you. God does not live for Himself—that is why He is nowhere seen. He lives for the tree and the tree is seen; for the stream and the stream is seen; for the flower and the flower blooms; for man and man appears. You will not find God directly anywhere, because He does not live for Himself.

Hence the atheist asks, “Where is He? Show me a vision!”

He cannot be shown. If He lived for Himself, we would have found His address long ago—where He resides, what He does. He lives for all; He lives in all. He has no separate being of His own; He is where the flower is, the leaf, the mountain, the moon and stars—wherever, there He is.

The day you understand this secret—that God lives in all—that day you will find the only art of sainthood: begin to live in all. The less you live in yourself, the more you will find the Great Life descending upon you.

They live for others, and they themselves become ever richer. They do not hoard; they live for others, and they attain inner abundance.

This richness is not what you call richness. And what you call richness, the sage does not call richness at all. Your wealth is misfortune; your riches are calamity. The sage lives by an inner abundance. His plenty is inner; he lives filled from within—so full that he overflows. His treasure is inner. The more he shares it, the more it grows. Share outer wealth and it decreases; hold inner wealth and it decreases. Share outer wealth and it ends; share inner wealth and it goes on increasing.

“He gives to others and attains increasing abundance. Heaven’s Tao bestows blessing and does not harm. The manner of the sage enriches and does not contend.”

That ultimate law of the Divine—Tao, Rta—bestows blessing; it does not harm. If harm happens, it is through your own doing. You are adept even at turning blessings into curses. You suffer curses and you change blessings into curses. From the side of God there is no curse. If your life is accursed, know you are living against God; you are trying to live in your own way; you are struggling; there is resistance within you—you are not flowing with God’s current.

Someone asked Lao Tzu, “How did you find God, truth, Tao? How did realization happen?” Lao Tzu said, “I saw a dry leaf falling from a tree.”

It must have been autumn. Lao Tzu must have been sitting by a tree—silent, still—watching nature. A leaf broke from the branch and fell. When the wind pushed it to the left, it went left; when pushed to the right, it went right. The leaf did not struggle; it did not fight the wind. At the moment of parting from the tree, it did not insist on clinging; it quietly separated. It left no wound on the tree; perhaps the tree did not even notice when the old dry leaf—ripe—fell. When the wind laid it on the ground, it lay there; when another gust came, it flew into the sky.

Lao Tzu said, “From that day I became like that dry leaf; I dropped my struggle. Wherever the wind takes me. I had no destination of my own; I made His destination my own. I do not know what His destination is, but there will be one. I did not carve out a separate destiny. I did not stand apart; I began to flow with the current of the river. Wherever the current carried me, I went. Instantly everything was transformed.”

Struggle is not the path to truth—surrender is. And as soon as you surrender, suddenly you find blessings pouring upon you from all sides. They were always pouring, but you were going against them and turning them into curses. If you are unhappy in life, know you are moving against God. For God knows no sorrow. Sorrow is your obstinacy; sorrow is the result of trying to separate your destiny from the Whole. Your notion of separateness from the Whole is your hell. Become one with the Whole—and the door of heaven opens.

Enough for today.