Tao Upanishad #18

Whatever is born will also die. Whatever begins will also end. Only that can be beyond death which is never born. And only that can be infinite which is without beginning.

Light is born—and it fades. Darkness is always. Perhaps you have never thought of it this way. The sun rises, evening descends. A lamp is lit, the wick is spent, it goes out. Before the lamp was kindled, darkness was. When the lamp was lit, darkness did not appear to us. The lamp went out—darkness is in its place. Not a hair of darkness is bent. Darkness is never extinguished. Darkness never ends, because it never begins. Light has a beginning; therefore light has an end.

More curious still: we can produce light, and therefore we can also put it out. Darkness we cannot produce, and therefore we cannot dispel it. The power of darkness is infinite; the power of light is not infinite.

Lao Tzu says, the valley spirit is immortal. The valley spirit dies not. No, the valley spirit never dies. Ever the same, it remains as it is—unchanged.

What is this valley spirit?

Wherever there are mountain peaks there will be valleys. But mountains are born and erode; the valley neither is born nor does it vanish. Valley means the negative, the negating, the darkness. Mountain means the positive, the assertive, that which is. Properly understood, what is a valley? A valley is the absence of something. A mountain is the presence of something, a certain being. Light is the presence of something. Darkness is absence, is non-presence.

I am in this room, so I can be taken out. When I am not in this room, then my absence will be in this room; you cannot take that out. There is no way to touch an absence. If I am alive, I can be killed. But if I have died, nothing can be done with my death. Nothing can be done with that which is not. Something can be done with that which is. Hence we can neither create darkness nor can we eliminate it.

“Valley spirit” is Lao Tzu’s technical term—the valley spirit. What is the valley spirit? The valley is not a thing; it appears between two mountains. The mountains disappear, yet the valley remains. The valley goes nowhere, but when the mountains are gone it is not seen. When two mountains stand, the valley appears again. Darkness goes nowhere; when you light a lamp, it only hides. Because of light it is not seen. The light departs—darkness is in its place. Perhaps darkness is not even aware that in between a light burned and went out.

Lao Tzu’s entire reflection, his entire philosophy, stands upon the negative; it stands upon no-ness; upon shunya, the void. Therefore Lao Tzu has said: “The female mystery—thus do we name it.”

This must be understood. And we must go a little deeper into it. For this is the very foundation of Lao Tzu’s tantra. What is the feminine mystery? It is the very mystery of the valley. And the mystery of the feminine is also the mystery of darkness. And the feminine mystery is very deep in existence.

Therefore the most ancient religions of the world did not regard the Divine as male; they regarded the Divine as female. And their understanding was deeper than that of those who called God the Father. But the influence of man grew, and then we began to seat a male even upon God’s throne. God the Father is a very new idea; God the Mother is very ancient.

In truth, the father is the new idea; the mother is ancient. The institution of the father is not more than five or six thousand years old. “Uncle” is older than “father.” Even the word “uncle” is older than “father.” Among animals and birds there is no trace of the father, but the mother is certain. Hence the institution of fatherhood is a human invention—not very old, not more than five thousand years. But once we installed the father among humans, we hastened to remove the feminine from God’s throne as well and enthroned the male. And then the religions that placed the father in God’s place lost the keys of the feminine mystery; the whole secret of the feminine was lost from their hands.

Lao Tzu is speaking of a time when the notion of God the Father did not even exist in the world. This is worth contemplating in many ways. We must look from several angles, only then will it come to your understanding.

A child is born. The father’s part in the birth is very accidental; it is not deep. And now scientists say that even the father will not be needed for long. His role is almost negligible. Birth comes through the mother. The key and the secret of bringing forth life are hidden in the mother’s body. That key and secret are not hidden in the father’s body. Therefore the father can always be rendered dispensable. Even an injection can do his work.

And if I wish to become a father ten thousand years from today, I can. But if some woman resolves today, she cannot become a mother ten thousand years later, because the mother’s presence will be necessary then; mine is not. My semen can be preserved, deep frozen. Ten thousand years later, by injection, the formula of birth can arise in any woman. My presence is not necessary. Soon there will be posthumous children: the father dead for ten thousand years, and his child born at any time. For nature was not taking the father’s work very deeply. The profound work was the mother’s; the creative work was the mother’s alone.

Psychologists say this is why women do not do creative work in the world—because they accomplish such a great creative act that there remains no need to seek any substitute: to give birth to a living child! Men have created many things in the world; women have not. Men paint, sculpt, discover in science, write poems, make music. It will surprise you to know: women cook everywhere in the world, yet the exploration of fine cuisine has always been by men. New dishes are discovered by men. And no great hotel or emperor would agree to employ a woman cook; a male cook is required. Whether paintings are made or poetry arises or a novel is written or a new statue is fashioned—these are men’s works. What is the reason?

Psychologists say the man feels jealousy; he also feels inferior before the woman. He too wants to create something that can stand before woman and it can be said, “We too have made, we too have brought forth.” And the woman does not create because she creates such a great thing that no desire remains in her to create further. And if a woman has truly become a mother, then however fine a painting she may make, it will always be pale and lifeless before her son or daughter. Hence barren women do try, somewhat, like men. They enter the competition of building something alongside men. But if a woman truly becomes a mother, her life becomes fulfilled to very inner depths. Nature has chosen woman as the source of creation.

Surely, in the woman’s body—what Lao Tzu calls the feminine mystery—if we understand that, only then will we understand the feminine mystery in existence. And our difficulty grows greater because the entire endeavor to understand life has been by men. All philosophies, all systems have been made by men. Until now not a single religion has been built around a woman prophet, a woman Tirthankara. All scriptures are by men. Hence Lao Tzu found it difficult to find companions, for he praised the feminine mystery.

Whatever a man thinks or does, he thinks from where he stands. And man can never truly understand woman. Thus man continually experiences woman as unintelligible—something mysterious. Something is missed. What is it that is missed? Surely, man and woman live together. Man is born of woman, lives with woman, loves, is born and spends a whole life with woman. Even so, what is it within woman that remains unknown and unfamiliar to man? Lao Tzu names that unknown and unfamiliar element the feminine mystery—the mystery of the valley, the mystery of darkness, the virtue of negation. What is within woman?

Even if a woman falls in love with you, she does not attack. Not even in love does she attack. Even in love she waits. She gives you the opportunity to attack. You will never be able to say to a woman that “You trapped me in love, you forced me into marriage.” Women do bring it about, yet you cannot say, “You trapped me in love,” because they never take the initiative. That is their mystery: to draw without any act, to attract without any doing—by mere being to attract. What Krishna in the Gita called inaction, akarma—that is the woman’s mystery.

Even if she falls in love, no sign comes from her side that she has fallen for you. Her very presence pulls and pulls. You say the first time, “I have fallen in love.” A woman never says to anyone, “I have fallen in love with you.” She never takes the initiative, for initiative is aggressive, assertive, positive. When I say to someone, “I love you,” I have gone out of myself. I have attacked somewhere. I have begun trespassing. I am entering the territory of the other. Woman never enters another’s territory. Yet woman is attractive. What is her secret?

Surely, her attraction is inactive, not active. She calls, but there is no voice in that call; she stretches her hands, but her hands are not seen; an invitation is given, but there is no outline to the invitation. The doing has to be done by the man. The step he must take. He must go. He must pray. And yet the woman keeps refusing. And whenever a woman quickly says yes to someone’s love, understand that she too knows nothing of the feminine mystery. For as soon as the woman says yes, she becomes futile. Her negation, her continual no is the very secret of her endless flavor. But her “no” is such that no man can speak it—because when a man says no, it means no; and when a woman says no, it means yes. If a woman has to say no, she will not even say no—because even that is too much to say.

Mulla Nasruddin fell in love with a young woman. He was very troubled. On reaching home he told his father... He was anxious, despondent. The father asked, “Nasruddin, why so worried?” Nasruddin said, “I have fallen into great difficulty. The woman I have been circling for nine months today broke off everything.” The father said, “You are foolish! When a woman says no, it does not mean no.” Nasruddin said, “That I also know. But she did not say ‘no-no’; she said, ‘You dog!’ She did not say no at all. If she had said no, I could have circled for nine years more. She did not even say no. She left not even that path.”

When a woman says yes, she is speaking the man’s language. Therefore a woman’s yes seems very shallow and, in a deep sense, immoral. It is also an attack. The whole mystery and secret of the woman is exactly this—her mystery lies in not saying and yet calling; not inviting and yet the invitation goes out. From her side she never makes any commitment. All commitments are by the man. All obligations are the man’s.

Let no man be in the delusion that the woman has done nothing. Woman has done much. But her way of doing is negative—like the valley, like darkness. Negation is her device. By moving away she sends the invitation to come near. Her very attempt to evade is the call. This is the feminine mystery. And if you go deeper into this, many things will come to mind. From the perspective of intercourse too, the woman is negative, passive. Therefore throughout history you cannot place the crime of rape upon women. No woman, in the long history of millions of years, has ever raped anyone. In the woman’s personality, rape is impossible.

Man can rape; he does. And ninety out of a hundred times, whatever a man does is rape—ninety out of a hundred! Not those occasions that are caught in court; even in the relationship a husband builds with his wife, in ninety cases it is rape. Because the woman is silent. Her silence can be taken as yes. And we have made such an arrangement in society that the wife is bound by duty toward the husband. If the husband demands love, she silently yields. But if at that moment there was no love within her, then this love of the husband is rape. Man can rape because his whole personality is aggressive, attacking.

The woman’s personality is receptive, a receiver. Not only personality, nature has shaped the body so that the woman’s body is only receptive. The man’s body is aggressive. But creation happens through the woman; birth happens through the woman. The man attacks—which is entirely incidental, and dispensable. And birth happens through the woman, who is only receptive.

Scientists say wherever birth occurs it is in darkness. When a seed sprouts, it does so in the dark earth. Bring it into the light, and the sprouting stops. A person is born in the darkness of the mother’s womb—utter, profound darkness. Bring it into light and birth becomes death. Whatever of the secret formula of life is born is always in darkness, in the hidden, concealed realm. And only that can be hidden which is not aggressive. That which is aggressive can never be hidden.

Therefore in the man’s personality there is much surface and little depth; in the woman’s personality there is little surface and very much depth. That is why man tires quickly and woman does not. Aggression will tire you. Therefore there could not be male prostitutes, because no man can be a prostitute. One coitus—and he is tired. Woman could be a prostitute; fifty coitus will not tire her. She is only receptive, she does nothing. Thus a strange phenomenon occurred: men could not be prostitutes, women could; men could be rapists, women could not; men could be goons, women could not. But women could be prostitutes; men could not. The reason is only this: the man’s whole personality is aggressive. Whoever attacks will be tired.

It will surprise you to know that when children are born, for every hundred girls, one hundred sixteen boys are born. Nature maintains balance. Because man is weak. We all think man is very strong. That is only a man’s notion. Man is weak. Hence one hundred sixteen boys must be born and one hundred girls—because before reaching fourteen years sixteen boys out of the hundred will die, and the ratio of boys and girls becomes equal. Sixteen extra boys—spares—nature must produce, knowing that sixteen will die before reaching fourteen.

Women’s average lifespan is five years more than men. If men live seventy years, women live seventy-five. And what labor women bear with the body! For the labor it takes to bring forth a child is greater than the labor to produce an atom bomb. A woman can bear twenty children and still live five years longer than a man. Women fall ill less. And whatever illnesses women have are not women’s; they are due to the trouble of the society men have made. Women fall ill less; and even among their illnesses, seventy percent of the cause is the arrangement men have created—man-dominated—not the woman. Because the entire structure is the man’s; it is man-dominated. And man organizes in his own way. The woman has to adjust to it. That is the cause of her illness.

Hysteria in a man’s society is the result of women having to adjust. If there were a women’s society and men had to adjust, hysteria would be five times greater. Almost all men would go mad. It is the woman’s resistance, her power to endure, that has kept them from all going mad. Still women appear to you angry, jealous, forever engaged in quarrels and disturbances. The reason is only this: what they were born to be, society does not allow them to be; it tries to make them something else. Thus their creative energy turns toward destruction, perversion, distortion.

And men oppressed women so much that common people think—and women also think—that women were weak, hence men oppressed them.

I want to tell you: those who know, know otherwise. They know women were so powerful that if they had not been suppressed, they would have suppressed men long ago. They must be suppressed from childhood; otherwise they can prove dangerous. The real reason why women have been suppressed all over the world is that, if left unsuppressed, they can prove so powerful that men would be in great difficulty. Therefore they must be stopped from every side. And from childhood they must be stopped.

And the obstruction is nearly like what we used to do in China—putting iron shoes on women. Then their feet could not grow. Then those women could neither run nor even walk properly, nor could they flee. In truth they always needed to lean upon a man’s shoulder. And then the man would say: delicate, fragile! And delicacy was made a value by men. Because only if the woman is fragile can she be controlled.

Woman can prove stronger than man if she is allowed full development, because nature has given her the power of birth. And the power of birth is always with the one who is more powerful; otherwise it would be impossible to carry the womb.

Lao Tzu says: understand this feminine mystery rightly. Understand this valley spirit rightly. The valley spirit never tires. It never dies. This negation, this art of doing by not-doing; this attacking without attack; this calling without calling—understand it rightly. For Lao Tzu says, only by understanding this secret can one attain the ultimate truth of life. We can never reach the ultimate truth in a manly way, because the ultimate cannot be attacked. We cannot seize God’s house with guns and swords.

Only those can realize the Divine who have understood the feminine mystery—who have surrendered themselves so much, have let go so much, that the Divine can descend into them. Just as a woman, in love, lets herself go; she does nothing—she only lets go—and the man can enter her.

A very unique fact has begun to be noticed in the last ten years. Because the real woman has disappeared from the world, and the woman that remains is pseudo—made by men—a doll made by men. She is not the natural woman she should be.

A small scientific experiment is going on in the West, in which they try to see whether this is possible. And tantra worked upon this long ago—two thousand years ago—and found it is possible. In the intercourse of woman and man, it is the man who is active. If the man is not active, intercourse is impossible. If a man becomes weak, old, if his sexual organs become flaccid, then intercourse becomes impossible. But in the last ten years in the West, some deep experiments have been done, and they say that even if the man’s organ is utterly flaccid and powerless, there is no worry. If the woman loves that man, then by merely coming near to the woman’s organ, the woman’s organ will silently draw the man’s organ within itself. The man need not even make entry. If the woman’s love is strong, her body will draw him in, as air rushes into an empty space.

This is a surprising fact. And if it does not happen, the only reason is that the woman does not love that man; the body does not draw him. Therefore whatever the man is doing is rape. If the woman loves, she will draw him. Her entire biological mechanism is such that she will draw the person into herself.

Lao Tzu says: this is the woman’s secret—that without doing anything she can do. Without doing anything! Whatever a man wants to do must be done. The secret of religion is also feminine. Whoever goes to “obtain” God will never attain. And whoever simply opens the doors of the heart and waits—here and now the Divine enters. Search far and wide, travel infinite journeys, wander for births upon births—you will not attain the Divine. For the very secret of attaining the Divine is that we become receptive, not aggressive. We leave ourselves open. We only consent that when He comes, He may not find our doors shut. Let our love become nothing but a passive awaiting—a silent waiting.

A woman can wait for her lover birth after birth; a man cannot. Man does not know how to wait. In the arrangement of man’s mind there is no waiting. In it there is “now and here,” instant everything—instant coffee, instant sex—now! Therefore man invented marriage, because without marriage instant sex—now—would not be possible. Man cannot wait at all; he is impatient, restless, tense. But woman can wait—an infinite waiting.

Thus, when in this land the Hindus did not arrange for men to be widowers, and arranged for women to be widows, it was not only an injustice to women; it was also an understanding of the element of waiting in woman. A woman can wait for her lover for an entire life, for the next life—this can be trusted. But a man cannot be trusted.

Therefore, if India arranged widowhood for women and not for men, it was not just that the arrangement favored men. As I understand, it was a great insult to men, and a profound honor to women. For it meant: we can trust a woman to wait. But a man cannot be trusted. Men cannot be trusted, therefore there was no insistence that widowers must remain widowers; if one wished, that was his choice. But there was insistence upon the woman.

And the insistence was because in her waiting her feminine element would manifest more. The more opportunity she has for passive waiting, the deeper her inner depths become. And her inner mysteries become sweet and fragrant.

A very surprising thing I have read from time to time—never could I think what the reason would be. Before Catholic priests people confess their sins. Many Catholic priests have experienced that when women confess before them—naturally, they too are human, though only trained priests—

Christianity has given the world one of the worst things—trained priests. No trained priest can be. You can train doctors, you can train lawyers, but you cannot train a priest; just as you cannot train a poet. If you teach poetry and give training and issue a certificate that this man is trained in poetry, he will only make rhymes; poetry will not be born from him. The priest too is a native capacity, the fruit of sadhana; he cannot be trained. Yet Christianity trained them. Trained priests with degrees—some D.D., Doctor of Divinity. No one can be a Doctor of Divinity; for any divinity that can be decided by a school certificate cannot be divinity. What divinity is that which is settled by a certificate!

So when women confess their sins to a priest, this confession becomes very tempting. Naturally. When a woman accepts her sin, and does so in solitude, the priest becomes very restless. The woman becomes lighter; the priest becomes heavy. But one statement of Catholic priests always surprised me: that widows prove more attractive and tempting. I was puzzled—what could be the reason?

In truth, if a widow is truly a widow, her beauty greatly increases. For waiting deepens her feminine mystery. The mystery that is in a virgin girl is the mystery of waiting. Therefore the wise cultures of the world decided to marry only virgin girls. Because the truth is: to marry a girl who is not virgin means you will never have the chance to know the feminine mystery. That mystery has already been broken; that woman has become shallow. She has not waited enough for that inner mysterious flower to fully blossom.

Hence the societies that insisted a woman remain a virgin until marriage did not much worry about the man’s virginity. The reason is that whether the man is virgin or not makes no difference. But with the woman it does. In a virgin woman there is a certain beauty which is lost after marriage.

That beauty is born in her again when she is about to be a mother. For now she stands at the door of a greater mystery, at the door of a greater waiting. Seeing her pregnant, the husband may be anxious—and husbands are. Their anxiety is natural, because for them it is not waiting—only another economic burden is coming upon them. But the mother becomes sweet. Indeed, as the womb grows, the depth of her eyes grows; new tender elements appear in her body. The beauty of the pregnant woman becomes heavy with the feminine mystery. What is this mystery?

Passivity is the secret. To become a mother, she does not have to do anything. The child grows in her belly; she only has to wait. She has nothing to do. In fact, she has to abandon doing everything; only wait. As her son or daughter grows in the womb, she must drop all other work. She remains only in waiting; she begins to dream. Therefore if the woman leaves all work near the time of birth, she can see those dreams which will be intimations of her child’s future. Thus, about the mothers of Mahavira or Buddha it is said that when they were born, their mothers saw dreams—dreams that appeared day by day to the mother, in which the whole blueprint of Buddha’s or Mahavira’s life was revealed.

If the mother is truly a mother and is in complete passivity with the being that is to be born, she can write her child’s horoscope herself. There is no need to show it to any priest or pundit. And the child whose horoscope the mother cannot write—no priest or pundit will be able to write it. For such identity, such oneness, will never again be with anyone else—not even with her husband—as much as with her son. The son is her extension, her own expansion.

But to become a mother she does not have to do anything; to become a father he has to do a lot. To become a mother, nothing is to be done—only silent waiting. In this silent waiting two births occur: the birth of the child, and the birth of the mother as well.

Therefore Eastern lands that understood the feminine mystery gave to woman her highest honor not as wife, but as mother. This is very surprising.

People asked me: you call male renunciates “Swami,” but female renunciates “Mother,” even though they are not married yet, even though they have no child?

In truth, “mother” pertains to the woman’s supreme dignity. She is at her highest only in the moment of motherhood. Her peak experience is not to be a wife, not to be a beloved—being a beloved or wife is only the beginning of the ascent; her peak experience, the summit, is to be a mother.

Therefore, in those societies where women decide that to be a wife is their summit, women will be very miserable—because that is not their summit. Though men are pleased that women take being wife as their summit, for the man’s summit is attained in being a husband. He does not attain a summit by being a father; his peak is in being a lover. But not for the woman.

This secret of motherhood—Lao Tzu says—it is like darkness.

There are yet many more points to consider. When a boy is born, he has no sex hormones yet; they arise later. His semen begins to be produced later. But it will surprise you to know that when a girl is born, she is born with all her eggs. Throughout her life, the eggs that will be released each month during menstruation—she brings them all with her. The woman is born complete. She has her entire store of eggs. Then, one by one, at the right time, they will come out. But she brings all the eggs. The man is born incomplete.

And because he is born incomplete, boys are restless while girls are at ease. There is a born uneasiness in a boy; there is a born ease in a girl. The beauty of the girl’s body and personality relates very much to her peace. If you want to make a girl restless, you must make efforts. And if you want to make a boy peaceful, you must make efforts; unrest is natural to him.

Biologists say the reason is that the ovum from which a woman is formed has XX chromosomes—both the same. The male has XY—one X, one Y; they are not the same. The woman’s elements are XX—both identical. Therefore woman is well proportioned; man is not. The beauty of curves in the woman’s body is due to the balance of her two X’s. And the man’s body cannot have that balance because of XY—his two are not similar. The woman’s personality is built by forty-eight units—complete, twenty-four and twenty-four. The man is built by forty-seven. And biologists say it is that one missing unit that keeps man running his whole life—from shop to shop, from earth to moon. He seeks that which is missing; he wants to be whole.

This balanced, peaceful, waiting personality of woman—Lao Tzu says—is a very deep secret of life. The Divine exists in the manner of the woman, not in the manner of the man. Therefore we cannot see the Divine; we cannot grasp Him. He certainly is, but His presence is feminine—like non-being. The more we try to grasp, the more He slips from us, the more He withdraws, and the more difficult becomes the search.

Existence is feminine. This means: whatever manifests in existence is already hidden in existence—first. As I said, whatever is to be born from the woman, she brings with her at birth. Nothing new is added. She is born complete. There is growth in her, but no addition. There is development, but nothing new is appended. That is why she lives very content. The contentment of women is astonishing; otherwise they could not have been kept slaves so long. Their contentment is astonishing; even in bondage they consent. In any condition they consent. Discontent is difficult to arise in them; very difficult. Only if some biological troubles arise within them—such as seems to be happening in the West—can restlessness be created.

And the day a woman becomes restless, it is then very difficult to bring her back to peace—because her restlessness is altogether unnatural. Therefore a woman is either peaceful or she goes mad; she does not remain in between—there are no gradations. Man is neither so peaceful nor so mad; he has many degrees in between. He wavers among degrees of unrest. Even in the greatest unrest he does not go mad; and even in the greatest peace he is not altogether peaceful.

Nietzsche said something very thoughtful: as far as I understand, in a person like Buddha there must have been a greater feminine element. Nietzsche called Buddha womanish. And I think there is a deep understanding in this. The truth is, when a man becomes utterly peaceful, he becomes feminine. He will—because he becomes so peaceful that the inevitable uneasiness of man, the inevitable unrest, the tension of the male existence, is lost.

That is why in India, symbolically, we made no beard or mustache on Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira. Not that they had none; they did. But we did not make them—because they were no longer symbolic. They no longer conveyed the inner news of Buddha; thus we removed them. Only on one statue is Buddha bearded; thus people say that statue is false, not correct—because on no statue is there a beard. On one statue of Mahavira there is a mustache; thus people say some magician has grown a mustache on him. So the whole temple is called Muchhala Mahavira—the mustached Mahavira. Because Mahavira, they say, had no mustache.

But it is symbolic. It indicates that we accepted this person has entered into the feminine mystery—into the feminine secret.

Remember, when I say the feminine mystery, let no one think I mean only woman. A woman too may not enter the feminine mystery; and a man may enter it. The feminine mystery is a formula of life.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: “The female mystery—thus do we name it.” We name it thus for a reason—because this name seems meaningful. We cannot name that mystery as male, for that mystery is supremely silent—so silent that even its presence does not make itself known. Presence is known only when someone gives news of it.

Hence the true beloved is not she who is constantly making her presence known to her lover. People do keep doing that. If the husband has come home, the wife devises a thousand means—the utensils begin to fall loudly from her hands. She makes it known: I am here; remember, I am right here. The husband too does all he can to show: you are not here. He spreads the newspaper, which he has read ten times already, and begins reading again. That newspaper is a wall—bang your dishes or make as much noise as you like, beat the children, turn up the radio—he will not hear. “I am reading the paper!”

But the beloved who truly knows the feminine mystery will not let even the awareness of her presence arise in her lover.

Let me tell you a very wondrous event. Vachaspati Mishra was married. His father insisted; Vachaspati could not understand much, so he said yes. He was engaged in the search for the Divine. Nothing else made sense to him. Whatever anyone said, he understood only the Divine. The father asked, “Will you marry?” He said, “Yes.”

Perhaps he heard, “Will you meet the Divine?”—as happens with all of us. Speak to a man seeking wealth, “Will you seek dharma?” He thinks you said, “Will you seek wealth?” He says, “Yes.” We can hear only that which we seek within. Vachaspati heard and said yes.

When he was mounted on the horse to be taken, he asked, “Where are you taking me?” The father said, “Madman, you said yes. We are going to marry you.” Then he did not think it appropriate to refuse, because he had said yes without knowing; it must have been God’s will.

He returned after marriage. The wife came into the house, and Vachaspati forgot all about it. What was there to remember! He had not married; he had not really said yes. He remained immersed in his work. He was writing a commentary on the Brahmasutra. In twelve years the commentary was completed. For twelve years, every evening his wife would light the lamp, every morning place flowers by his feet, at noon slide his plate near him. When he had eaten, she quietly removed the plate from behind. For twelve years Vachaspati did not come to know that his wife existed. The wife made no effort to let it be known; rather she made every effort that by some mistake it not be known, that his work not be interrupted.

On the full moon night when Vachaspati’s work was completed at midnight and he began to rise, his wife lifted the lamp—to show him the way to his bed. For the first time in twelve years, the story says, Vachaspati saw his wife’s hand. For the first time in twelve years the work was complete; now the mind was not tied to any task. He saw the hand, saw the bangles, heard the tinkling of the bangles. He turned back and said, “Woman, in this midnight solitude, who are you? Where have you come from? The doors are closed; how did you get here? Tell me where you wish to reach; I will see you there.”

His wife said, “You may have forgotten—you had much work. For twelve years you were at work. It is not possible that you would remember. If you recall twelve years ago, you brought me home as your wife. Since then I have been here.”

Vachaspati began to weep. He said, “Now it is very late—because I had vowed that as soon as this text is complete, that very day I will renounce the house. So it is time for me to go. Dawn is near; I am going. Foolish one, why did you not say so earlier? You could have given even a little sign. But now it is too late.”

Seeing the tears in Vachaspati’s eyes, the wife placed her head at his feet and said, “Whatever could be given to me has come in these tears. I need nothing more. Go at peace. What more could I receive than tears in Vachaspati’s eyes for me! Enough has been given to me.”

Vachaspati named his Brahmasutra commentary Bhamati. Bhamati has no relation to the commentary; nothing to do with the Brahmasutra. It is his wife’s name. Saying, “I can do nothing more for you; but though people may forget me, they will not forget you—therefore I name my work Bhamati.” Many have forgotten Vachaspati; Bhamati is hard to forget. People read Bhamati—an extraordinary commentary on the Brahmasutra. There is no other like it. And upon it is the name Bhamati.

The feminine mystery was with that woman. And I think that in that moment she attained Vachaspati as much as no woman could attain a man by striving for a thousand years. In that moment, in that very moment, Vachaspati must have become one with that woman’s heart as no woman can ever attain a man—because the feminine mystery is the mystery of absence.

What touched Vachaspati’s very life? That for twelve years that woman did not even let it be known that she was there. And she daily lifted the lamp, daily served food. And Vachaspati said, “So it is you who daily slid the plate? And who laid the flowers each morning? And who lit the lamp each evening? And your hand I never saw!”

Bhamati said, “Had my hand been seen, it would have proven a lack in my love. I can wait.”

So it is not necessary that every woman attains the feminine mystery. Lao Tzu gave this name because it points and helps us understand. A man can also attain it. In truth, the identity with existence happens only to those who attain such prayerful waiting.

“This mysterious feminine is the gate—the root source of heaven and earth.”

Whether the birth be of matter or of consciousness, whether earth is born or heaven, from the mystery hidden in the depths of existence is born all. Therefore I said: those who saw the Divine as Mother—as Durga or Amba—their understanding is deeper than seeing the Divine as Father. If the Divine is anywhere, He will be feminine. For the capacity to give birth to such an immense cosmos cannot be in the male. To bring forth such vast moons and stars, a womb is needed; without a womb it is not possible.

Therefore the Jewish traditions—Jew, Christian, and Islam are all expansions of the Jewish line—gave to the world a great delusion: God the Father. That notion is dangerous. It satisfies the male mind because he finds himself exalted in the image of God. But that notion has no relation to the truth of life. More appropriate is the notion of a cosmic Mother. But that will occur only when you understand the feminine mystery, understand Lao Tzu; otherwise it will not be understood.

Have you ever seen the image of Kali? She is mother—and terrible! Mother—and in her hand a skull-cup of a man! She is mother, and in her eyes the ocean of all motherhood. And below? Below she stands upon someone’s chest. Someone is crushed beneath her feet. Because he who is creative is also destructive. The other half of creativity is destruction. How exquisite were the people who thought this! People of great imagination. They saw far. They set up the Mother, standing upon a corpse’s chest. In her hand a human skull; a cup dripping blood. Around her neck a garland of skulls. And she is mother, with a mother’s heart from which milk would flow. And there hangs a garland of skulls!

In truth, where creation arises, there dissolution occurs. The circle is completed there. Therefore the mother can give birth; but if the mother becomes terrible, she can also give death. And if a woman becomes terrible, she becomes very dangerous. The power is in her. Power is the same—whether it becomes creation or destruction. Those who envisioned both creation and destruction together with the concept of Mother—their imagination was far-reaching, and close to truth.

Lao Tzu says: the root source of heaven and earth is there. From there all is born. But remember, the root source is also where all returns and dissolves.

“It is utterly unbroken.”

This feminine existence—this passive existence, this waiting, void-like existence—never has any breaks. It is unbroken, continuous; it has no discontinuity. As I said, the lamp burns and goes out; darkness is unbroken. Birth comes, life appears; death is unbroken—it goes on. Mountains arise and erode; valleys are unbroken. When mountains are, they are visible; when mountains are not, they are not visible. But their being is unbroken.

“Utterly unbroken; its power is whole.”

However much power is drawn from this void, it is not exhausted; it does not end. Man is exhausted; woman is not. Man becomes depleted; woman does not.

Ordinarily, even what we call woman is less depleted than man. And if a woman receives the full secret of being feminine, she can remain established in immeasurable beauty even into old age. For a man it is very difficult. Man comes like a storm and departs. If woman rightly receives her motherhood, she can be beautiful to the last moment. And a man too can be beautiful to the last moment only when he enters the feminine mystery. Sometimes—sometimes it happens.

Therefore let me tell you another symbol: we have made no images of Buddha, Rama, Krishna or Mahavira in old age. All images are youthful.

This is plainly untrue—Mahavira dies at eighty; Buddha dies at eighty; Rama grows old; Krishna grows old. But the images we have are youthful. We have no image of them old. This is by design; it is symbolic.

In truth, the person who becomes so absorbed with existence—we hold that he will remain ever young and fresh—ever green, youthful. He has found the inner source of youth. Now he will remain unbroken, whole, in his power.

“Use it.”

Lao Tzu says: use this whole power. Use this feminine mystery.

“And its effortless service becomes available.”

You need only to know how to use it—and you get it. Only know how—and its effortless service becomes available. For this feminine gate is prepared to give itself; only you be willing to receive.

“Use gently and without the touch of pain; long and unbroken does its power remain.”

Use gently—use it with gentleness.

Remember, the more gentle you are, the more feminine you become. The more male you are, the more ungentle you will be. Therefore, if a man tries to be very gentle, the male element in him begins to diminish. Thus a strange thing has occurred, as in America today. Today the fear that a white man has of a Negro is not merely economic, it is even more sexual. The white man has become so gentle that he knows that if sexually a Negro and he stand side by side, his wife will choose the Negro. The panic has arisen thus—because the Negro appears more potentially sexual. He is raw, wild. In a wild man there is a certain masculine attraction. Wild—a kind of romantic thrill arises. A thoroughly gentle man... a thoroughly gentle man becomes feminine.

If you had to make a love film around Buddha, you would be in great difficulty. For a love story requires an ungentle hero. The more ungentle, the more interesting, the more manly he appears. Therefore if a Western film director chooses an actor, he looks to see if there is hair on his chest, on his arms. Looking at a woman, he wants no hair at all. A little wildness, rawness, a little uncooked look creates sexual attraction.

The fear of the Negro has increased; it is less economic, more mental. As a man becomes gentle, the more feminine, the more tender he becomes. And, curiously, the more tender he becomes, the less lustful he becomes. The more tender a man becomes, the less sexual he becomes. And this lessening of lust becomes a path that can lead him toward the ultimate mystery of life.

Lao Tzu says: use gently; and without the touch of pain.

Remember, this requires some understanding. Whenever a man touches a woman, he wants to give her many kinds of pain—much hurt. In truth, methodologically, a man’s way of loving is like torturing the woman. If he loves more, he will press the hand harder. If the kiss is more loving, he will begin to bite. He will dig in his nails. The ancient texts of kama praise nail-marks—that he is no lover who does not drive his nails into his woman’s body to draw blood! The mark of a lover is nikhadansh—the nail-bite. If the lover is very skillful, like Marquis de Sade, when nails do not suffice he keeps knife and fork by his side—so that when he loves someone, after a while nails—and when nails fail, the knife and fork!

A man’s way of loving has violence in it. Therefore the more he falls in love, the more violent he becomes. There is the possibility that if a man comes into his full love, he can kill the woman—out of love. Such murders have happened. And courts were in great difficulty, because there was no enmity in these murders; excessive love was the cause. He became so full of love, so full, that pressing and pressing, when he pressed his beloved’s neck to death, he did not know.

Lao Tzu says: use gently. He is speaking of the ultimate truth—deal with great gentleness. And without the touch of pain: let not even the slightest hurt come to existence through you. Only then will you understand the feminine mystery.

Even if a woman loves a man, if she places her hand on his shoulder, she places it so that the shoulder is hardly touched. That is her secret. The less it touches while touching, the more loving it becomes. And when a woman presses a man’s shoulder, she is signaling that she has moved away from the feminine realm and is imitating the man. She only lets herself go—just floating—in the man’s love. She only consents; she does nothing. She does not even touch the man’s shoulder so strongly that the touch becomes ungentle.

But now in the West a disturbance has arisen. The intelligent women of the West—if you can call them intelligent—say women should be as aggressive as men. Just as men love, so should women—equally aggressive.

Surely, by becoming that aggressive they will become like men. But they will lose the feminine mystery that Lao Tzu speaks of. And Lao Tzu is more wise—his wisdom is para-wisdom: where beyond wisdom another wisdom begins, where all cleverness is exhausted and prajna is born—he speaks from there.

But this applies to both men and women; let me say this in the end. Do not think that women should go away happy—because among them very few are truly women. To be a woman is very difficult. To be a woman is the supreme experience. And let not men go away troubled—because there is not much difference between them and women. Both have to journey. Understand this much: we will be able to know truth to the extent we are non-attacking, non-aggressive—to the extent we are waiting, awaiting—to the extent we are passive, like the valley spirit. Not like the peak full of ego, the mountain of selfhood; but like the valley—humble, womb-like, silent, quiet, immersed in waiting.

In that passivity, in that supreme non-doing, the unbroken and whole power abides. From there all is born, and there all dissolves.

Enough for today. We will speak again tomorrow. But do not go yet. Now we will move into kirtan; perhaps this kirtan may become a door to understanding the feminine mystery. Join in.