Tao Upanishad #25

The thinking person is always asking: What is the purpose of life? Why live? For what? And not only today—since always the thinking person has asked. The birth of all religions and the rise of all philosophies have been built around this very question: What is the purpose? What is the utility? What is the goal? What is the end? And those who do not ask such things, the so‑called thoughtful have always believed them to be thoughtless, ignorant. Those who go on living without asking for a goal, the thoughtful have always considered them unknowing.

Lao Tzu’s statement will startle you. For Lao Tzu says that whoever tries to live by a purpose will never find the purpose—and will certainly lose life. Whoever tries to live for some goal will not be able to attain the goal—and will surely destroy his life. Only one who learns the art of purposeless living can truly live. Only one whose life carries no aim outside this moment can descend into life’s depth. This has to be understood step by step, for perhaps it is the hardest thing for our minds to grasp. It is hard because the mind cannot live even a single moment without a purpose. We can live, but the mind cannot live without a purpose. If there is no purpose, the mind will scatter. That is why the mind will find this very difficult to know, to understand. In truth, the mind is an event opposite to life. The more mind we have, the less life remains.

We will have to understand this from many angles. First: all discussion and reflection about purpose is utterly meaningless. Meaningless is that for which, even if we find an answer, the very question for which the answer was sought stands up again exactly as before—then the whole effort is futile.

For instance, people ask: Who created the world? That is a meaningless question. It is meaningless because even if we answer that A created the world, then the question rises again: Who created A? And however many answers we go on giving—B, C, and endlessly—after each answer the question will be found standing exactly where it stood. For in the very question we had assumed that nothing can be without a creator. Right there the confusion began. That same confusion will keep following us. If someone says, God created it, the question will arise: Who created God? And now you cannot say that God is uncreated. If you say that, then the first question was wrong. Then the world too could be uncreated. Such a question leads to infinite regress, to an endless chain of futile answers. Any question whose answer does not dissolve the question, any question that stands exactly as it was even after the answer, is futile.

Exactly the same confusion happens in relation to the purpose of life. When we ask, What is the purpose of life? then we have already assumed that nothing can be without a purpose. That is our implication, accepted inside. But we forget—whatever purpose we state, again it can be asked: What is the purpose of that which we have stated? The religious man will say, The purpose of life is to attain God. But can it not be asked, What is the purpose of attaining God? What will you do with Him? Suppose you attain—you have Him—then what? Even after attaining God this question can still be asked in all reason: What is the purpose of attaining this God? The religious person may say that the goal of life is to attain Moksha. But what is the goal of Moksha?

Thus this question is futile. Futile because no answer can refute it. Any answer—mind you, do not think there will be some answer that will negate it. I do not know your answer, yet I tell you: whichever answer you bring will be futile, because the question can always be asked again, in full legitimacy: What is the purpose of your X, Y, Z? To say that this question is futile, I need not know your answer. The question itself is futile, because no meaningful answer can ever be given to it, for after every answer it raises its head again just the same.

Yet the one we call intelligent, thoughtful, understanding is always found teaching people: Do not live vainly. Bring a purpose into life. Live for something. Live for the nation. Live for religion. Live for service. Live for truth. Live for Paramatma. Only one mistake do not make—do not live for life itself; live for everything else. For such a person will not agree that life itself is its own purpose, sufficient in itself, with no need to seek a purpose outside. He will say that then life becomes meaningless; for there is no utility, no goal. Then life becomes a road with no destination. For he has already assumed that the road must have a destination. His intellect cannot grasp that the journey itself can be the destination, that journey alone can be the destination. Therefore he goes on fabricating destinations. But no destination can ever be a destination, because we can again ask: Why this destination? For what destination is this destination?

A purposeful life, a life with utility, is pleasing to the mind—and to the ego too. For if the ego lives without purpose, it cannot be fed. The greater the purpose, the greater the ego. If you live only for your family, you cannot have a very great ego. If you want a big ego, live for the whole nation—then you will have a vast ego. If you want it bigger still, live for all humanity. Bigger still—make yourself the center of the entire cosmos and live for the whole universe. The larger the purpose, the larger the ego can be; the smaller the purpose, the smaller the ego will be.

Hence an amusing truth: the man who seeks wealth can never be as egoistic as the man who seeks knowledge can be. The man who seeks position cannot be as egoistic as the one who seeks service can be. The greater the goal, the greater the prospect for ego. And the greater also means: the less competitive, the fewer the competitors.

If you seek wealth, there will be much competition, because others too seek wealth. If you seek service, there will be less competition, for very few seek service. If you want honor for yourself, competition will be intense, for each one seeks honor for himself. But if you seek prestige for your nation, your religion, your caste, then competition within your nation will be minimal—only other nations will compete. Your ego can be built with ease.

So the bigger the goal, the easier for the ego to grow strong and large. The ego speaks the language of purpose. Hence we teach every child this language of the ego. Children live purposelessly; we impose purposes. If a child is playing and we ask, For what are you playing? the child cannot even understand our question. For “for what” has no meaning—playing is sufficient. Even when we play, inside there is a “for what.” The child’s playing is so sufficient in itself that there is no goal beyond it. Playing is the joy. It is not that something else will be attained through playing—what is to be attained is attained in playing itself. Playing itself is the attainment. Means and end are not two—they are one.

But such a child cannot be launched into life’s struggle. We have to pull him out of play and put him into purposeful activity. We have to make him study—study so that tomorrow he may get a job; study so that tomorrow he may get money. We have to set his life upon that track where the goal is always tomorrow and the work is today; where means and end are separated—the end always in the future, the means always in the present. Then the boy will study mathematics today. He cannot say, I am enjoying it. He will say, I am enduring hardship in the hope that tomorrow joy will come. I am preparing for the exam, because beyond the exam it will be easier to enter the struggle of life.

Thus we have to drag every child from purposeless living into purposeful living. Our entire system of education is just this. It is a compulsion; it has to be done. It is a need of life. If we cannot pull the child into a purposeful life, he will not become a member of society, and perhaps he will not even be able to survive. In this fierce competition for survival, he will lose, be defeated, be broken. He cannot survive. So we must pull him in; otherwise there is not even a place for him to stand in this war that goes on for survival.

Jesus said to his disciples: Why do you worry about your bread? Look at the flowers; look at the birds. They do not worry for bread, they do not have any device to earn it—yet they are fed. Consider the lilies of the field! Even King Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these. Yet they neither spin thread for their garments nor grow cotton. Still they are beautiful—and not naked.

Jesus is absolutely right. Jesus is saying the very thing Lao Tzu is saying.

But there is a compulsion. Man cannot be left like the lilies of the field. Nor, like birds, will grain come to him. Man has broken away from the animal world. He has taken up responsibility. He must go into struggle.

Therefore, it is true that life has no purpose—and still we have to teach every person a purpose. It is an untruth that is necessary for life—a necessary evil we must teach. But that evil can be gone beyond; one can come out of it. To come out of it again enriches life profoundly. To become a child again enriches life immensely. Then the whole race becomes a play. And deep within we know that life is purposeless.

What is the meaning of purposeless? It means that every moment of life is its own purpose. Where we are, what we are—there is life’s completeness. Let us not live for tomorrow, for living for tomorrow we only lose today. And the today we lose can never be regained. The one who makes a habit of losing today will lose tomorrow too—for when tomorrow reaches our hands, remember, it will come only in the form of today. Tomorrow never comes as tomorrow. When it comes to me, it will be today. And I have always sacrificed today for tomorrow. Thus I shall go on sacrificing the whole of life—and in the end I shall find that nothing remains in my hands but death.

We all lose our life just like this. This today we speak of—yesterday it was “tomorrow.” We sacrificed that day (which was then tomorrow) for today. Today we are sacrificing for tomorrow. Tomorrow we will sacrifice for the day after—and so we go on losing time. One day we discover that except the ashes of our hopes nothing has been left. No purpose got fulfilled—life was lost.

Not more than one moment is available to us. No one ever gets two moments at once. One moment, a subtle moment—and even that moment is not static; it is a running, fleeing, ever‑vanishing process. No sooner does it come into the hand than it slips away. Lao Tzu says, if we dedicate that moment to any end whatsoever, we will be deprived of life. No matter what the end—whether petty wealth or exalted religion—it makes no difference. Whether the goal is to build a palace on this earth, or to possess a palace in heaven—whether the ambition is to sit upon a high post here, or to sit upon Siddhashila in Moksha—it makes no difference. The longing for tomorrow is poison, for it cancels life today.

Can this moment not be lived in and of itself? Can this moment not be taken as complete in itself?

This does not mean that if you have to catch a train tomorrow, you must catch it today. It does not mean you cannot look at the timetable today for the train you must catch tomorrow. It does not mean that if your factory will be complete in a year, you cannot plan for it today. People ask such questions—then what will happen? Tomorrow has to be decided today: I must wake at five in the morning to catch the train. But if you look a little carefully, it becomes clear.

When you decide it, deciding is an activity of the present. Right now you decide. Then take as much joy in deciding as can be taken in deciding. Any decision in itself is a joy, the bringing of something to a decision is a joy unto itself. Take this joy now—that you will wake at five tomorrow morning. This is a decision of this moment. Let this decision of the moment be complete. To enjoy waking at five tomorrow—enjoy today the decision that you will wake at five.

But if today’s moment is spent in anxiety: tomorrow I must wake at five, and after waking at five more troubles will come—and every moment is spent in the troubles that are to come—then we never come into union with existence.

No—living in the present does not mean you cannot plan. It only means that the plan is not your life; living is your life. And living is possible only now and here—in this moment—and in no other moment.

So there is purposeless living of the man we call stupid—the one who lies about, pushed here and there wherever life shoves him; full of heedlessness, sunk in laziness; one who has not taken life in his own hands; like a leaf blown in the wind. That man we can call purposeless.

There is the other man—running twenty‑four hours a day to reach a purpose—the one we call intelligent, sensible. That is purposeful life: losing every moment for the next, investing endlessly, staking today’s moment for tomorrow, tomorrow’s moment for the day after—until in the end he dies; running, he dies. Perhaps the purposeless fool may have glimpsed something more than he.

But Lao Tzu is not speaking for that man. Lao Tzu speaks of a third man: a purpose‑free life. He is a third kind altogether. He is neither lazy nor heedless. He does not flee from life, nor lie dead‑like while life’s stream flows over him. He is not like the first; nor like the second who runs like a madman. He is the third. Even when he runs, it is not for a destination; every step of running is joy for him. If he runs, the running itself is his delight. He does not run to arrive anywhere.

Such a third man can never meet failure. He cannot be frustrated. Frustration, melancholy, dejection will never come to fruition in him—because he never binds any hope. He has lived each moment in its fullness, pressed it dry. He did not run to any destination, hence he will never stand and say, My life went to waste, I did not arrive—because he never tried to arrive.

He will say, I lived life moment to moment; I squeezed the very juice of life. Such a man will embrace death with joy. He will be able to live death too. For him, death will be an event of life—not the end of life. He will taste death too, and embrace it—because whatever came before him, he lived it; whatever he received, he consumed completely. He left not a grain; he kept no accounts of before and after. He too ran—perhaps more than those who ran after destinations. For remember: when the burden of a destination sits upon the head, even the feet grow heavy. When one walks with a goal, walking becomes fatigue.

Have you ever noticed? The road you stroll upon in the morning—you take the same road at noon to go to the office. The feet are the same, the road the same, the sky the same. But when you go walking in the morning, there is a different dance in your feet and a different song in your breath. At noon along the same road you go to the office; the feet are the same, the road the same—but now there is a destination, you must arrive somewhere. In the morning there was nowhere to arrive—walking was enough.

Why is the joy of walking in the morning missing on the same road at noon? And it may be that a man is walking beside you who has come out for a stroll—he still tastes the same nectar. But even in the morning, if someone has made it a religious duty to stroll at five—otherwise sin will happen—he will lose the joy even in strolling. His stroll too is a duty, something to be done. He will stroll as if he were going to the office, to the shop. He will return from his stroll as from a task: good, one job off the list, one task done.

Wherever there is purpose, weight gathers. Where there is no purpose, a weightless state arises. The more weightless a person, the greater the possibility of joy. The more burdened, the more life becomes a load to be somehow carried along. We turn everything into duty, not play. If you understand Lao Tzu, he is saying that the whole of life is a play. We even turn play into duty. Even when we sit to play, the furrows that gather on eyes and face are those of work.

Hence, if two people play cards, it is not enjoyable to play for nothing; unless they put down a little money, even a small stake. For by putting down money, the play becomes work; by putting money, purpose enters the play. Even if he is a millionaire, he will put down one rupee to create purpose. One rupee will not bring anything—but still, purpose is created. Now the play will have juice, life will enter. Play in itself was not enough; the rupee gave it a soul. Money has become such a heavy soul for us that unless we put it even into play, play is worthless. Everything must become business.

Purpose means: every act is being done for something else. The juice lies in attaining that other thing; this act is compulsion. If that other thing were given without the act, we would drop the act at once. Since the goal cannot be had without the act, we are compelled to act. Thus we turn even play into business. We even transform love into work. A mother serves her child and turns it into duty. A husband labors for his wife and makes it a duty.

People come to me and say, We are householders; we have to fulfill our duty.

If it is duty that must be fulfilled, then where is the home? There is no home—there too is a shop. The very meaning of home is: it is our joy. If the husband works because: well, a wife has been taken on, it is a duty; if a mother feeds her child milk because: well, it was in my fate, he was born—so I will complete the job—then our purposeful style casts its dark shadow upon everything. Nothing is play. We never become so engrossed in anything that we forget the beyond. Not for a moment do we remain where we are; the mind is always elsewhere.

Lao Tzu says, Even in displaying love toward the masses, even in the process of administering a kingdom, in discipline—can one not advance without purposeful action?

He says, Even an emperor—can he not make the vast work of governance into a play? He can; a beggar cannot. Lao Tzu says, An emperor, if he wishes, can make even the grand work of ruling a game. Drop purpose.

Immediately we feel: If we drop purpose, we will sit down. Why would we do anything then? If purpose is dropped, we feel doing will be lost. For we have always acted for a purpose. We have never done anything purposelessly. Or if ever we did—even some small act—remember it again.

Purposeless! Someone was drowning in the river; you stood on the ghat and without a thought that it is your duty to save a life, you leapt in that very instant—without thinking, without deliberation, without any purpose; without thinking whether he is Hindu or Muslim, whether to save or not, whether he is mine or a stranger, whether trouble will follow or not—thinking nothing—you simply saw someone drowning and a spontaneous spring moved within you and you jumped in and saved him—then you might have had a glimpse of bliss.

But we are such that even if such a moment comes, we will quickly destroy it. If we save a man in that instant of sharp inspiration, as soon as we reach the shore we begin thinking: Is he saying thank you or not? Will the news appear in the paper or not? Is there anyone watching or not? If only for a little while we could be absorbed in an act without purpose—that very act becomes meditation.

But even when we meditate, we do it with purpose. People come to me and say, Meditation will bring success in life, will it not?

Success—and meditation?

They ask, My finances are deteriorating—by meditating the Lord’s grace will be available, will it not?

Then meditation too is an investment. Meditation becomes a part of their business. Even meditation! We cannot conceive that meditation has nothing to do with purpose. Even to say that meditation will bring bliss is wrong—though it is not that bliss does not come from meditation. Only from meditation does bliss come. But even to say “bliss will come” is wrong. For the one who meditates for bliss will not be able to meditate. The one who meditates for meditation’s sake finds bliss certainly. The one who enters action for the sake of action—who makes every act complete in that moment and dives wholly into it so that nothing of himself is left—his whole life becomes meditation.

Lao Tzu says, Even an emperor, if he wishes, can make his immense love for the masses and the great ordering of the state into a game. He can live this too without purpose. But he frames it as a question.

He says, In displaying love toward the multitude and in the process of governing, can he not move without purposeful action? Can he not, in opening and closing the gates of heaven (the nostrils), act like a feminine bird? When his intelligence is turned toward all directions, can he not appear as if unknowing?

Lao Tzu raises these questions because, as we are, it seems very doubtful to him too whether we can be purposeless. Yet we can be. What is the way? And what follows if we are? What happens?

Understand three things.

First: Life is its own goal; beyond life there is no goal. However hard it is for our minds to accept, it is the fact. Therefore do not think, For what should I live? Think rather, How should I live? As soon as purpose is dropped, the questions change. With purpose we ask: For what should I live? When it is understood that life itself is its goal, the face of the question turns. We will no longer ask, For what should I live? We will ask, How should I live?

From “how” science is born—how? From “how” Yoga is born. From “for what” come airy philosophies, metaphysics. Then thousands appear with answers: Live for this, because beyond life is Moksha, beyond life is Paramatma. But then everything is beyond life; nothing is here. Then everything is after the grave; nothing is here. And whose picture of after‑the‑grave becomes important, his present life becomes a long grave. For nothing remains here worthy of attainment—nothing remains.

Because of the so‑called religions across this earth, a darkness of life‑negation has spread. Life is worthless; the goal is beyond—attain that. And we do not see that those who ask about purpose—even if they are given Moksha—after a day or two of strolling around, they will immediately ask: What is the purpose? What will come from being in Moksha? For those who have always asked, will ask of Moksha too: Granted there is peace here, bliss here—so what is the benefit? This chronic questioning is a disease. Wherever he reaches, he will ask.

I have heard, Mark Twain had the habit that whenever someone asked him a question, he would always answer with a question. You asked something; his answer would be a question. If you asked, What is your name? he would not tell his name; he would ask, What is the purpose of asking the name? He always raised another question. It is said he went to meet the President of the United States. The President asked, Mark Twain, I have heard that to every question you again raise a question! Mark Twain said, Do I still do so? Do I still do so?—he asked. Chronic! Even he did not know what he was saying; perhaps later he realized he had again raised a question.

This habit of asking for purpose is pathological. It testifies to our diseased mind. When there is joy in life, we do not ask “for what.”

Have you noticed—we always ask… people come to me and say: A child was born blind—why? They never come and say: So many children are born with sight—why? If a man falls ill he asks: Why disease? When he is healthy he never asks: Why health? When someone is happy he never asks: Why is there happiness in the world? When he is unhappy he asks: Why is there misery? We have five thousand years of written questions—not one man ever asked: Why is there happiness in the world? The Buddha too asks: Why is there suffering? And everyone asks: Why suffering?

So when someone asks the purpose of life, he is asking: Why life? Which means he has filled life with suffering. Otherwise he would never ask the purpose of life or why life is. He would live—and living would be sufficient. But the situation is that we have filled life with misery, hence the question.

Lao Tzu says, Can even an emperor not live without purpose? He speaks of the emperor because an emperor has received all that can be had; therefore he raises the emperor’s case. If he were to speak to a beggar, the beggar would say, How can I live purposelessly? I don’t even have a house. So Lao Tzu drops that case. He raises the emperor: Can an emperor not live without purpose? He has everything that can be gotten. But even he cannot live purposelessly. Why? Because things have nothing to do with purpose. The disease of purposeful living is a disease of the mind. Give everything—and still the mind asks: Why? For what? It goes on asking.

So a strange event occurs: the poor man is never as miserable as the rich becomes. If a rich man is not miserable, understand he is not yet rich. The very sign of being rich is that one becomes so miserable that one finds no way out of misery. To be rich means: all the things one hoped would bring happiness have been attained—and happiness did not come. Everything has been gathered—and the man stands in the middle. Now nothing remains to be got—and what was to be got has not been found. Then sorrow is born. The poor live with hardship, not with sorrow. Hardship means some lack of a thing. Hardship is always from lack: there is no bread—one feels hardship. Sorrow happens when the stomach is full—and the experience of fullness is absent. There is no bed to sleep—hardship. Sorrow is when the best bed is available—and sleep becomes difficult. Hardship comes from lack; sorrow comes from possession. Hardship is the portion of the poor; sorrow is the portion of the rich. When sorrow arises, know one has become rich.

What is this sorrow? It is that as long as one runs, it seems that ahead there is something to attain, and then there is some taste in life. Therefore there is a taste in the poor man’s life—because the goals are far: tomorrow, the future, after death. Psychologists say the imagination of the other world is the poor man’s consolation. Somewhat true. For if the poor man has to live, without the imagination of the other world he cannot. How will he run? How will he get up? How will he move? If you remove the other world, then socialism, communism—a utopia—on this very earth, but tomorrow. Otherwise how will the poor man live? Some “tomorrow” is needed—whether in the other world of dream, or on this earth—but tomorrow. So the poor man runs—goal, purpose. But if all purposes are fulfilled and all goals attained, then for the first time it is seen that the whole race was in vain—purposes fulfilled, destination reached—and nothing in the hand.

Therefore today, in prosperous countries, when their philosophers speak of meaninglessness, it is worth pondering. Sartre, Camus, Heidegger—they all, the thoughtful of the West, say one thing: life is meaningless. This meaninglessness is not of life—it is one we have produced with our own hands, because we tried to live life purposefully. Now the purposes are fulfilled and meaning has not come; hence our trouble.

Whenever someone says, I have become utterly hopeless, understand: it is because of his hopes. The one who never binds hope never becomes hopeless. You cannot make me hopeless, for I bind no hope with you. Whatever you do, however you behave, you cannot make me hopeless, because I did not make the first mistake—I did not give you that power. If I bind even a small, cheap hope with you—that when we meet on the road at least you will join hands in greeting—even then you can make me hopeless. You become my master. Today we meet on the road and you turn your face away—you do not greet—then my chest feels the stab of a knife. I am hopeless. Then I say, Life is worthless. I trusted this man so much and he doesn’t even greet! If I bind hope, then hopelessness is my lot; if I make a purpose, one day I must fall into the pit of purposelessness.

Lao Tzu says, Do not make any—live without purpose. Then grief will never be the fruit of your fate. Then each moment you can be fresh and new and full of joy.

So first—Lao Tzu’s great opposition is to purpose. Drop purpose. Do not demand anything of the future. Then whatever the future gives, it is grace. Do not ask. The moment we ask, the uproar begins. And we all ask—hence our whole life becomes an uproar. In relationships we ask. If I love someone, I ask; from the morning I look with greedy eyes that I may receive love. Then all becomes sorrow. Respect—and I begin to demand respect. Compassion—and I begin to demand compassion. Whatever my demand is, that very thing casts me into sorrow.

Fallen into sorrow, I do not stop demanding; the amusing thing is this. If I demanded greeting from you and you did not give it, I do not think to stop demanding—why become a slave? No—I begin to demand from someone else. This man proved wrong; another will prove right. But my old habit continues. If my love fails at one place, I begin to love another person. If I cannot find the ladder on one side, I begin to search for another ladder of ego. If my ambition breaks at one place, I find another path. But I never think—could it not be so—Lao Tzu says—could it not be so that one lives without purpose?

It can be. It is difficult because all our schooling is of purpose. Difficult because our whole culture teaches purpose. Difficult because society shapes us for purpose. The father imposes upon the son the very purposes that remained unfulfilled in himself. The mother sows into the daughter the purposes she could not complete. Psychologists say every son extends the father’s frustrations and hopes anew. Every father, to his last breath, tries that the work he could not do, the son may complete. Our hopes do not die. We want to make them eternal.

Thus the old scriptures say that a man without a son has a wasted life. Strange! Life is one’s own—and yet without a son it becomes wasted. Why? Because if there is no son, what will happen to your unfulfilled longings? Upon whose shoulders will you ride on your journey toward the eternal? Hence a son must be. If not your own, adopt one—borrowed will do. But someone must carry my unfulfilled, impossible desires upon his shoulders. I will not be there, yet my hopes—astonishing!—I will not be there, still my hopes should remain.

Lao Tzu says: Let yourself be—even if your hopes go. But we are such that we would rather be erased—but our hopes must not be erased.

At the moment of death fathers tell their sons: Take care of the lineage; walk according to the tradition. Do what I could not do. Astonishing—you were wasted, now you are wasting the son! Every father hands his diseases to the son. Every generation passes its illnesses, with great neatness and order, as a heritage to the new. Thus each new generation becomes more ill.

People ask: How did Kali Yuga come? This is the way. For ten thousand years every father has given his disease to his son; illnesses pile up, while the son’s strength… the pile grows. This Kali Yuga is the sum of your Satya Yuga’s diseases. Dasharatha must have given to Rama; Rama to Lava‑Kusha—and so it has come. On each son’s chest mountains have accumulated, and under them he is being crushed. Yet the father wants to give—for the dim hope still flickers that perhaps someone will complete what a part of my blood could complete.

Lao Tzu says: Could it not be that you do not live by purpose at all—that you simply live?

The so‑called saints will say: Then life will become like the animals. In one sense they are right—and in another they are wrong. In one sense it will be like the animals, for animals live in the moment. They do not know tomorrow. They have no time‑consciousness; no notion of time. Thus they cannot accumulate. They cannot retain much memory of the past; nor much concern for the future. Their span of time is very small—they live in it.

In that sense they are right—that one who lives purposelessly will be like an animal. But in another sense they are entirely wrong. For such a one does not live in the moment because he does not know tomorrow. He knows tomorrow fully—more than you—and therefore he lives in the moment. He knows that tomorrow brings nothing but sorrow. He knows there is no need to drag it in. Not because he lacks an idea of time; rather because time is so clearly seen that time cannot deceive him. In one sense he will live like an animal—simple as an animal. In such a person’s eyes there will be a glint like the eyes of a cow. In one sense yes. In another sense he will be like the divine—for time cannot deceive him.

But the difficulty remains. I was just looking at a small book by the Jain monk, Muni Vidyanand—The Value of Time. As common sense says: Do not waste even a moment, for time is very valuable. Therefore do not waste; earn something from time. If a shopkeeper said this, it would be understandable. Shopkeepers always write: Time is wealth. But a monk too says: Time is wealth—do not waste it. Invest it in attaining Moksha, in seeking Atman, in earning merit (punya). See that time is not lost, for it will not return. But what is meant is: invest it to get something; otherwise it is lost. If nothing is gained, it is lost.

What Lao Tzu says is a deeply religious thing. It is not the language of the shopkeeper.

In truth, the reason so‑called sadhus can influence shopkeepers is only that their language is the same. Otherwise they could not influence them. The shopkeeper nods: Quite right—time is wealth. Now the remaining thing is only to define wealth. Shall we call wealth “cash in the safe” or “merit in heaven”—that is only a matter of definition. But time is wealth. Whoever loses it is wasted. Earn; organize your time and earn something; dedicate it to some purpose—only then will you become wealthy. Either wealthy with a safe, or wealthy with punya—but wealthy only when you convert time into wealth.

Lao Tzu says: Do not convert time into wealth at all. Time is life—live it. Drown in it. Bathe in it. Do not strive to get something beyond it. Now—now, in this very time, be so absorbed that there is no gap between you and your time. Time is not wealth; time is life. Nothing can be earned from time—for time itself is the goal. He who tries to earn from time will die a poor beggar. He who lives time here and now will become an emperor. He becomes an emperor because by living each moment, life’s richness, life’s juice, life’s experience deepens. He becomes more and more alive; his life grows radiant. Each moment puts a sharper edge upon the sword of his life. The wine of his life grows more condensed, more profound. The dance of his life becomes more skillful, more blissful. But all this happens here and now—first.

Second: Lao Tzu says, Can he not, in opening and closing the gates of heaven, act like a feminine bird?

Understand this a little. One way is the working of a masculine mind; another is the working of a feminine mind. Lao Tzu stands for the feminine mind. The masculine mind’s way is aggression—attack. “Masculine” is only a symbol here. If something is to be attained, one way is: attack and take it. Lao Tzu calls this the masculine way. The other is: do not attack—only wait and invite. Not aggression—invitation. This he calls the feminine way.

If we live purposefully, we will live in the masculine way. For one who must fulfill a purpose has to attack each moment. He will attack tomorrow daily, for his purpose is tomorrow; he must prepare for attack. His relation with life will be of hostility, not friendship. As in the West they say: Conquer nature! His language will be of victory. Whatever there is—conquer it.

Lao Tzu says, This conquering mind loses everything. In the riddle of life, the one who goes to win—loses. For winning is only possible in the future—in tomorrow. Today must be spent in preparation; today one must prepare for tomorrow. Love can happen now; war cannot happen now. Love needs no preparation; war must be prepared for. Do you see? Love can be now—here, this very instant. War cannot be now. For war, preparation is needed.

Historians say that so far history has known only two kinds of time: time of war and time of preparation for war. Peace is not yet known. Ten or fifteen years a nation prepares—and then war; then again preparation; then war. Aggression is the mark of the masculine mind: conquer, wage war, struggle. The world is an enemy; there is no friendship between existence and us. Invitation is for a friend, a lover; aggression is upon an enemy.

By “feminine mind” Lao Tzu means the capacity for receptivity.

In the sexual order of man and woman there is a fundamental difference. The male sexual organism is aggressive. Therefore a woman cannot commit rape. By her sexual arrangement rape cannot happen. If a woman wants even to rape, she needs the cooperation of a man. She can have rape done; she cannot commit it. If the man does not cooperate, how can a woman rape? But a man can rape without a woman’s consent. And some even find no taste in love except in rape—because only in rape the full flavor of aggression is tasted.

Hence the woman who becomes easily available ceases to attract the man—because the work of victory has ended. The unavailable woman attracts him. The more unavailable, the greater the attraction—for to get her requires struggle, war, assault, preparation. There his masculine, aggressive mind finds taste.

A woman cannot assault even by the sexual arrangement; her mind is non‑aggressive. She is receptive, she only receives, only accepts. In her acceptance there is a goodwill toward the world and toward life.

According to Lao Tzu we can relate to existence in two ways: by assault, or by friendship, by love, by invitation. He says, Like a feminine bird, like a feminine mind—do not pound and shove even at the gates of heaven.

Swami Ram used to say: There are two kinds of doors. On one is written “Push,” and on the other “Pull.” The feminine mind’s door says “Pull”—draw. The feminine only draws; she does not go—she calls. The masculine mind pushes. This pushing urge—will you enter even the gates of heaven as an aggressor? Will you go there as a Napoleon, an Alexander, a Hitler? Will you attack there too? Will you assault even God?

The masculine even goes to assault God. When a masculine mind seeks God, his mood is: Let us see where He is—let us find Him! He does not go dancing like Meera toward God—he is aggressive. All his effort is: I will find. Perhaps that is why men…—by “men” I do not mean only males, for a man can go like Meera too, a Kabir can go dancing; and a woman can behave like a man. These are symbols—remember. A woman can act masculine; a man can act feminine.

The feminine mind, even going to seek, goes as invitation. If she does not find, she does not say, You are at fault—where are You hiding that I cannot find You? She says, There must have been a lack in my invitation; my call of waiting was not complete. You are here somewhere, but I could not open my doors—my doors remained half‑open or closed.

Understand this difference. The knower’s way of seeking God is masculine; the devotee’s way is feminine. Hence when the bhakta says symbolically: Apart from Krishna there is no male—it was only symbolic language. For the rest are seekers—so they must be feminine. It means nothing else; not that the rest are women.

Some foolish ones took it literally. In Bengal there is a sect—the Sakhi sampradaya. A follower of this sect, even if male, takes an idol of Krishna to his chest and sleeps hugging it, as a “sakhi,” a female companion.

I say: he may be acting as a sakhi, yet one thing is certain—it is he who picks up Krishna’s image and presses it to his chest; it is he who crushes the image upon his chest at night—Krishna’s image does not crush him. He may call himself sakhi, but his entire gait is masculine. He is doing something; Krishna is not at fault—He is utterly innocent. If any case be tried, this man will be caught. The masculine cannot leave himself—he must do something. Without doing he cannot rest.

Lao Tzu says: Let go. Be in rest. Allow things to happen—do not be so eager to make them happen. Do not be in such haste, so insistently demanding, that it must be thus. Keep the capacity to accept whatever happens. Keep your gates open, remain consenting to whatever comes. Do not take enmity with existence. Maintain a mood of friendship—then whatever existence does will be right. Such a hidden goodwill, such a closeness with existence, that whatever it does will be right—living in this mood is the feminine way.

And the third aphorism: When his intelligence is addressed to all directions, can he not appear as if without knowledge?

Even when knowledge is complete, is there any need to preserve the pride of being a knower? When intelligence burns in its full flame—must one then announce, I am knowledgeable?

In truth, as long as someone says, I am knowledgeable, know that ignorance remains. How will knowledge claim? Knowledge is never a claimant; all claims are of ignorance. How will knowledge say, I have known? For the moment one knows, one also knows that knowing is impossible. The moment one knows, one knows that however much is known, what remains to be known is endless. The moment one knows, one knows: the handful of water in my palm is a part of that ocean which is infinite and cannot be contained in my fist. In truth, the one who knows is the one whose fist disappears. The one who knows is the one whose grasp is gone—the one who dissolves into the ocean as a lump of salt dissolves—becomes one with the ocean. Where then does the knower remain?

He who sets out upon the journey to know must be prepared to set out upon the journey to be dissolved. Where there is purpose, dissolution cannot be; there the ego becomes strong. But where there is no purpose, there is no reason for ego to remain. I can dissolve now—if I have no concern for tomorrow. If I have no plan for the next moment, if I have no insistence upon the next moment that only if this happens will I be happy, otherwise I will be unhappy—then I dissolve now. The moment will come, existence will be, but my “I” will not be. The “I” is the sum of our insistent plans for the future. The more our insistence on the future, the more our “I.”

Lao Tzu says: Even after knowing, can one not live as if one does not know?

Someone would ask Lao Tzu a question; sometimes he would remain silent for hours. The questioner would forget the question. Lao Tzu would then ask again: What did you ask? The man would say: Now I too have forgotten; I will come another time. He would say: But when I asked, you did not answer! Lao Tzu would say: If I had known the answer, I would have given it. I paused, I stayed, I waited that perhaps the answer would come. That is why I ask you again: What was your question?

Lao Tzu wrote nothing all his life. This little book is the last—and the first. He wrote no other book. All his life his disciples said: Write something. Lao Tzu said: But I do not know. And to hand you ignorance would be dangerous. Yet the more Lao Tzu refused, the more millions pressed him: Write. Still he ran away one night without writing. He was caught at the country’s border post. The customs officer said: I will not let you out until you write something down. Under this compulsion this book was written. He said: Stay three days here, otherwise I will not let you cross the border. Whatever you know, write it.

Lao Tzu was in great difficulty. One who had kept silence all his life, who had used silence as the means, who had never proclaimed knowledge—now had to write, because the matter of leaving the country hung on it. He wished to go beyond into the mountain solitude forever—and this man would not let him go. So for three nights he did not sleep; in those three nights this book—if we can call it a book—was written. But the first thing he wrote was: Whatever can be spoken is not the true; the word is not the Truth. He wrote that first. Then the book begins.

So he says: Can it not be that the one who knows becomes established in a mood as if he does not know?

Not only can it be—it happens. It happens. But lest even this become a dogmatic assertion, Lao Tzu, with hesitation, puts it as a question. He says: When his intelligence is addressed to all directions, when he stands where everything is known, when all doors have opened and light falls on him from all dimensions—can he not appear as if without knowledge? He puts it as a question so that a certain hesitation—sign of the supreme knower—may remain. Hesitation is the sign of the supreme knower; the shameless and brash give assertions. Hesitation is the mark of the wise.

When someone asked Mahavira, he would not give a statement without adding syat—“perhaps.” If asked, Is there God? Mahavira said, Syat—perhaps, maybe yes. Sometimes he said, Syat—no. Sometimes he said, Perhaps both are true.

The supreme knower cannot speak like arithmetic—that two and two make four. Life is such an immense mystery that whoever gives very clear statements must know he has had to leave out very much. That too was alive—and what we leave out will take its revenge today or tomorrow.

Therefore Lao Tzu does not say it as an authoritative pronouncement—for that too would be dogmatic. He could have said—understand the difference—he could have said: The knower must behave like the unknowing. The content would be the same, but the statement would be ignorant. It would be an ignorant statement.

I have heard: in those days a sophist, a great logician, came to Socrates.

Socrates was very hesitant. His temperament must have been like Lao Tzu’s. If anyone in the West came close to Lao Tzu, it was Socrates. Socrates would question people, but never give answers. That too was one reason for giving him hemlock—the people were greatly disturbed. He would always ask questions and never answer. Socrates said: I do not know; I have the right to ask questions because I am ignorant. But I have no knowledge; so how can I answer? And you will be in trouble with a man who never answers but only questions. For one can ask endlessly, and he who never answers cannot be questioned, because he never says anything upon which you can raise a question.

All Athens was troubled by Socrates. People, seeing him on the road, would slip down bylanes lest he meet them and ask a question—lest a crowd gather and a scene be created. For the things you think you know—you do not know even one of them really. It is only that no one asks, so you remain restful in your seeming knowing. If someone asks, you are in difficulty. People do not ask, because the one who asks will be in trouble too; he must protect his knowledge. You must protect yours. There is a mutual conspiracy—a collective collusion of the ignorant. If someone asks you, Is there God? not only will you be in difficulty, you can also ask him: What do you think? He too believes something. Is there Atman?—trouble arises. Therefore we never touch each other’s ignorance. Each is a knower in his own ignorance—and we guard each other’s knowledge. It is ill‑mannered to raise such matters.

Socrates was ill‑mannered! Before giving hemlock, the magistrate said: If you stop this business of speaking truth, I can let you go. Socrates said: But this is my trade. How can I stop? For whatever I speak is truth. You are asking me to stop speaking altogether—then what is the use of living in such slavery?

Socrates did not answer; he asked. The sophist came and stated a principle of his logic: Nothing in this world is absolute; nothing is complete—no man is complete, no truth is complete, no doctrine is complete; in this world nothing is complete. Socrates asked: Is your statement complete truth or not? Heated in his zeal, the logician forgot he was being trapped. He said: It is complete truth. Socrates said: Then I have nothing left to say. The matter ends. Now you think about it.

Whenever we claim absolutes we do not realize that life is far too mysterious—unlike two plus two equals four. Whatever is left out will become our death. If this man had said: Some truths are complete and some are not; or: Perhaps no truth in the world is complete—Socrates could not have caught him. But he said: No truth is complete. By that he asserted that at least one truth is complete—his statement. He left no room for incompleteness. If even one thing is complete, his statement is false.

Whenever we make hard declarations and forget the opposite, the opposite takes revenge. Hence Lao Tzu does not say: That man is ignorant who claims knowledge—for that too would be a claim of knowledge. So he says: Is it not possible—can it not be—that the one whose gates of knowledge are all open may behave as if unknowing? He frames it as a question, with great hesitation. This is the pliable wisdom of Lao Tzu, the tender intelligence, the fluid consciousness.

These three aphorisms—purpose‑free living, a mood filled with invitation, and the readiness—the courage—to appear unknowing even when intelligence is full—where these dwell, the ultimate of life, the supreme life, becomes available here and now. Then one need not wait for tomorrow; one need not postpone to the future. Such a person’s Moksha is not after death—it is here and now. Such a person’s Paramatma does not dwell in some other realm—He is here and now, surrounding him on every side. And for such a person nothing remains to be attained, for all the doors of life’s riches open here and now.

We will speak the rest tomorrow.

Sit for five minutes—join the kirtan. Those friends who wish to come down here and join in the kirtan, please come forward.