Tao Upanishad #13

Religion is the state of vacant consciousness, like an empty pot.
But how can one be an empty pot? If one even wants to be a zero, how to be zero? If one longs to efface oneself, what is the process of erasing?
Yesterday we tried to understand that nothing is more foolish than the urge to be perfect. Yet the science of becoming perfect is available. The stairway is laid out—step by step. There are scriptures on perfection. And for those who want to be perfect there are universities—where they can be trained how to be perfect in a given direction. But what is the scripture of becoming zero? Where is the university of becoming nothing? Where is the teacher who can help you be nobody? And what discipline leads a person into zero?
To become anything, one must pass through a process. So humanity has developed processes for becoming perfect. We have built roads to strengthen the ego, mapped out journey-paths, devised systematic thinking. But zero! What can be done to become zero?
So Lao Tzu says a few things. He says, 'Grind down the sharp points.'
There are many sharp points in the personality. Wherever you prick someone, there is a sharp edge in you. But the fun of a point is this: when someone else pricks you, you come to know his sharpness; when you prick another, you never know your own. If I thrust a knife into your body, you will know; the knife will not. If my sharp point digs into someone, he will know; I will not. Yes—if someone else’s point pierces into me, then I know.
From this arises a great confusion in the world, a deep muddle. All the quarrels in the world are because we only know the other’s points, never our own. Have you ever come to know your own sharp edge? Hence we go on all our lives trying to blunt others’ points.
First, take this deeply to heart: we do not see our own points; we only feel the others’ because they hurt us. Our points hurt others—we do not feel them. Second, because we do not feel our own points, knowingly or unknowingly we go on strengthening their roots. And since the other’s points hurt us, we try to break them.
And the strange thing is: the more we try to break the other’s points, the more we must sharpen our own. For to break the other’s point, what tool do we have besides our point? So the attempt to break another’s point is, deep down, the attempt to grind, polish, and hone our own. The other is doing the same. Then the vicious circle becomes clear. Each is trying to break the other’s points—and in doing so is sharpening his own. The other, too, is trying to break yours—and to break yours, he is poisoning his own points, giving them venom. We become nothing but points. Slowly, except for these spikes, nothing else remains in us.
At most our own points prick us from one side only. Note this too. Our points prick us in only one way. When our points begin to pierce many, those many become eager to stab us back with theirs. Only then do we vaguely sense that we have points. What we usually do then is cover our spikes with a thin garment—skin-deep. A thin layer of skin grows over our points. We smear ourselves with a paste of softness, humility, etiquette, respectability. But that layer peels away with the slightest scratch. We make our politeness so fragile that with the least disturbance our points erupt out.
Lao Tzu says: shed all the points.
So what will you do? First you must discover where your sharp edges are. And is it not possible that through lifetimes we have reduced ourselves to nothing but points—having cut away all else and saved only the spikes?
How to recognize them? Stand, always, in the other’s place, and you can see. Whenever someone is hurt by you, your mind says the fault is his—he is sensitive, he misunderstood. But when we are hurt by someone, the mind says: someone has persecuted me, therefore I suffer. This is a double bind. If you are angry at me, I say your nature is bad. If I am angry, I say the situation was such; the circumstances compelled me. But when the other is angry, I say it is his perverted nature—there was no circumstance requiring anger; the man is toxic. This is our logic. And in this logic our points hide, and we never discover them.
Jesus said: what you wish to be done to you, do exactly that to the other. But this is a far-off ideal. At least do this much: think for yourself what you think for the other. Or at least, if you give yourself a certain argument, give the same argument to the other. If I say, 'When I am angry, the circumstances demand it,' then let me be just enough to say, when someone is angry with me, 'The circumstances are such that he had to be angry.' We must break this double bind logic. Otherwise we will never know our points.
This dual logic—one for oneself and one for the other—exists only to protect our points. Within it we never come to know who we are. We never become aware of what we are. And life goes on thus, and on the strength of this single cunning logic the whole life is wasted.
Therefore, if the essence of all religions can be put into a single saying, it is in Jesus’ words: 'Do unto others as you would like to be done unto you.' The entire essence of religion is condensed into this one sutra: do to the other what you would want the other to do to you. This one saying is enough. All the Vedas, all the shastras, all the Puranas, the Quran and the Bible—all are contained in this small sentence.
If one can live even this, nothing remains to be done. But it is arduous—because to do it you must shed all your points. And we are full of spikes.
So first become alert to this double logic—moment to moment. Give the other the same chance, the same benefit of argument, that you give yourself. Then you will begin to see your points. An interesting thing happens: the day we drop this logic and give the other the same chance, the whole situation is reversed. Now we say: the other is angry because of his perverted nature; my anger was circumstantial. The day this argument is reversed, a new experience happens: I see that I am angry because my nature is such, because my habit is such; the other’s anger was due to his circumstances. The day this flips, everything turns upside down.
When you begin to see: my nature is such that I became angry; the other’s circumstances were such that he became angry—then you become incapable of forgiving yourself and incapable of not forgiving the other. And the person who finds it very easy to forgive himself will never shed his points.
But we are very skillful in forgiving ourselves. Our forgiveness for ourselves knows no bounds. If I ask—or if you ask yourself—could you live with someone exactly like you, a copy of you? For how many days could you stand it? Even twenty-four hours would be difficult. Yet you have been living with yourself for many lifetimes. There must be some logic that keeps you from knowing yourself. You never get the hint of what you are. You never awaken to it.
So first, become aware of the points—the spearheads we carry all around. Wherever we move, someone is pricked. And if you pass by without pricking, you feel you have not passed at all—no one noticed you. You feel noticed only when you start hurting someone in some way.
There are many ways of wounding; we will talk of them—how many kinds of wounds we inflict, and how many justifications we invent.
One morning a few friends were gathered in Mulla Nasruddin’s sitting room. Nasruddin said to one disciple: 'Go, take this clay pot, fill water from the well. Be careful—the pot is made of clay; don’t break it. Come here a moment.' He called him close and slapped him—twice. The young man flared up; the others were alarmed. An old man said, 'Mulla, beating an innocent man—this is incomprehensible. He has not even broken the pot and you have already punished him!' Nasruddin said, 'I am not among the fools who slap after the pot is broken. What is the use then? If the pot is already broken, what good is slapping?'
You cannot defeat Nasruddin. His point is meaningful: if you must slap, do it now—while it can still have some effect. Later there will be no meaning. Man is so skillful, he can punish even before a crime occurs. Nasruddin’s joke contains this very thing. And he can find rationalizations for it too; he can find arguments for anything. We are very clever at finding arguments.
But through clever arguments no one attains self-experience, for argument is a device to conceal oneself. It won’t work with reasoning—it will work with insight. And insight means: the capacity to put yourself in the other’s place. This happens every day, yet we never think of it. Every day each of us feels that the anger someone pours on him is unjustified. Everyone feels it is unjust. Search for a man—if you find one, he will be a rare flower—who does not feel twenty-five times a day that he is a victim of injustice. 'I did nothing deserving anger!' That is our universal feeling.
But have we ever, when we got angry at another, thought: 'Perhaps he is a victim of injustice too?' When someone is angry at us, he does not sense he is being unjust—then can we not suppose that when we get angry, we too are unaware of our injustice?
This is insight—this is inner seeing. This is not argument; it is a direct sense. Human nature is almost the same everywhere. What I think, nearly all think. What I experience, almost all experience. Hence it is not difficult to place myself in the other’s position. Nor to place the other in mine. The person who succeeds in doing so begins to receive insight. Then he begins to see: how many points! how many points!
Mahavira attained supreme knowing; or Buddha attained supreme knowing—yet when Buddha prays in the morning, daily he asks forgiveness from the whole world. One day someone asked: 'You have attained the ultimate wisdom; you cannot hurt anyone. For what do you ask forgiveness?'
Buddha said: 'I remember my days of ignorance. Even when no one hurt me, I felt hurt. Though I may not be hurting anyone now, many must still be feeling hurt. I know my former state of ignorance. I would feel hurt even when no one hurt me. So I also know that all around me is the crowd of the ignorant. Whether or not I hurt, many will feel hurt. Whether I cause it or not—what does it matter? They feel hurt. For that, forgiveness must be sought.'
The man said, 'But you are not the cause!'
Buddha said, 'Perhaps not the cause, but I am the occasion. If I were not here, no hurt would be felt from me. My very presence is enough—so they feel hurt. I keep asking forgiveness. This is not for crimes committed, but for those that have happened—even if my hand had no part.'
Our situation is such that it seems the whole world persecutes us. Only we are innocent—and all the rest are filled with mischief. They all torment us. As if the entire conspiracy of existence is against you. You are alone, and this entire web of the world stands up to harass you.
This is our vision. With this outlook, you will never see your own spikes. In it, you will always protect yourself. And the one who protects himself will not know himself—and hence cannot protect himself either. How will he protect what he does not know?
So first, see how many wounds you scatter around you in twenty-four hours—by speaking and by not speaking, in the way you rise, sit, gesture, with your eyes, with a smile, with your lips—how many wounds are scattered without cause! Then you will feel: this is your very nature.
Nasruddin was walking down the road. A man slipped on a banana peel and fell. Nasruddin burst into laughter. In laughing he forgot himself, stepped on another peel and fell too. Getting up, he said, 'O God, thank You! Had I not laughed at once, I would have missed the chance to laugh at all. If I had delayed even a moment or two, the chance would have been lost—now others are laughing. Now my laughing is no longer in my hands.'
When we laugh at others, we are unaware. When we get angry at others, we are unaware. When we slander others, we are unaware of what we are doing. In a little while, we ourselves can be in that very place. But Nasruddin speaks from the marrow—he says: 'Good that I laughed in time; then I would have had no chance.' He is pleased. It is a satire on all humanhood—like an extract of us all.
We must examine every gesture: is there a blade in it? Is there poison? Do you prick others, pass by stinging them? Do you take relish in pricking? Is there pleasure in dominating someone, owning someone, putting a hand on someone’s neck, commanding someone?
Nasruddin is angry at his son. The boy stands and shouts. Nasruddin says, 'Sit down, you rascal!' The boy—being Nasruddin’s son—says, 'I won’t sit!' So Nasruddin says, 'Then remain standing—but you will have to obey me! Either sit or stand—but you must obey my command. You cannot escape my authority.'
Our mind is constantly eager to press someone down. Why? Because only when we press someone do we feel that we are something. We do not sense our being until we press another. The more necks in my fist, the bigger a man I am. There is no other measure of a big man. How many people’s necks lie in his hands? If he tightens his fist, how many necks will be squeezed?
We all strive to get as many necks into our hands as possible. Not only enemies, even those we call friends keep their hands on our neck. An enemy’s hand may be farther away; the friend’s hand is right on the throat. Relatives, too, keep their hands on each other’s necks—constantly checking whether the neck is slipping away. If it begins to move away, anxiety arises: 'He’s slipping out of my grasp!' These are our spikes. This is our violence.
Lao Tzu says: grind down their sharp points. If you wish to move toward zero, grind them down, let them fall, remove them.
But who can remove the points? Only the one who is willing to live in insecurity. We place a guard at the door with a gun for security. That bayonet on the gun, that sword in the guard’s hand—he is not standing idly. He is for security. In a subtle way we keep spikes around our personality as well.
I stayed in a friend’s house for some eight years. I was amazed. He was a good man. He always met me with great love. Whenever he met me, there was a smile on his face. But I never saw him smile in front of his wife, nor in front of his son, nor before the servants. I became concerned. When he crossed before a servant, the very way he walked was worth seeing—he walked as if no one existed around him.
I asked him, 'What is the matter?'
He said, 'One has to remain on guard. If you smile at a servant, next day he asks for a raise. If you smile at your wife—trouble—she asks for a sari. The face has to be hard; one must be on patrol. Smiling has cost me a lot. Whenever I smiled, some trouble began. If the son sees the father smiling, his hand goes into my pocket.'
He said, 'I have fashioned a hard face. It is a compulsion; it hurts, but it is security. The son fears to approach; when I sit in my room, the servant won’t pass by; no one has the courage to stand before me.'
I said, 'Measure what you save by this security and what you lose. Granted—you become secure. Die completely—then the servant will never enter your room. Die—and no matter how much your wife needs a sari, she will not ask. Die—and however much the son desires, he will not put his hand in your pocket. He will throw your corpse out of the house. If you live, you will remain insecure; if you die, you will be totally secure. No one is more secure than a corpse—now even death can do nothing to it. No illnesses can come—nothing can be done to it. Now nothing can be done with it; it is beyond your doing.'
The more we pursue security, the more spikes we must create. These spikes are our security arrangements. Fear is there—attacks all around; aggressors gather. Not men—enemies are everywhere. We must protect ourselves from these enemies.
Nasruddin began to drink to be able to stand his wife. So much that his friends worried: he will not survive. Whenever they advised him, he said, 'Only after drinking can I enter home. If I go sober, my legs tremble at the door. And I start preparing answers to questions that no one ever asked anyone—but my wife can ask. When I go drunk, I enter peacefully. It is my security.'
But things became so bad that friends said, 'Something must be done, otherwise he will die.' One friend suggested: 'Since he fears his wife and drinks out of fear, if we bring a bigger fear, perhaps he will quit. What fear is bigger than the wife? Let’s do this: tonight, when he returns after midnight, let someone climb a tree disguised as the Devil—horns, black clothes, mask—and jump down screaming. He will shake and fold his hands. Make him vow then and there that he will give up drinking—or else the Devil will haunt him.'
Friends hid in the bushes. One friend dressed as the Devil climbed the tree. Around two in the night, poor Nasruddin returned—slowly. The man leapt down. Those hiding made a frightful uproar as if a great danger had come. The Devil stood before him, grabbed his neck.
Nasruddin looked at him. The man said, 'Promise—you will give up drinking!'
Nasruddin said, 'First tell me, sir, who are you? Who are you?'
Being asked this, the Devil faltered—Nasruddin had not frightened easily. He asked, 'Who are you?'
The man said, 'I am the Devil.'
Nasruddin said, 'Delighted to meet you! I am the man who married your sister. Come—let me introduce you to her.'
The whole scheme collapsed. The friends emerged from the bushes. Nasruddin said to them, 'Look, we have met with difficulty after much effort—let me take him to meet his sister. He has not the courage to go; he is trying to run away.'
Our entire planning—our words, language, doctrines, our cinema, dance halls, entertainments—are, very deeply, security arrangements. In every way. Our temples, our mosques, gurudwaras—these, too, are arrangements for security. We are frightened, and we make some arrangement. And whenever one is fearful one must keep edges sharpened on all sides.
Who can break these spikes? Only the one who is willing to live in insecurity.
Understanding Lao Tzu, Alan Watts wrote a book—'The Wisdom of Insecurity.' Security is a very stupid affair—because we cannot secure anything; in the very attempt we die and are wasted. The wisdom of insecurity! No—let us keep no spikes, raise no guard. If life attacks, we will welcome it.
And the great wonder: once a man accepts in this way—'Whatever attack comes, I will drink it, accept it, consent to it, say this is destiny, I will make no counter-arrangement'—it becomes impossible to attack him. Because even attack has its logic.
If your neighbor sees you doing push-ups, he is scared—'Who knows what he may do!' He also begins doing push-ups. Then you look from your window—'Ah, the matter is getting serious!' You bring home a sword. And so it proceeds. Not only among small neighbors—Russia and America and China and India and Pakistan, all are doing the same. One side’s troops patrol the border; the other side’s heart shakes—he doubles his patrols. And when he doubles them, he has the exact same logic as you. He thinks, 'Something is going wrong.'
Psychologists say that ninety-nine percent of wars so far have occurred due to misinterpretation—simply because one side interprets that the other is preparing to kill us: if we do not prepare, we will die. And when you prepare, the other has the same logic: 'Why is he preparing? For what?' If Pakistan brings arms from America, for whom does he bring them? To kill us. And if you create an atomic commission, for whom is it? To kill Pakistan. On both sides the same intelligence—a mirror-reflection. In this mutual mirroring, the final outcome seems almost mechanical—beyond human control.
Lao Tzu says: become insecure. Besides—what security can you create? If this earth breaks today, what arrangement is there? If the sun grows cold, what will you do? If the sun moves far away, what device do you have to bring it close? Once this earth was utterly empty—no man. It will again be empty. That day, what will you do? Whom will you complain to? On infinite stars, life has arisen and been destroyed. This earth will not remain green forever; it will vanish. What arrangements do you have? What will you protect?
It is like an ant returning home with a grain of sugar, making arrangements for the rains. Your foot falls on it. You do not even notice. All its arrangements, facilities—who knows what dreams it had dreamed, what promises made to its children—everything gone! What arrangement can an ant make against your step? Can you imagine any?
What do you think—do you have any great status? Because you crush ants, you think you are mighty? In this vast cosmos, what is man’s position?
If a super-sun passes near, all is ash. Scientists say that some three billion years ago a giant sun passed by—millions of miles away—and in its pull the moon broke away from the earth. The Pacific and Indian oceans are the hollows left behind where the broken piece departed.
It could happen any time. In this immense cosmos where perhaps four billion suns dwell, everything is happening. Will anyone come to ask us? Will anyone take our advice? A slight difference—and life departs from earth. Not you—life itself. Crores of species have existed which are now without a single descendant. No special law applies to man.
Yet we make great arrangements. Our arrangement is like the ant’s. I do not say: make no arrangements. Nor does Lao Tzu. He does not say: for the rains keep no grain in the house—keep some. But know well that our arrangements are like the ant’s. And the great wheel of life’s cosmic law turns—and we have no sway over it.
If this sinks in, the worry for security drops. Let security continue; drop the worry about it. drop the madness for security. Then there is no difficulty in dropping the spikes—because they are there only to protect us. When there is nothing to protect—when we consent to whatever may be—when death comes, we consent to death—then in that consenting there remains no need for anger, violence, hatred, enmity, hostility, jealousy. Only then can the spikes break.
'Untie the knots.'
Our mind—our personality—has become a knot, a complex. As if threads have got entangled; and from whichever end you pull, they tangle more. Such is the state of our mind. From one side you try to untie, from the other, knots arise. However much you try, it seems impossible to untie.
Lao Tzu says: 'Untie its knots.'
How will we untie them? We all try to untie. A man comes and says, 'I do not want to be angry. Tell me how not to be angry.'
It is surprising—if you do not want to be angry, then where is the question? Don’t be.
He says, 'That is not the point. I do not want to be angry—but anger comes.'
Which means anger is only one thread; many other threads are entwined. He wants to be free from one thread while clinging tightly to another that is woven to it. If we say, 'Fine—if you do not want anger, then start enjoying insult and stop caring for respect.' He will say, 'How is that possible? One must have self-respect!'
Man is skillful: we do not do pride; we do 'self-respect'. Others have pride. So, self-respect is necessary—otherwise we become worms. Now he says: 'I do not want anger, but I must protect my self-respect.' With self-respect, anger is but a connected strand; it cannot be severed from pride. Not merely self-respect—even the 'self' that you guard will preserve anger.
If the self itself is lost—selflessness not as in selfish-less, but in the absence of self—only then anger goes. Our condition is that we try to save one end of a stick and cut the other. The whole life goes in this difficulty—nothing is cut. We never see the web—the interconnectedness of all things within.
Someone says, 'I want no enemies; I want friendship with all.'
But remember, in the very making of friendship, enmities are created. Yes—anger and pride are easy to see—but we do not see that in the process of making friends we manufacture enemies. Whoever is eager to make friendships will create enmities. Because in the very method of making friends, as a by-product... Like in a factory—by-products appear. If you burn wood, coal and ash remain. You say, 'I want fire; I must burn fuel. But I do not want ash in the house.' The ash is a by-product; it will remain. With whomever you make friends, some enmities will arise. And the eager friendship-maker will set up many bases of hostility around himself.
Truth is: why are you eager to make friends? If you look deeply, you want friends because you are afraid of enmity. It, too, is an arrangement—'We must have friends.'
Nasruddin is in deep trouble—a great loss in business. A friend says, 'I will give you ten thousand—take it.' Nasruddin closes his eyes and thinks. The friend says, 'What is there to think? Take it. Return it when you can.' Nasruddin keeps thinking. The friend is surprised—he needs it, the money will help. Nasruddin says, 'No—leave it.' The friend asks, 'Why?'
Nasruddin says, 'It is by taking money that I lost my other friends. I took and they were gone. Only you are left. Your friendship is precious; I will not lose it for ten thousand.'
Friend and enemy are two ends of one thing. The friend can become the enemy any day. The enemy can become the friend any day. I said before, Machiavelli stands at the other end of Lao Tzu. There is great cleverness at both ends. Machiavelli writes in his book: 'Do not tell even to your friends what you would not like your enemies to know—because any friend can become an enemy.' And, 'Do not say of your enemy what you would not say of a friend—because any enemy can become a friend.'
Machiavelli speaks of shrewdness: speak with care. To a friend do not say what you fear saying to an enemy—for a friend may turn enemy. And about the enemy do not speak what you would not want to have said about a friend—for he may turn friend.
We want many friends—and no enemies at all. The web is huge.
Lao Tzu says, 'Untie all the knots.' But how? Whenever we set out to untie, we loosen one end and the other snarls. We are taught: do not be angry, be forgiving. Another snarl begins. We are taught: do not hate, love. Do not be violent, be nonviolent. Do not lie, speak truth. But in all these, the knots will tangle. On the surface it is not apparent how the knots will tangle. What knot could appear for the man who vows to speak truth?
Many. The man who decides to speak truth must constantly remember falsehood—what is a lie? If he forgets the lie, it will be hard to hold on to truth. Children speak 'lies' because they have no notion yet of lying. They are so simple they do not have the distinction between true and false.
I have heard: a little boy returned home and said to his mother, 'Amazing! On the road I saw a dog so huge—like an elephant!' The mother said, 'Babloo, I have told you a crore times—don’t exaggerate!' A crore times! She says: 'I have told you a million times not to exaggerate; but you don’t listen.'
What the child says is not a lie. Why? We never consider that a child’s sense of proportion is different. His proportion is not yours. A small dog, which to you seems small, can appear like an elephant to a child. His mathematics is different. What he sees, you cannot. What you see, he does not.
Ask any child to draw a person—he will leave out the belly. He will draw two legs, two arms, a head—and leave out the middle. All over the world. So it cannot be the mistake of a child or two. Psychologists grew curious: if just one child erred, fine—but all over the world, China, Africa, America—why do children leave out the middle? Study revealed: the child has no awareness of the middle. For him, a person means two hands, two legs, head; the rest is absent from his field of awareness. His attention has not gone there.
So a dog can appear like an elephant. But the mother says: 'I have told you a million times!'—and that is obvious exaggeration. And that exaggeration is exaggeration. What the child says is not.
She scolded him and said: 'Go—pray to God and ask forgiveness—promise never to lie again.' The child went and prayed. A little later he came out. The mother asked, 'Did He forgive you?' The child said, 'Forgive? God said, When I saw that dog the first time, he also looked like an elephant to Me. Babloo, it is not your fault. Look a second time, and it will look like a dog.'
This child is not forging a lie. To us it seems an obvious lie. Who will talk to him from God? But we do not know the child’s mind. He can ask a question and answer it too—from both sides. He must have thought, 'What is this? It looked like an elephant.' And from God’s side he himself answered: 'It looked so to Me too the first time.' He is speaking what happens to him. He is not speaking your truth—the truth that is defined against falsehood. He speaks what occurs to him. When rightly understood, to speak what happens is truth. But not your truth, defined over and against lie.
The new priest came to Nasruddin’s village mosque. He preached the very first day. Old Nasruddin, returning from the mosque, was asked by the priest, 'How was the sermon?' Mulla said, 'Wonderful—fantastic! We never knew what sin is before you came.' We did not even know what sin was. Until you came, sin was unknown. To know sin, its definition must be made clear!
One day Nasruddin caught his lawyer outside the court and said, 'Listen, what is the law for divorce? How can it be done?' The lawyer said, 'What do you mean, Nasruddin? What happened?' Nasruddin said, 'My wife has no manners—no table manners at all. The whole house is defamed. The village reputation is ruined. Divorce is necessary.' The lawyer asked, 'How long have you been married?' Nasruddin said, 'About thirty years.' The lawyer said, 'Thirty years... So you have borne this bad manners for thirty years—why bother now?' Nasruddin said, 'For thirty years I did not know. Today I read a book. Today I got an etiquette book. I saw: everything is spoiled—my wife has no table manners at all.'
When do we come to know? Through definitions! Lao Tzu says: 'An inch of distinction—and heaven and hell are set apart.' Do not make distinctions. Do not say, this is right, that wrong. The moment you divide, all is lost. Live in non-division.
How will the knots be untied?
Our method is to replace each knot with its opposite. If anger is much—bring in forgiveness. If violence is much—take a vow of nonviolence. If greed is much—practice renunciation, give alms. We untie this way. Nothing unties this way.
In Lao Tzu’s vision, untying means: see the whole situation. All these tangles are born of your distinctions. Your division into sin and virtue, truth and untruth, love and hate—this is the source of all knots. Drop the distinctions. Live simply, naturally. Flow with your nature. Make no division. Then there is no entanglement.
If someone asks Lao Tzu, 'Have you ever done penance for a sin?' he will say, 'No—because I do not know what sin is.' Not that he never committed a sin. He says: 'I do not know what sin is.' If someone asks, 'Have you done merits—virtue—for which you will receive fruits?' Lao Tzu will say, 'No—I do not know what virtue is; fruits may come, I do not know. I kept no accounts. I did what was spontaneous. I never repented, nor did I ever pat my back in self-praise. I did neither.'
The knots will fall if we understand the chemistry by which we produce them. What is it? We split everything in two. First we divide, then we act. Then our trouble becomes like that of a Greek thinker—Zeno. A very valuable thinker—among the few greats of Greece. Zeno’s paradoxes are famous.
Zeno says: suppose there is a mile to go. First walk half a mile—and always walk half of what remains. You will never complete the mile—not in eternity.
A mile is not much—fifteen minutes on foot. Zeno says: first cross half; then of what remains, cross half; then of what remains, cross half—and always there will remain something to halve. You will never finish.
Mathematically the point is correct. The mathematician cannot answer; it cannot be crossed.
Zeno says: you pull an arrow on your bow and let it fly. For the arrow to travel—suppose it starts at 12 o’clock. At 12, it is at point A; at one minute past 12, it must be at B. At two minutes past 12, at C. Only then can it be said to move. Zeno says: at 12 it is at A—so it is stationary at A; at 12:01 it is stationary at B. How will it cross the gap from A to B? He says it cannot. Mathematically, no arrow can move.
Zeno walks. Zeno shoots an arrow. People ask him: 'You walk; you reach; you shoot.' Zeno says: 'I do not know—but mathematically no arrow can move.' For movement means at one instant it will be at A; at that instant it cannot be at B. Then it must be at B—then it is not at A. If it is at A, how will it go to B? Or, if you say at the same time it is at A and B—everything becomes absurd.
Zeno wrote paradoxes. For two thousand years, many tried to answer him; but the answer does not come—because it cannot. Intelligence divides; the arrow goes without division. The feet go without division. The arrow does not know where A is or B! The mind divides; the feet do not. The feet do not consider 'half-mile, then half, then half'—they just go. The mind cuts; the feet move uncut. There is no harmony between mind and movement.
The mind’s rule is: divide. Division results in entanglement. If you want to be free of entanglement, go back—do not divide. If you are not to divide, you must drop the mind. When the mind drops, undividedness arises. All riddles fall; all knots drop.
One of Mahavira’s names is Nirgrantha—the knotless one. It means: the man whose knots have fallen, whose entanglements have dropped.
Note, the emphasis is on knots falling, not on solving them. In my hand is a ball of snarled threads. Solving means I untangle them, roll them neatly. Knots falling means the threads fall from my hand—I forget the entanglement altogether. The matter is finished. My hands are empty. The emphasis is on the knot dropping.
Lao Tzu says: remove all entanglements. Mahavira says: become Nirgrantha—leave all knots.
Modern psychology has begun to work much with the word 'complex'. In the East 'granthi'—knot—is an ancient expression. The mind’s entanglements we have called granthis. The West for the past fifty or sixty years has used 'complex'. It is the same meaning. And the mind is full of complexes. Psychology tries very hard to resolve them. But in fifty years of constant effort, it is experienced that even after years of psychoanalysis, complexes do not resolve. One only becomes willing to live with them.
A man has anger. He is troubled: how to be rid of it? If he goes to the psychologist, after two or three years he comes to the point where he consents: it does not go—let it be. He agrees and stops trying to remove it. They get no further. By the attempt to untie, you come only this far—that you take the entangled knot as if it were solved and go to sleep suppressing it. It will not untie; its nature is to be entangled.
Mind is the complex. The mind itself is the knot. It is not that there are some other complexes which, if resolved, leave the mind behind. The mind itself is a knot. The method Lao Tzu suggests is: strike at the foundation of the mind—the distinctions: mine–thine, dark–light, friend–foe, life–death, body–soul, heaven–world. Drop these divisions.
Nasruddin collided with a car. He received the worst possible injuries. Both legs broken, one arm broken, neck injured, several ribs fractured, many wounds on the head. Bandages everywhere. He lay in the hospital.
The sultan passed through the town. Hearing that the oldest, most famous man of the village lay in hospital, he went to see him. Seeing him, he did not know what to say. Only Nasruddin’s mouth and eyes were visible—everything else bandaged. Would the man even live? The sultan wanted to say something, but how to begin? Even words of sympathy seemed out of place—such was the mess. Still, he said something: 'You are too badly hurt—legs broken, hands broken, head wounded, face injured, ribs broken—it must be great pain, Mulla!' Nasruddin said, 'No, not really—only when I laugh.' He said, 'When I laugh, then a little pain happens—otherwise not.'
The sultan could not understand—how could anyone laugh in such a condition? It did not occur to him that he might laugh. Nasruddin said, 'No—no pain really—only when I laugh. The sultan said, 'Since I am here, let me at least ask: Mulla, even in this condition can you laugh?' Nasruddin said, 'If I cannot laugh in this condition, then I have not learned to laugh. What other meaning can laughter have? What other occasion? And I laugh because many times it seemed so, but I did not have certainty. I had thought of it often. Now I know: however many bones of Nasruddin break—Nasruddin does not break. Inside I laugh: What a joy! Everything is broken. Those who come show me pity—but I do not feel pity for myself. All is broken, everything smashed. Nothing much remains to be saved. Laughter comes. People ask me: How are you, Nasruddin? Nasruddin is perfectly fine. Nasruddin is perfectly fine.'
Among the mind’s knots, if you stand apart, they drop immediately. Then you are perfectly fine. All the bandages remain; all your worldly entanglements remain; the marketplace stands around—but you are suddenly outside. You transcend it. In transcendence is resolution. Knots cannot be untied; they resolve by going beyond them.
You cannot remove the darkness of the valley by staying in the valley—but climb to the peak, reach the sun—there is open light. The valley remains dark—but you are no longer in it.
All our effort is to light lamps, light fires—to illumine the valley while remaining in it. Where the disease is, we stay—there we try to cure. We do not go beyond. Lao Tzu’s alchemy, and the vision of those like him, is the vision of beyondness. Go beyond. Move away. Create a gap between you and the turmoil. Look from a little distance—and laughter arises. Then no entanglement binds.
Lao Tzu says: 'Remove the tangles, untie the knots; soften the glare.'
This 'I-ness' within, this ego, is like a flame—burning. Its glare hurts the eyes. It is not an aura; it is a fire.
Lao Tzu says: 'Soften its brightness.'
Grind down your points, unbind your knots—and you will find your ego is no longer ego; it has become asmita. Understand these two words.
Sanskrit has rich terms. Ego is 'ahamkara'. But Sanskrit has another word: asmita—which cannot be translated into English, nor even into Hindi, properly. Ahamkara means an 'I' that wounds others; asmita means an 'I' that wounds no one—so gentle that no spike remains. The very sound of ahamkara carries a sting. 'Asmita'—the feel is of a storm that has calmed, waves that have subsided. The lake is still—present—but not in the frantic form of tempests, of furious waves that made hearts tremble and boats sink, banks quake. That is no more. The same waves sleep now; they have fallen silent.
Asmita means an 'I' from which the sting is gone—no blaze remains; only an aura. Aura! Before the sun rises, the light that spreads is aura. When the sun rises—the blaze begins. The sun has not yet appeared; it lies below the horizon. Morning has come—night is past—but day has not yet arrived. Between the two is a moment—the dawn’s radiance. The sun is not yet present.
When ego sets, the piercing blaze of 'I' disappears; the ego sinks. Then there remains an inner aura—of being. Still, I am—not that I am not. I remain. But there is no 'I-ness' in it—no storm. No noise, no proclamation. If someone asks, I will say, 'I am.' But if no one asks, I will not even notice that I am. This 'I' is only an answer to a question. If none asks, the word is never formed.
But you have seen—ego is whether anyone asks or not, whether anyone is present or not. Alone, ego persists.
I have heard: a ship sank. A very wealthy businessman survived and reached a deserted island. He was not only a big trader; he was also a sculptor, an architect. Alone—what to do? He began to carve statues, build houses—cut wood, set stones—kept himself busy. Years passed. He settled a whole town. Alone—he raised structures of stone and wood, cut roads—nearly useless in themselves, but he made all that he needed—useless in fact.
He built the shop from which he used to buy supplies in his home town. He made the hotel where he used to dine. He made the station from which he caught the train—though there was no train, no one to run the hotel, no shopkeeper, nothing to sell. But in the morning he would leave home and greet the shopkeeper; sometimes he would rest in the hotel. He was alone. He built a church. He made all the arrangements.
After twenty years, a ship arrived. The sailors said, 'We thought you were finished—but you are alive. Come.' He said, 'Before I come, let me show you my town—what I have built.' He showed them: 'This is the shop where I used to buy goods. This is the hotel where I sometimes rested. That spire far away is my church, where I used to go.'
They said, 'But we see two churches—one in front of the other.'
He said, 'Yes—one is the church I used to go to; the other is the church I did not go to. There were two churches in my town—one was mine, where I went; one was the enemy’s, where I did not go.'
'But why did you build the church you do not go to?'
He said, 'Without that, my church had no charm. In contrast with it—see the glory of my church, and see its state—no paint for years! I never saw anyone going there. People mostly came to mine.'
He is alone. Ego, even alone, will create a world around itself. It will build even the church to which it does not go. Ego cannot be alone—it needs the other. It is other-oriented. Without the other, it has no meaning. Asmita is alone—it has nothing to do with the other. It is my being—my existence. Ego is my fight against you. Asmita is my existence—nothing to do with you. When ego is strong, asmita is pressed inside. When ego departs, asmita appears. Ego burns—because it arises in the urge to burn others. Asmita is gentle.
So Lao Tzu says: let your brightness be softened. Let the fierce, bitter, toxic sharpness of your being be gentled, softened, stilled. Let aura remain—light only; no fire anywhere.
Remember: fire and light are one and the same; but fire burns, light does not. The same thing—yet fire brings death, light brings life. In fire there is scorching haste; in light there is gentleness. So soft—the footfall of light is not heard.
'Let the agitated waves be submerged.'
This disturbed ego, this mad urge for perfection—let its turbulent waves, its crazed surges, sink back into the lake—fall into stillness.
'And yet it remains like the dark circumference of unfathomable water.'
And when all this has happened—even then, all remains a mystery. Do not think that everything becomes solved. Even then, not all answers arrive. This is very precious—the final line.
'Even then it remains like the dark, unfathomable water.'
As water grows deeper, it grows dark. When shallow, it looks clear; deeper it turns blue; unfathomable—it appears black. Darkness is the symbol of mystery. In light there is no mystery; mystery is in darkness. Light is shallow. In darkness there is depth—abysmal depth—no shore.
Keep this in mind: the whole earth may be filled with light—still, light’s domain is small; and a small room filled with darkness is infinite. A small darkness is infinite; the greatest light is not.
Lao Tzu says: even then, it remains like unfathomable water—veiled in darkness, veiled in mystery—no edge, no shore.
There were Christian mystics—and only among them do we find God symbolized as Darkness. A particular sect—the Essenes—older than Jesus, from whom Jesus learned in Egypt. The Essenes said: 'O God, Thou art Absolute Darkness.' The Absolute Darkness. Many have sought symbols for God. The symbol of light is common—the Vedas say, the Upanishads say, the Quran says—God is Light. But how wondrous were the Essenes! They said: God is Absolute Darkness. The point is simply this: darkness is infinite. Imagine light as you wish, a boundary comes.
Another wonder: you can light and extinguish light—it is momentary. Darkness is eternal. You do not light it, you do not quench it. Your doing is irrelevant. You come and go—no change. Lamp lit, lamp put out; sun rises, sun sets—darkness remains where it is—untouched, unspoiled, virgin. Light can be polluted; darkness cannot be. It cannot be touched.
Lao Tzu says: unfathomable water—drowned in darkness, in mystery!
Mystery means: that which we know—and know that we do not know. Mystery does not mean merely that which we do not know—that is ignorance, not mystery. That which we know is knowledge. In knowledge there is no mystery; in ignorance there is none. The ignorant says, 'I do not know'—it is clear. The knower says, 'I know'—also clear. Mystery is: I know that I do not know. In one sense I know—and in another I cannot say I know. In some sense it seems: I have recognized, known, come close. Immediately it seems: the closer I come, the farther it goes. I put my hand to grasp—and discover my hand has gone into it. I dive into the ocean—feel I have found it—but then I see I sit on a tiny shore; the ocean is endless—unfathomed, untouched—never to be possessed.
The ignorant is clear—he does not know. The knower is clear—he knows. Both share a common element—clarity. The mystic is different—neither with the knower nor with the ignorant—or with both at once. He says: in one sense I know; in another, I do not. My knowing reveals my not-knowing. The more I know, the more I see that knowing remains to be done.
Lao Tzu says: when all is solved, that day you will find that nothing is solved. All is like the dark, unfathomable water.
This troubles the thinkers—the argumentative people. So much effort to become zero, to cut knots, to do everything—and in the end, if nothing definite is in hand, all the effort was wasted. They do not know: whenever something definite comes into your hand, then the journey is wasted. That which is achieved completely and totally becomes useless, meaningless.
When, having attained, you feel you have not attained; when, having arrived, you feel the destination remains; when, having drowned, you see you are still on the surface—when even at the bottom you feel the journey has just begun—then you have reached a place where meaning will never be emptied, where meaning will never be lost, where poetry will never cease, where romance is eternal.
Therefore religion is an eternal romance. The nearer we come to the Beloved, the more we find veils upon veils, doors upon doors. The nearer we go, the more doors appear—endless. And that is why this journey is infinitely significant. At every step there is mystery and wonder; every step can be called a destination; every destination can be called a fresh step and a wayside rest.
Thus Lao Tzu says: all this happens—and still, not that the final arrives; no one says, 'Finished—reached.'
Only shallow people reach. Those who do not reach, appear as if they have. Life is so deep that no one can declare—'I have arrived.'
In the Upanishads there is a story: a father sends his five sons to seek Truth. They go. Years later they return. The father is dying. He asks: 'Did you find Truth? Did you bring it? Did you know?'
The first son answers—reciting Vedic hymns. The second speaks sutras from the Upanishads. The third talks deep Vedanta. The fourth says what the essential religions have found.
As they answer, the father grows sadder. By the fourth, he lies back on the bed. The fifth remains silent. The father sits up again and says, 'You did not answer. Perhaps you thought I lay down, tired. Speak—because I am living only in your waiting.' The son remains silent. The father says, 'Speak.' The son closes his eyes. The father says, 'Then I can die in peace. At least one has returned knowing—he is silent.'
Bodhidharma, returning after ten years in China, gathers his disciples and asks: 'Tell me—the secret of the Dharma. What is the message of Buddha? What did I give to you?' He wishes to check before leaving.
One disciple says, 'Samsara and nirvana are one—nonduality.'
Bodhidharma looks and says, 'You have my skin.' The student is shocked—'Skin? I spoke of the highest—nonduality—that samsara and Brahman are one, samsara and moksha are one; there is no duality.'
He asks the second. The second says, 'It is hard to say—ineffable—very difficult.'
Bodhidharma says, 'You have my bones.' 'Only bones?' 'Yes—because you say ineffable, yet you say it. You say it cannot be said—yet you speak. You have the bones.'
The third says, 'It can neither be called ineffable, nor called nonduality—words do not work there—only silence is meaningful.'
Bodhidharma says, 'You have my marrow—the brain-substance that fills the skull.'
What deeper will there be? He looks at the fourth. The fourth falls at his feet, places his head there. Bodhidharma lifts him. His eyes are empty—no reflection runs in them; like a sky where no cloud ever passes—utterly vacant. Bodhidharma shakes him—'Did you hear my question? Did it reach you?' Empty eyes remain empty; closed lips remain closed. He again bows and places his head at Bodhidharma’s feet. Bodhidharma lifts him: 'Speak!' He does not. He is silent.
Bodhidharma says, 'You have me. Now I go.' He returns. 'You have me.'
Mystery means: it can never be said to be attained or known—nor can it be said to be unknown. Not known, not unknown. It is all so vast that anything we say is futile.
So Lao Tzu says: still, you will untie everything; you will open all secrets; your illnesses will drop—still, the mystery of existence will not open. The mystery will grow denser—like unfathomable water, dark.
We will talk the next sutra tomorrow.