Tao Upanishad #17

Life is built upon many opposing foundations. As it appears, it is not so; behind the visible there are invisible elements, utterly opposite to what is seen.
The opposite does not even occur to us. When we see birth, there is no hint of death. And if someone were to think of death at the very moment of birth, we would call him mad. Yet behind birth, death is hiding. One who knows, sees death instantly in birth. Likewise, when someone is dying, standing by his deathbed we do not remember his birth at all.
But behind every death, the journey toward birth has already begun. When someone is beautiful, we never think he will become ugly. When someone is young, within the beauty of youth we do not hear the approaching footsteps of old age. When someone succeeds, it never occurs to us that failure is near. When someone is enthroned, we do not remember that the hour of falling to the dust is very close.
Life holds the opposite within itself. The wise, therefore, is one who can also see the opposite at every moment. He who sees death in life, light in darkness, failure in success, ugliness in beauty, who sees the seeds of hate within love, who sees the journey of blame within praise—that one is wise.
In this sutra Lao Tzu brings the deepest news of this opposition. What is its deepest level? Have you ever seen the bellows in a blacksmith’s shop? Lao Tzu takes that as his example. He says: when a bellows becomes utterly empty—vacant—do not think it has become powerless. The truth is, only an empty bellows has power; a filled bellows has none. The blacksmith empties the bellows so that it may become powerful. Then, with that very power—the power of emptiness—air is drawn in. A filled bellows cannot draw air within; being already filled, nothing more can enter. The filled bellows is at the last limit of fullness; no power remains. It has become impotent, strengthless; nothing can be done with it. But when the bellows is empty, it is powerful; now it can be filled again.
At the moment of death, the human bellows is pressed and emptied. Now life can appear again. At death, the air that was within you goes out; now you will again be able to draw in the winds of life. Have you ever thought that only when your breath goes out can you absorb life within? When the breath is out, then you are powerful, not empty. You are empty of breath, but your capacity to draw in life deepens.
Lao Tzu says: when the blacksmith’s bellows is empty, do not think it has become weak. It will draw the air in; it will fling the air out. That emptiness is a step toward fullness. But to us, emptiness looks like only emptiness, and fullness like only fullness.
Lao Tzu says: emptiness is a step toward fullness, and fullness is the fresh preparation for emptiness. These are the right and left legs of life. Life does not walk on one leg. Breath coming in is one leg of life; breath going out is also a leg of life. If you watch the two breaths, it will occur to you: the outgoing breath is like death, the incoming breath like birth. Those who know the science of breath deeply say: with every breath we die and are reborn.
But death does not mean becoming powerless. Death only means that we are ready once again to be powerful: we have thrown out the old and our capacity to be filled with the new has become clear again.
Lao Tzu says that between heaven and earth, Existence too functions like the bellows. Between heaven and earth the whole exists as a bellows. We can understand the entire cosmos through the arrangement of breath going in and coming out—the entire cosmos! If sunrise in the morning is the inhaling breath, then sunset in the evening is the exhaling, emptying breath. The whole is pulsating with breath—like a bellows.
And today—Lao Tzu could not even have imagined it—the continuous search of Einstein and his companions has given physics a new idea: the expanding universe. Until now we thought the universe was fixed, static. Now scientists say it is expanding, ever-growing—like a child blowing air into a rubber balloon, which grows larger and larger. So the universe is getting bigger every day. During the very time we are speaking here, the universe has grown vast. At thousands of miles per second the universe expands. Its outer circumference keeps spreading outward; stars are moving away from one another—just as two points on the surface of a small rubber balloon move apart as the balloon inflates. As the balloon grows, the points recede from each other. All the stars are moving apart; the periphery moves away from the center.
But Einstein threw Western science into a great difficulty: what will be the end of this? Where will it stop? If it stops, for what reason will it stop? On the second matter the West has, as yet, no thought. That second thought can be found with Lao Tzu, with the Upanishads: the expansion of the universe is the inhaling breath of Existence, of Srishti. But what expands must also contract; the returning breath will also be. Western science has reached the idea of the expanding breath; it must yet arrive at the thought of the returning breath.
The sages of the East have said that this expanding is Srishti, and when creation contracts, when the breath begins to go out, we call it Pralaya. When the universe has fully expanded, the return inevitably begins—just as when you fill your lungs and they expand, then the breath begins to go out and the lungs contract.
India has said something wondrous: the duration of one creation is one breath of Brahma—one breath of Existence, we might say. When Brahma inhales, the world blossoms and expands; when Brahma exhales, all contracts and returns to its seed.
Lao Tzu says that between earth and heaven there is just such a play of the bellows’ breath. And between earth and heaven, all things are wrapped in this duality—expansion and contraction.
Why does Lao Tzu want to say this? He wants to say: if you are very eager to expand, then be prepared for contraction. If you are keen to attain life, be prepared to die. If you strongly desire to be beautiful, you are sowing the seeds of ugliness. If you strive to be successful, you are building the very steps of failure.
Someone once asked Lao Tzu one morning, “Have you ever known sorrow?” Lao Tzu laughed. He said, “No—because I never desired to know happiness.”
We too wish not to know sorrow—so that we can go on knowing happiness. We too want sorrow not to be, but only so that happiness may remain. Lao Tzu says, “I have not known sorrow, because I never had any aspiration to know happiness.”
We will go on knowing sorrow, because in sowing happiness we sow its seeds of sorrow. From the desire for happiness, sorrow is born. The in-breath itself becomes the out-breath. Expansion is the path of contraction. And light becomes the doorway of darkness. The opposite is not in our thought; yet like a blacksmith’s bellows, life keeps swaying between its opposites.
Lao Tzu cannot be defeated, because Lao Tzu says, “I never wanted to win.” He says, “No one has ever been able to insult me, because I have never arranged for any honor.” And when he went to assemblies, he sat where people take off their shoes—because from there there is no way to push one further back. Lao Tzu said, “I have always remained number one, because no one could ever place me at number two; I always stood at the very end. I stood at the farthest back in the line; beyond that there is no place. So no one could push me behind.”
It sounds upside down. But it is exactly so. One who stands already at the back cannot be pushed further back. But the one who stands ahead—within that very act he has arranged all that will throw him behind. In truth, the very steps he climbed to stand in front, those same steps someone else will use to pull him down.
Mulla Nasruddin was fishing one morning by a river. He had also caught some crabs, and put four or six in a small bucket. Three or four big politicians of the town were out for a morning walk. They saw Nasruddin and saw the crabs moving in the bucket. One of them said, “Mulla, better cover your bucket; otherwise these crabs will escape.” Nasruddin said, “No need to cover. These crabs are born politicians. One begins to climb, and the others pull him down—they cannot escape. They climb, but they cannot get away, because the other three are behind them the entire time. At first I used to cover the bucket. Then I found it useless. They are born politicians; there’s no need to cover.”
In truth, whenever you begin to climb up, you arouse countless people eager to pull you back. The very chemistry of climbing contains this. Indeed, the fun of climbing is only when someone is eager to pull you down. Understand this a little. If no one were eager to pull you, would there be any joy in your ascent? Would there? Sit upon a throne—and if no one is eager to unseat you, that throne becomes pointless.
The value of the throne is precisely that, once someone sits upon it, millions become eager to push him off, to shove him aside, to sit there in his place. Otherwise, who would call it a throne—where the one seated finds no one eager to unseat him? You sit precisely because it is a place where innumerable people want to sit. The very taste you have in sitting there is the same taste others have in pulling you down. They are joint, simultaneous.
And Lao Tzu says: you will not be able to pull us down, because we are seated where there is no place lower still. Our throne is secure.
Lao Tzu knows the upside-down. And to know the upside-down is the formula of supreme wisdom in this world. If we want to be first, we only want to be first. We have no idea of the upside-down—that only the last can be first. If we want to be filled, we simply try to fill. We have no idea of the upside-down—that only the empty can be filled. If we want respect, we directly chase respect. We do not know this is the arrangement for receiving insult. To see the opposite is the great art; the opposite does not appear to us.
Someone came to see Mulla Nasruddin at home. As soon as he entered, Nasruddin said, “Sit! Take a chair!” But the man was offended—for he was no ordinary person, a great rich man. To be asked so simply—“Sit, take a chair”—pained him. He said, “Nasruddin, do you know who I am? We are all eager to tell who we are!” Nasruddin said, “Blessed be you—tell me.” The man said, “Do you know there is no one in this city wealthier than I?” Nasruddin said, “Pardon me, I did not know; then you can take two chairs. Sit on two chairs—and what else can I do!”
You cannot sit on two chairs, no matter how great you are. Yet one wishes to sit on two. Then there is a trick: you can place one chair upon another and sit.
A throne is many chairs, one upon one. If you wish to sit on many chairs—indeed, on all the chairs in this hall—that is difficult. Then the chairs can be stacked vertically. A throne means: thousands of chairs under you, hundreds of thousands beneath you.
But the more people are crushed under those chairs, the more they will try to throw down your topmost chair. There is no pleasure in sitting on empty chairs. Man wants, in truth, to sit upon man. What is the use of an empty chair! Man wants to sit on man.
Yet the higher your chair rises, the greater your danger—because that many more people are pressed beneath. They will throw you off. So the first chair in the world is not secure; it is the most insecure spot.
Lao Tzu says: but our minds want to gain things directly, because we know nothing of the opposite. If we knew the opposite, we would know that great art called dharma.
Dharma says: if you want the supreme life, consent to the supreme death. Die this very moment—and supreme life is yours! Dharma says: if you want such a wealth that thieves cannot steal, then take utter poverty as your treasure. And if you want such prestige that no opposite can exist, then with your own hands become un-prestigious.
In Japan there was a fakir, Lin-chi. When he died, years later people discovered he had spread many false rumors about himself. He had arranged with people to keep releasing wrong news about him. Lin-chi died utterly un-prestigious. At the time of death, he told the friends by his side, “Thank you—because of all the rumors you set afloat about me, I was saved from the madness of crowds. I am dying untroubled. I have become so un-prestigious that no one even comes to shake my prestige.”
Who comes to shake the un-prestigious? But the prestigious—people go to shake him. His very prestige becomes the magnet inviting, “Come and shake me.”
Lao Tzu says: in this existence, opposite breaths are moving like a blacksmith’s bellows. He emphasizes one thing: when the bellows is empty—empty it; still its power remains unbroken. When the bellows is utterly empty, do not think its power is gone; its power is unbroken, complete. The zero holds the power of the whole.
The zero with the power of the whole?
Physics says that when we split the atom, nothing remains—there is a zero. Yet the greatest source of power in this world arises from the explosion of the atom. Himalaya is not so powerful as one small—so small it cannot be seen by the eye! If you stack a hundred thousand atoms one upon another, you get the thickness of a human hair. Strip the hair a hundred thousand times—then the atom! We have heard of splitting hairs, but here one would have to say: the skin of the skin of the hair’s skin!
An incident comes to mind. A friend from the village brought a duck to Nasruddin as a gift. The duck came home; Nasruddin made soup and fed his friend. Fifteen days later a man came; Nasruddin seated him. He said, “I am a friend of the friend who brought the duck.” Nasruddin also gave him soup.
But guests kept arriving. Then came a friend of the friend of the friend; then a friend of the friend of the friend of the friend. The line grew. In six months Nasruddin was alarmed. Whoever came said, “I am the friend of the friend of the friend of the friend of the friend who brought the duck.” Nasruddin’s capacity reached its limit. He brought hot water from inside and said, “Please drink this soup.” The man said, “This is soup? It is hot water!” Nasruddin said, “This is the soup of the soup of the soup of the duck that was brought. Six months have gone by since the duck came. If you want duck soup now, that is a mistake. As far as your relation has traveled from the original friend, so far has this soup from the duck. Next time, you will get cold water—not even hot—for the journey is lengthening.”
If we think of the atom, it is not even the skin of the hair. A very long journey. If we peeled the hair a hundred thousand times, would anything remain? The atom has not yet been seen—not by the naked eye, nor by the eye of instruments. And scientists say that what we say about the atom is just like what old religious people used to say about God. We have not seen it, but certain questions are solved by assuming it. Therefore, we assume.
So too the religious said: we have not seen God, but without him many questions cannot be answered. Assume him—and answers appear. It is an assumption. Or we may say: God is not seen, but his consequences are seen.
Likewise, scientists say: we have not seen the atom, but the explosion is visible. Hiroshima becomes ash; a hundred thousand people turn to ashes. This result cannot be denied; it is true, visible. But that from which this result arises is not visible at all. We only imagine something has been broken, the result of which is so much energy. The name of that imagined thing is atom. But such an imagined, infinitesimal thing becomes the mother of the infinitely vast!
Religion has always said: if the vast is to be attained, the subtle must be attained. Religion always speaks the upside-down. Now science, too, has begun to understand a little. Religion says: to reach the vast, reach the subtle; to find Paramatma, find the tiny atom of life hidden within, the Atman. The one who goes seeking Paramatma directly will never find; let him first find himself. Whoever seeks Paramatma should forget Paramatma; seek within the tiny atom of life that is hidden. In finding that, Paramatma is found. To grasp the atom is to grasp the vast.
But the upside-down does not appear to us. And the atom is almost a zero, next to nothing. So much energy in that zero! Yet even that is not a complete zero. The Shunya Lao Tzu speaks of is a complete zero. If the atom—which is not a total zero—can produce so much energy, how much energy must there be in the complete Shunya!
The rishis have always said: this universe was born of Shunya; only then could such an immense expansion occur. So many moons and stars—billions upon billions—could only be born of Shunya.
Our mathematics is reversed. We think: a thing will come from where it already exists. We think only fullness can give birth to something. What can come from zero? Because we have no sense of the mathematics of the opposite. Lao Tzu is the greatest proponent of that mathematics. He says: in that state of Shunya, infinite power lies hidden.
Why is he eager to say this? Because if you too wish to become the master of inexhaustible power, you must become Shunya—like the bellows in which no air remains, in which nothing is left within, a vacuum. As soon as there is a vacuum inside—as soon as it becomes Shunya—when the bellows is utterly empty, the supreme life manifests. In that very Shunya, the vision of supreme, unbroken energy begins.
But we try to fill ourselves. As if a mad blacksmith filled his bellows with things—and then the bellows would no longer work. So we are all mad blacksmiths. We fill the bellows of our life. We fill its emptiness—with petty things, with the trivial: money, position, houses, furniture, friends, wife, husband, children. The inner Shunya gets filled. Then we become like a junk-shop; even moving within becomes difficult. Move a little and you bump into the furniture. Then, somehow we manage ourselves and live. We do not have inexhaustible energy.
Mahavira says: one who becomes Shunya becomes the master of infinite energy—becomes the master of infinite energy!
But how are we to become this Shunya? Lao Tzu will say further. For now he says only this: understand the glory of Shunya; understand the madness of filling. Understand the glory of Shunya. Whatever deep processes have arisen in the world—whether called yoga, meditation, tantra, prayer, worship—all are methods to empty man. How can man become empty! And man is filled by very small things.
Mulla Nasruddin was a friend of the emperor of his country. Nasruddin was counted among the wise. The sultan asked him one day, “Mulla, when you pray, does your mind become Shunya or not?” Mulla said, “Completely.” The emperor did not believe. He said, “Truly? Then this Friday, after namaz, come straight from the mosque to me. I will test your faith. Tell me honestly. If you tell me honestly, then—you came on your donkey—you will no longer have to ride a donkey. I will gift you the most magnificent horse from my stables.”
Nasruddin said, “May I see the horse?” He saw it; his mouth watered. “You have put me in great difficulty,” he said. “Well, I will come Friday.”
After prayer Nasruddin came. The horse was tied at the door. The emperor said, “Tell me honestly—did any thoughts arise in prayer? Were you empty?” Nasruddin said, “Completely empty. Only at the very end a small nuisance arose.” The emperor asked, “What nuisance?”
Nasruddin said, “It was this: you will certainly give the horse, but will you give the whip as well? Will you give the whip too? This whip troubled me. I tried a thousand ways to remember Allah, but nothing came to mind except the whip. One thought clung: you will give the horse, but for going home I will need a whip—will you give it or not?”
A small whip can remove God from within. A whip is no great thing. But the thought of a small whip can displace God from within. It is like this: if a tiny speck gets into the eye, the whole world goes dark. You may have been seeing the Himalayas, but with a tiny speck in the eye, the Himalayas disappear. Behind a small straw the entire mountain hides. A small thought empties out the Shunya within. Even the most trivial is enough to fill the Shunya.
And we are all full within. That inner fullness is the cause of our poverty and beggary. One who becomes Shunya within becomes an emperor. There is only one way to be an emperor: be Shunya within—empty—like the vast, open sky. And the larger the inner sky, the greater the birth of energy. Whatever great events occur in this world, they arise from Shunya.
Someone asked Madame Curie, the first woman to receive the Nobel Prize, “What did you do to receive it?” Curie said, “As long as I did something, I received nothing—not even the Nobel Prize. What I received came not by my doing; it happened from the Shunya within.” The mathematics for which she received the Nobel Prize, she wrote down half-asleep one night. For years she had been working and failed; she was exhausted; that evening she decided to drop the problem. At midnight she awoke, rose in her sleep, wrote something on the table, and went back to sleep. In the morning she did not even remember getting up—nor what she wrote. But in the morning, when she found the solution on the table, she was astonished. She could never say in her life that it was done by her; it came from the Shunya within.
Einstein, before dying, said repeatedly that whatever he knew, as long as he tried to know, he could not know. When he stopped trying, from the inner space—from the inner sky—it manifested.
The man who received the Nobel Prize for the chain of atoms—he saw that chain in a dream. He could not even believe that in a dream the link of the atomic chain could appear. It appeared to him in a dream. Whatever supreme has happened in this world has arisen from Shunya—whether in Buddha, Mahavira, Lao Tzu, or Einstein.
Nijinsky used to say: when I dance, as long as I am dancing, the dance is ordinary; when the Shunya within takes hold of the dance, then it becomes extraordinary. One day, returning home, his wife said to him, “Today you danced in such a way that I’m weeping within, that you alone are unfortunate—you did not see Nijinsky’s dance today! You alone are unfortunate.”
Nijinsky said, “You are mistaken. I too saw.”
His wife said, “How can I believe—you, how could you see?”
Nijinsky said, “As long as I am dancing—at first, for a few moments—I cannot see. But then the Shunya within takes hold of the dance, and I become a distant observer; then I can see.”
Nijinsky was the only dancer in the world of whom people thought gravity did not affect him. When he danced, many times he leapt into the air; he was the only dancer who came back to the ground very slowly, like a feather falling—like a bird’s feather. He did not fall like a man, but like a feather. People were astonished and asked, “This is impossible—because gravity acts on the body. Whatever the body, the earth will pull.”
Nijinsky said, “As long as I am there, it does. But when Shunya takes hold, I am unaware of gravity. I descend to the ground as if I have become light—weightless.”
Within, there is a Shunya. Whenever any great dance has been born, it is from that; any great poetry, from that; any great insight, from that. Science is born from that Shunya; religion, too, is born from that; art arises from that.
But we, filled with ego, never reach near the great—by any door. Because we never become Shunya. We never fly in the sky, for we are so filled with stones within that their weight clamps us to the earth.
Lao Tzu says: Shunya is inexhaustible energy.
Lao Tzu used to tell a story: “I heard of a musician who had not sung a song for years. I went in search of him—why would people call someone a musician who has not sung for years? When I reached him, he had no instrument, no equipment. He was sitting beneath a tree. I asked, ‘I have heard that you are a great musician, yet no instrument is visible?’
“The musician said, ‘Instruments were needed only as long as music did not arise of itself and I had to produce it. Now music is born by itself. I used to sing only until songs would not come by themselves. Now they come on their own.’
“I said, ‘But I cannot hear anything!’ The musician said, ‘You will have to stay. Stay with me; slowly, you will begin to hear.’
“And I stayed with the musician, and returned after hearing the music. When my disciples asked, ‘Did you hear? How was it?’ I said, ‘It was the music of Shunya. There were no words there. There was the silent hush of Shunya. And today I tell you: where there are words, that is not music—only noise. Music is where words become Shunya and only silence remains. Where there is noise, there are words.’”
But it will not have occurred to you. Music… you were just listening to the sitar. If you think that when a note rises from the sitar there is music, then you are mistaken. When one note rises, then a second, then a third—the gaps between them—there is music. Those empty spaces. So the one who hears notes does not hear music; he is only hearing tones. The one who hears the emptiness between two tones, he hears the music. The greater the music, the more it depends upon emptiness.
I have heard about Schubert playing his violin. Whenever Schubert played, there were long intervals. A music teacher—teachers are as pitiable as ever; they know everything that is useless. They know all the rules; outside the rules, where meaning lives, they know nothing—was sitting in front. Schubert began to play. Then he stopped. His hands stilled; the strings fell silent. A moment, two, three! The teacher felt the man must have forgotten, must have got stuck. He said, “Play what you know. Play what you know—leave what you don’t.”
In his autobiography Schubert wrote: “For the first time I realized before whom I was playing. What I was playing was only the doorway. When I fell silent, then there was music. But the teacher said: if this does not come, start another.” It is said that Schubert put down his instrument that day and went home—and never again picked it up. Millions pleaded. He said, “No. Before whom should I play! They have no idea of music. They take the noise of notes for music. That is only the beginning, only to wake you so you do not fall asleep. Once you are awake, it should fall silent, slide into silence.”
Buddha used to say: “What I could say, I have said—but that is not the real thing. What I could not say, I have not said—that is the real thing. Therefore, those who have listened to my saying will not understand me; those who have listened also to my not-saying—they alone can understand.”
Listening to the not-saying! Can not-saying be heard?
Certainly it can. In truth, the very meaning of saying is that on both sides shores are formed, and in between the river of not-saying can flow. The use of sound is to make the banks on either side, so that in the middle the Ganga of music may flow. It is to build the banks. But he who takes the banks to be the Ganga will never understand the Ganga, and will never even reach it.
Lao Tzu says: between earth and heaven there is a sky of bellows-like Shunya, and that is inexhaustible energy. The more you work this Shunya, the more energy arises. Work the Shunya, and prana is born. But we do not know how to work Shunya. We do not even know how to be Shunya.
The way to be Shunya and to work Shunya, Lao Tzu says, is this: “Word-proliferation exhausts intelligence.”
The more words inside, the more intelligence diminishes; rust gathers upon it.
Yet words are our very intelligence, our stored wealth. In the West, everything has become statistics. Western number-men say: the greater the successful person, the greater his wealth of words. They say: from a person’s wealth of words we can gauge how many steps of success he has climbed. Politics? A politician’s strength is his play with certain words. A religious leader’s strength? His play with certain other words. A litterateur’s strength? His play with yet other words. Whom do we call successful? Politicians, religious leaders, men of letters—words! He who holds the greatest abundance and power over words becomes the most successful in our world. Hence we are mad to teach words; our entire education is word-education. The more words a person acquires, the more hope that he will succeed.
But Lao Tzu says: the abundance of words weakens intelligence. The more words increase inside, the weaker intelligence becomes.
He speaks the upside-down. Our entire effort is to increase words. A person knows one language, then learns a second, a third, a fourth. We praise: that man knows ten languages. A scholar—we say he has the Vedas by heart, the Upanishads at his lips, can recite the Gita entire. Why? Because he has wealth of words.
But do words have great value? Do they have substance? As much substance as if someone, thirsty, tried to quench thirst with the word “water.” As much as if someone hungry tried to fill his belly with the word “food.” At most, they can give us a little delusion for a while. If you are thirsty and I say, “Sit, water is coming,” a bit of relief comes. Trust in water brings relief. If you are hungry and you hear the clatter of pots in the kitchen, your belly finds some support. In dreams, if hunger comes and you eat in the dream, at least your sleep does not break; the night passes.
Words support; they also deceive. If someone were to shout here, “Fire!” the effect upon us would be the same as if there were a fire: we would run, we would fall, we would be injured. We would not be burned—because the word “fire” is not fire—but one thing is sure: the effect of words upon man is heavy. And if five or ten times someone were to shout “Fire! Fire!” and then a real fire came, and someone shouted “Fire!”—there would be no effect.
A great psychologist made much money, then thought to rest. He bought land in a small village—just for hobby. Farming for profit was not the point; earnings were complete—more than needed. At present, the greatest earnings are possible for those who relieve people’s madness—because the earth is full of mad people. The greatest mine is not in the earth, but in man’s head. Man is going mad. And there is no evidence that psychologists cure madness; at most they reassure the mad. If a madman goes to a psychiatrist for two years, it is not that he becomes well; rather, after two years he says, “This madness is natural.”
He had earned plenty; he needed no more. Time came to sow the crop. He had the earth ploughed and broadcast seed. But the crows of the whole village came and picked his seeds. One day he sowed; the crows ate. Second day he sowed; the crows ate. Third day… The psychologist felt shy to ask anyone—those simple-minded farmers! But seeing no other way, he asked a neighbor who had been watching and laughing. The farmer came. He made the gesture of throwing seeds, moving his hand as if sowing—but threw nothing. The crows came, angry; they screamed, then flew away. Second day he repeated the gesture. Fewer crows came; they were less angry. They left. On the fourth day he actually threw the seeds. The crows did not come. The psychologist said, “Wonderful! What’s the secret?” The farmer said, “Just plain psychology. Ever heard? Three days of empty hands—the crows understand empty hands.”
But man is astonishing. He lives by words for lifetimes. Just plain psychology—that words are empty—does not sink in. That there is nothing inside words—we don’t get it. Someone says “Namaskar!” and the mind assumes we received reverence.
Reverence is not that easy—a mere greeting does not bring it. Often “Namaskar” is a way to hide the real feeling. Lest the face reveal the truth, a man folds his hands. Or, in the folding, the other misses seeing what the real man thought: “This wretch’s face—why did I see it first thing in the morning!” The other is deceived by the “Namaskar” and goes his way.
You walk the road daily; someone seems agreeable. Whenever you say “Hello,” he too replies heartily. Today he does not reply. Do you know what will happen? Your whole mood will change. You say “Hello”; he gives no reply; he goes on. You will now rewrite his history in your mind: “Aha! He bought a house—and now he is stiff! He bought a car—and sprouted wings!” You will reconstruct his biography within. The old biography must be removed. One small “Hello” brings so much change! Words are of such value to man!
We live by words, eat words, sleep in words. In the West they understand this well; they say: whether appropriate or not, whether someone does anything or not, at least say “Thank you.” In our country we are not yet so word-wise. If a wife brings tea to her husband, the husband does not say “Thank you.” He should. For the entire inner history changes with “thank you.” Without sugar, tea seems sweet with thanks; with sugar, tea tastes bitter without thanks. Everything changes.
You think: “She has been with me thirty years—does she too need a ‘thank you’?” You are mistaken—she needs it even more. In thirty years she knows you so well that she needs it more—even though she may say, “What is the need?” Don’t trust that. It is only said so that you may say it again. It is delightful, delightful.
Words have become our life. Someone says, “I love you very much”—everything changes inside! The dark night instantly becomes a full moon. He may be repeating a film dialogue—but why are we so deeply interwoven with words? Because we have nothing else but words. We have no substance, no sattva. We are utterly empty—not in Lao Tzu’s sense, not in the sense of Shunya—but empty in the sense of poor and mean. Empty not in the sense of inexhaustible power—but empty in the sense of having nothing at all—not even Shunya. In that way we are empty, and live only by words.
Mulla Nasruddin falls on a road in the blazing sun. A crowd gathers. Nasruddin lies holding his breath. Someone says, “Run, quick—if we can get a cup of wine, it will help.” Nasruddin opens one eye and says, “A cup! Make it at least two.” People say, “No need to fetch anything—Nasruddin is back to his senses.” The word “wine” did the job; no wine was needed.
Nasruddin had experience of this. He was taking first-aid training. When his training was complete, the instructor asked, “If someone suddenly falls on the road, what will you do?” He said, “I will call for a cup of wine.” The officer asked, “If wine cannot be had, what then?” He said, “I will promise—I will promise in his ear: ‘Later I shall give it—now get up!’ Because once this happened to me; just hearing the word brought me to my senses.”
We live by words. Lao Tzu says: only our intelligence is exhausted by word-proliferation. Of course, Lao Tzu too must speak by words. Hence a great misunderstanding: that Lao Tzu speaks against words, yet speaks with words.
Certainly, if we must say something to another, we must use words. But we are so crazed that even when we speak to ourselves, we use words. For speaking to oneself, there is no need of words. Yet inside, we go on talking. Twenty-four hours a day man is talking. When talking to others, he talks; when talking to no one, he talks to himself—dividing himself and talking. This constant inner talking breeds rust. Talking and talking, words heap up so much that the Shunya hidden in the soul beneath never becomes known. We must remove this upper layer of words, then we can become acquainted with the Shunya within.
Lao Tzu says: “Word-proliferation exhausts intelligence. Therefore, abiding in one’s center is best.”
In one’s center! Because the center is Shunya. Words are only the periphery. Like leaves covering the surface of a river, scum hiding the water—so the abundance of words covers us. Inside, Shunya is hidden. That Shunya Lao Tzu calls the center—the center of our very life. But we wander on the periphery. The periphery grips us so strongly that we never reach within. The periphery—one word hands you to another, the second to a third.
Psychologists say we live by association. Give you one word—“dog”—and say, “Now go on”—you will move within. “Dog” will start you. The trigger has been pulled. You will begin your journey: some dogs you like; some you don’t; one dog’s name is this; another’s is that. Whose friend has a dog; and that friend’s wife—how is she? Pleasant or unpleasant? You move on. One dog started your journey; who knows in what romance you will end it!
One small word—and the inner journey begins. You are ready inside; give you a word and you begin to ruminate. Which means: you never find the leisure to understand. The one who can understand is the one who stands as Shunya before the word.
I say something; you will understand only when Shunya stands before it—as when I stand before a mirror and it takes my image. If your heart is Shunya, what I say will be heard—and what I have not said will also be heard. What I appear to be will be seen—and what I do not appear to be will also be seen. But you are so full of words that whenever I speak you do not wait to listen. Before you have heard, you are already gone on your journey. Inside, the queue of words has begun. You start thinking: “This is also said in the Gita; also in the Koran. This goes against my religion; I cannot accept it.”
One day I was speaking in a small gathering. Only one man was a Muslim, sitting right in front. There were about fifty people. Whatever I said, that Muslim friend kept nodding—“Exactly right.” I wondered whether I could say anything at which his head would not nod. Only to watch his head I said, “The Koran is a marvelous book—but very rustic, as though written by villagers.” His head began to nod “No.” He did not speak, but from the chair his “yes” and “no” were visible. As soon as I said “rustic,” he said “No!” And after that he stiffened; he gripped his chair; our connection broke. That one word—“rustic”—and our connection broke! Perhaps in his mind “rustic” meant “boorish.” His inner journey began; he hardened; the doors closed.
In fact, while I was speaking, all along he was running an inner discussion—saying yes and no. We have a body-language. Much that we do not say with the mouth we say with the body. In the West a new science is arising—of body-language: understanding what the body says.
If you meet a woman and she does not like you, she stands leaning back—afraid you might come closer. Her angle is tilted away. In a club house where fifty couples are talking, it can be told who among them will fall in love—just by watching the body-language—and who are trying to escape each other. If a woman loves you, she sits near you in one way; if she does not, then another way.
If you love someone, you sit relaxed near him; there is no danger. If you do not, you sit alert; there is danger—he is a stranger. Next to a stranger you sit in a different way. If what I am saying feels right to you, you sit one way; if not, your body-language changes instantly. If you are curious, your spine bends forward; if not, you lean back in your chair—saying, “Alright, we are done; nothing more for us; the matter is over.”
From the outside too man reveals the inner words. Your face says whether you are saying yes or no inside. A salesman in a shop watches your face. If you are buying a tie and twenty-five ties are laid before you, the smart salesman does not look at the ties—he lets you look; he looks at your face. On which tie your eye lingers longer—that one’s price goes up. It should.
The eye does not linger long everywhere; there are limits. If you stare a little longer at someone, a quarrel will begin—because the eye has a limit. When you are just looking, a flung glance—no meaning. But when you pause, it has meaning—liking has begun. The other becomes uneasy.
When your inner machine of words is running, it shows outside—in body, in eyes. But when you become Shunya within, the body outside also becomes Shunya. Have you seen Buddha’s image or Mahavira’s? From outside, it is utterly Shunya—because inside all has become Shunya. There is no movement; all has stilled—like water without ripple; like a flame unmoving in a windless room. When you are Shunya, you come to the center.
And Lao Tzu says: abiding in one’s center is best. Do not wander in words; come to rest in Shunya.
Today, only this much. The rest, tomorrow. But do not leave yet. For five minutes, perhaps the kirtan may bring you to Shunya—may push you off the periphery and bring you to your own center.