Tao Upanishad #28

Where and how we live—the ultimate fruit of such living is nothing but death. It can be said that, under the name of living, we die every day. And death does not come one day all of a sudden. Nothing happens here suddenly. What we call events are not events; they too are long processes. Death also does not descend abruptly. Death grows day by day. It is not an event, but a process. From the very day of birth our dying has begun. On the day we die, that process of dying is completed.

So, first, death does not happen suddenly; it is a development. Therefore, it is not as though death will occur in the future—right now it is occurring. We shall be here for an hour; within that hour death will have occurred for an hour. We shall have died an hour more. Life will stand emptied by one more hour. Second: death is not some external incident that descends upon you from outside. We all imagine that death comes from outside, the messengers of Yama bring it, some herald of death arrives and drags away our life-breath. That view is false. That view is because we are forever bound to the illusion that some other brings our suffering; hence, death too must be brought by someone.

No—no one brings death. Death also is an inner happening; it takes place within you. Death does not enter you from the outside; you dissolve within, you fall apart. The mechanism that you were, disintegrates—and death happens.

So: death is a long process that begins with birth and ends in death. And, it does not come from without; it develops within—an inner event. If this becomes clear, we shall see that our whole life dies each day in many forms. The eyes, by seeing again and again, are worn and destroyed. The ears, by hearing and hearing, are exhausted and ruined. Taste, by tasting and tasting, breaks down and scatters. We die by living. Living is our arrangement for dying. In it we are ground down. The instrument falls apart, breaks, comes loose.

Lao Tzu says: "The five colors blind a man’s eyes."

Perhaps you never thought that colors could blind the eyes! Colors appear to us as the very life of the eye. The eye lives and shines precisely to behold color. Color and form are the food of the eye. And Lao Tzu says: they are the death of the eye.

This is so in two senses. First: in seeing and seeing the eye tires, is used up, becomes unfit for use. It is not that old age makes an old man’s eyes see less. They have seen too much; therefore now they see less. Seeing and seeing, they have tired; the mechanism has worn out. The old man’s ears do not fail to hear because of age; they have heard much, done their work, they are tired. The moment of rest has come. The instrument has fulfilled its utility. Seen in this way, the meaning is: the more we see, the more the eyes die. The more we hear, the more the ears go deaf. The more we touch, the more touch is destroyed. The more we taste, the more the relish is annihilated.

This means that each sense is engaged in the effort of its own death. And our whole life is suicidal. Returning from the cinema, perhaps you have felt the eyes are tired. You may not have noticed that you keep your eyes open anyway—outside for three hours they would have been open, in the cinema too; then why the extra fatigue? Next time watch: while watching a film your blinking practically stops.

That little blinking renews the eye. Blinking breaks the continuum of seeing. But whenever you look with such urgency that the eye forgets to blink, the eye tires. Hence a man returning from the cinema cannot fall asleep at once; after three hours of staring unblinking, the eyes cannot close instantly. And even if the eyes close, the images seen in the cinema keep moving upon the inner screen.

It often happens that painters go blind early. They should not, we think; the eyes that have seen so much should be fresher. But living among colors, seeing and seeing, they often go blind. The sense we use most is the sense that tires and dies.

This is one meaning. Lao Tzu’s purpose is this: we can keep our senses fresh and youthful up to the very moment of death. And one who has kept his senses fresh until the last instant can taste death too. He can behold the color of death. He can touch death. He can experience death. But long before dying our capacities for experience are broken. Hence, we have died many times, yet we have no experience of death. That is the hindrance.

We have all died many times. But if you ask anyone, "What is death?" he will say, "I do not know." He too has died, many times—yet remembers nothing. Memory is possible only if the senses remained sufficiently alert to receive the experience, and the experience could enter memory. For most people, by the time the event of dying occurs, all their senses have already died; therefore memory cannot be formed.

Thus, a curious thing: those who remember past lives—in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases—they died in youth or as children. The reason is clear. In ninety-nine cases the previous life ended suddenly, accidentally, at a young age, when all was fresh—senses fresh, memory fresh, intelligence fresh—then death happened. That impact, that samskara of death, does not fade; it remains. Until now there has been no instance of anyone who remembers a past life saying, "I died at ninety." Not that it cannot happen; it can. But the opportunity rarely comes, for before death the inner instruments are already dead.

One who sets out in search of Amrit, who seeks the Supreme Tao, the Supreme Rit, the Supreme Dharma—it is essential for him to keep his senses fresh and youthful, moment to moment. Then the experience of death will happen—and the experience of life too.

Another curious point: those who look at colors day and night—what dies is not only the eye for color; their very taste for color dies, their sense of color becomes dull, loses its edge. That is why the child, when he beholds the world for the first time, sees it as colorful as we can never again. When a child touches the world, the thrill he feels in touch—we never feel again. When a child tastes, the way taste vibrates and delights every fiber of him—we can never again. Why? Because all his senses are still fresh. And whatever they receive enters wholly.

In America there is a movement for sensitivity, and many centers. A large center is in California—at Big Sur. Possibly the most significant experiment of this century is running at Big Sur: to restore the capacity of the senses. People go for twenty-one-day experiments. In twenty-one days they are taught again to see, to touch, to taste; they must be retrained.

When you sit to eat—let me give only an example—you may not know: if your eyes are covered and your nose is plugged, and a piece of apple and a piece of onion are put in your mouth, you will not be able to tell the difference. For much of the difference does not come from taste alone, but also from the eye and from smell. If nose and eye are closed, you will not distinguish between onion and apple. Yet the difference is much. If it were in taste alone, you might do it; but you will not—for the larger difference was through fragrance and sight.

So at Big Sur, when they give food, they say: first touch the food, look at its color, behold its form, feel it with your hand, touch it to your cheek with eyes closed, take its fragrance, see it with the eye, and then place it in your mouth—then taste it. And do all this consciously.

In twenty-one days, new tastes, new fragrances, new touches begin to arise in your food. And along with them, your whole process of eating changes; for through such taste, fragrance, and form, even a little food becomes deeply satisfying.

We all overeat. The reason is: we keep putting food in, but there is no fulfillment. Yet fulfillment is what we seek. We think: if this much does not satisfy, let us put a little more, then it will. But we do not know that the more we put in, the more our sensitivity to fulfillment is dulled. One day the mouth experiences nothing; it becomes only a place for insertion—we keep pushing things in. Then we need stimulants. Someone says, "Without chilies there is no taste." The reason is only this: only when there is a fierce taste like chili does he feel a little. Taste has died so much. So dead that unless one pours in poison, one cannot feel that anything is happening.

In Assam, in parts of Bihar, in Bengal, where ancient Tantric methods still linger, Tantric sadhakas include intoxicants in their practice—they must remain aware even after taking all kinds of intoxicants. Wine is a part of Tantra’s discipline. They become so accustomed to drinking that wine becomes like water—no effect. They smoke so much ganja, they eat so much opium, that nothing happens. Then they keep snakes with them. They let them bite their tongue to get a little intoxication. They must keep snakes. Less than that does not work. When they advance further, small snakes are of no use—then they need deadly poisonous snakes that would kill another person at one bite. But even there these sadhakas arrive at a point where a snake bites and the snake dies. Only then do they feel a slight "taste."

We can kill our senses to that extent. All of us have done it to some degree. Hence what we might call refined, noble experiences do not happen to us at all. We need violent experiences. If a very gentle veena plays, we feel nothing—jazz! When there is a whole uproar, all madness, then a little awareness arises that some sound is happening. Inside, all is dead.

Lao Tzu says: colors kill the eyes; sounds deafen the ears; tastes destroy the palate...

This death of our senses seats us in a coffin long before we die. Then we keep living—but within a casket, dead, carrying our own graves, dragging our own corpses. If we look within, we shall see.

There are two ill effects. I have said the first: the experience of life is weakened; the apprehension of existence is obstructed. And the great experience of death, which ought to happen—one who has not known death is deprived of the deepest experience of life. He will not see life’s truth. He has known only the turmoil of life; life’s supreme rest remains unknown. He has known the running, but not the moment of repose. Thus we remain unfamiliar with death. This is one consequence, evident enough.

The second consequence is deeper: each of our senses is two-faced. The eye looks outward—and the same eye has an eye within that looks inward. Our ears hear the outer—and alongside the ear there is an inner organ that hears within.

Close the ears completely so not the slightest sound comes from outside—even then the heartbeat will be heard. Now this is not coming from outside; outside even a hammer may be striking and you would not hear it. This is coming from within. Close the eyes completely, drop the images that arise from outside so all form ceases—then new experiences begin to be seen inside: new colors that are not in the rainbow; a new light we never knew outside; a new darkness, so deep as never happens outside. The journey of these begins within. Every sense is capable of experiencing inwardly. But since we are so entangled outside, we slowly forget that there was a world of inner sensory experience that remained unopened.

Therefore Lao Tzu says the second thing: those who, by looking at colors, blind their eyes—the outer eye will be blind, and the inner eye will remain unopened. One who gives rest to the outer eye awakens the inner eye. One who gives rest to the outer ear, for him the door to the experience of inner Nada opens. One who abstains from outer tastes for a while, who takes leave from them—Kabir has said: for him the Amrit begins to be tasted within; nectar begins to rain within. Within there is a sweetness; but it is subtle to recognize.

Have you ever noticed that when you are angry—and perhaps you have not—that anger too has a taste! Anger has its own taste. If you are filled with rage, for a moment forget the anger, close your eyes, and try to taste—your mouth will be dry; a bitter, stale taste will spread over the mouth—no trace of sweetness. When you are in love, close your eyes for a moment and try to taste the inner flavor of love. Love has its own taste. Then a sweetness will appear to be dissolving within, as though an unfamiliar, invisible sugar were melting inside.

The difference between this taste of anger and of love will be clear. Then you can taste every mood. There is a taste of meditation. There is a taste of tension. And when all thoughts are lost and all the senses fall silent, the taste that comes in meditation is called Amrit.

It is called Amrit for two reasons: first, there is no sweetness beyond it. And second, upon tasting it, one knows: I have no death—I cannot die. Death is impossible for me. The very experience of that taste decides: death is impossible. That which dies is only the mechanism; I remain, again and again.

But if we have spent all our energy in the outer senses—if we have expended ourselves outward and are fatigued—then we never even recall the inner senses. Nor do we retain the energy.

We all know: if a man goes blind, his hearing becomes keener; he hears more. The blind can recognize who is coming by the sound of footsteps. One with eyes cannot. The blind can know who is speaking by the voice. The blind can determine directions by sound. The blind can even walk streets, for the footsteps of people begin to be felt.

The blind man’s tactile sense also increases. He comes a little near a wall and senses that a collision is about to happen. You would not. He is still far from the wall, but before reaching it, some deep inner touch informs him that the wall is near and there will be a collision. If you watch a blind man walking, he goes on like this; as soon as the wall is near, his stick rises, and he begins to probe. He feels, in the density of the air near the wall, something we never notice.

If you smile at a man with sight and hold his hand, you can deceive him. It may be that within you there is no smile, not a trace of love, it is only a show; the man will be deceived by your face. You cannot deceive a blind man so easily. He will recognize through your hand whether this person is loving or not. The deceits of the eyed work only upon the eyed. The blind test differently, and your tricks differ; the two do not meet. Hence, a blind man often becomes wise—because he has a certain understanding we do not have.

Why so? Only because the energy that was spent in seeing is transferred to other senses. If all the senses are closed and one remains, that one will become so keen as we cannot imagine.

Therefore animals’ senses are keener than ours—because they have fewer senses than we. The farther back we go in the animal world: if a creature has three senses, they are sharper than ours; if two, sharper still; if one, then all the power of five flows through that single sense. The amoeba only touches—it has no other sense. We can never know how profound its touch is.

But try an experiment. Close your ears, close your eyes, keep your lips sealed, and then touch someone. You will find that in your touching another kind of experience happens, as if a new electricity is flowing through touch. The power of the blind man’s eyes moves into the other senses. I say this because if our senses are not squandered outward, not wasted, their power flows into the inner senses. If we use the outer senses very prudently, without abuse...

What we are doing is abuse. Walking down the street you are reading posters on the walls. If you did not read them, no one would work so hard to write them. Those who write know well that neurotics pass here; they cannot refrain from reading. They know that madmen pass; they will read. And if you think, "No, if I wish I will not read," try. The more you try, the more you will see some madman inside saying, "Do not miss it—who knows what is written! Read!" Nothing is written—only whether to vote or not to vote, to buy some soap or not, to see a film or not—that is written. You have seen it a thousand times; you pass that way daily. Yet today you will see again, you will read again. Now you need not even read; you glance and it is read. You move on. Such is the habit.

But have you ever thought: of what you read, how much could be dropped? Of what you hear, how much could be left unheard? Of what you see, how much could be seen less—and it would still be fine?

If you give this a little attention, you will find the energy saved begins to pass to your inner sense. A man comes to me and says, "I sit with closed eyes, but nothing appears within."

To see, some energy must remain! You are like a spent cartridge. Now you load it in the gun and fire—nothing emerges, not even smoke. How will it? It is spent.

We all become spent cartridges. We fire so much that nothing remains. At night we return exhausted, saying, "We sat to meditate." Before a few repetitions of "Rama" are complete, sleep comes. In the morning he says, "Strange—whenever I meditate, sleep comes."

It must. That sleep comes at all is a marvel; that you have energy enough to sleep is a lot. Physicians say, especially Eastern physicians, that if a man survives to eighty, then dying becomes difficult—because dying too needs a special energy. If someone has somehow managed to live to eighty, he takes a long time to die. He will lie in bed; diseases will cling to him; doctors will think, today he will die, tomorrow he will die—he goes on. For even to die, for that last flare before the lamp goes out, oil is needed. If not even that is left, he is living on such a minimum that he cannot even die. He is living on the barest minimum.

Therefore it is surprising that a healthy man often dies in the very first illness. If a man has never been ill, and falls ill for the first time, that first sickness becomes death. But those who have enjoyed illness all their lives—killing them is not so easy; it is difficult. They are accustomed to living on a minimum; even the energy needed for death is not there. They go on flickering. They neither go out nor fully burn—only flicker.

Even sleep needs energy. Many today cannot sleep; the reason is this: not enough energy remains even to relax. Not enough energy remains to grow limp. They remain taut, stretched.

Lao Tzu says—and the whole Eastern Yoga has known—that if we wish to enter the world of the inner senses, then to spend the outer senses so prodigally is improper. This is what is meant by restraint. Restraint has no other meaning than this: spend only as much outwardly as is necessary; save the rest for the inner journey. See outward as much as is needed; preserve the remaining capacity to see. For within there is another vast world. And when this world is snatched away, that world will still be yours. And when this house, these doors and windows, these friends and loved ones—husband and wife and children and wealth—when all this begins to be taken away, still there would be an inner treasure. But then we have no eyes to see it.

All we have known outside is nothing before what is within. The sounds we have heard outside—when we hear the inner veena, we know that what we heard outside was only noise. If even the outer veena is pleasing, the knowers of the inner mysteries say: it is because there is some hint of the inner music in it—just a hint. If outer light delights, it is because some reflection of inner light is there. If outer tastes please, it is because in them there is a grain of that sweetness that is infinite within. If even outer sex delights, it is only because a ray, a glimmer, an echo of the inner union is present. But do not lose yourself upon that; do not conclude your journey upon such experience. Great doors can open within.

Thus Lao Tzu says: "Horse-races and the hunt craze the mind. The search for rare and curious objects corrupts conduct."

Horse-racing or hunting—today we can add new madnesses; these were of Lao Tzu’s time. Now there are many. Today, almost whatever we are doing is horse-race and hunt. They drive the mind mad.

Indeed, one who learns to stake himself outside will go mad. One who starts gambling his life outside will go mad. He stakes on that which cannot be attained. That which by nature cannot be had—even if it is had, it is not had. However much you get, it is snatched away.

Lao Tzu had a disciple, Lieh-tzu. Lieh-tzu took leave to travel. Lao Tzu said, "Go—but go watchfully. For to go on a journey is easy; to return is very difficult." Lieh-tzu did not understand. Few are fortunate enough to understand such a man’s words. Hearing is one thing; understanding is another. But Lieh-tzu thought he understood, because the words were simple. The simplicity of words creates the difficulty; one thinks, "I have understood." The meanings of simple words are not in the dictionary; they are in our inner awareness. He did not even ask on returning, "What do you mean?" He thought: Lao Tzu says going is easy, returning is hard—I understand.

But ten days later Lieh-tzu was back. Lao Tzu asked, "So soon?" Lieh-tzu said, "As I went on, it became clear: the more steps forward, the more difficult to return. So I thought, before I get entangled, I had better return." Lao Tzu asked, "What entanglement"? Lieh-tzu said, "At the first inn, the keeper honored me greatly. I am a fakir. He seated me at the first chair, fed me, gave me the number-one room.

"Lao Tzu asked, "What trouble is in this?"

"Trouble? I could not sleep all night! An inner stiffness arose: I too am something, I too am something—number-one meal, number-one room, the innkeeper touching my feet—and all the travelers filled with reverence for me. I don’t know what happened to them—but I could not sleep all night.

"At the second inn I arrived outside having straightened my clothes, washed my hands and face. My gait had changed. When I entered, I was no longer the man who had left your feet; another man. I stood waiting that the innkeeper would come quickly, touch my feet, seat me first, give me the first room. No one came. A great pain arose. I was put in a third-class room. Still, I could not sleep all night.

"Then I was amazed: in first class I did not sleep; in third class I did not sleep. I thought it wise to return. I am heading into danger. Though the mind said: try one more inn—perhaps this man did not recognize, perhaps he is ignorant—at the next someone will recognize you. Just then your words rang in my ears: to go is easy; to return is difficult. Then I ran back, thinking: now to stay is dangerous—lest I keep descending."

We all descend like this. The race takes us on. And the more we descend, the more we are trapped. Then the door of return is forgotten; even the path from which we came is forgotten. Only one path appears: from this halt to the next, and from the next to the next. And to return looks like sorrow; no one wants to return.

It is a strange fact: no one wants to return. All want to go forward—because going forward gratifies the ego. The very word "return" fills the mind with dejection. If someone says, "So—you came back?" it seems—finished, life has gone to waste. Go on! The ego calls every day, shows new mirages to be attained. Then man runs on. This running—the run to attain something outside—ultimately drives man mad.

Madness means only this: a man who has gone so far outside himself that he can no longer find the way back within. He has forgotten his home. He only knows now that he can run; he cannot stop. He knows only this: if this thing is not gained, then run after the next; if it is gained, run after another. He can only run. His consciousness is filled with fever, with disease. Without running he has no choice. He cannot stop, he cannot rest.

A friend of mine—a colonel in the military—his wife used to come to listen to me. I asked her: "Your husband sometimes comes to meet me, sometimes drops you here; but I have never seen him sit and listen." She said, "He cannot sit. He is a colonel; he keeps walking. He very much wants to listen to you. I record tapes and bring them home; he plays the tape and paces the room. He cannot sit even for an hour. And before you, he does not feel it right to keep shifting about; nor to get up five or ten times and go out—he finds that improper. But he cannot sit."

We all come to the same state. We cannot sit, we cannot stop, we cannot rest. More and more and more—we go on running.

Lao Tzu says: the mind goes mad.

Madness means only this: one who has become incapable of resting. If you are capable of rest, know that you are not mad. If you are master of your rest, know you are not mad. If you cannot rest at will, then know that some measure of madness is within. The quantity may differ, but it is there. If you are not master enough to lie down and say to the body, "Be at rest," and the body relaxes; if you are not master enough to close your eyes and say to them, "Sleep," and they sleep—then there is a measure of madness in you.

The measure may vary. It may increase at any time. It rises and falls through the day. Some days resting is easy; some days it becomes difficult. All around, incidents occur; one day something happens and madness starts racing faster. Someone merely says, "Do you know? A lottery has opened in your name!" The mind runs in total madness. You will buy things you never should. Who knows what you will do! That night there is no sleep. The lottery has not even come—but that night there is no sleep. You are no longer master of rest. The lottery has given great speed to your race.

Across twenty-four hours something is always happening around the mind that calls and runs you. You are ever ready to run. You rest only when by good fortune there is no race outside.

But that is not in your hands. It lies with fate. A man walking on the road abuses you—your race begins. It is not in your hands. There are millions of people—not even people: if the neighbor’s dog barks loudly, that very night you keep thinking, "Why did it bark?" You come home and your own dog does not wag his tail—you are disturbed: today he did not wag! We make relationships even with him. Our ego starts taking juice even from that. If the dog did not wag, all is spoiled; life is a waste. The man enters the house and looks to see whether the dog wags or not. So many dogs, so many tails. A small thing—but when the mind is mad, any excuse is enough.

The secret of this madness is one: as long as you run after things outside yourself, you will drive yourself mad. And the madder you become, the more miserable, the more tormented—and your dwelling will become a larger hell.

"The search for rare objects corrupts conduct."

Conduct is profound. Conduct does not mean that a man who does not smoke is highly moral. It may be that what he does by not smoking is a greater immorality; because substitutes must be found.

Hence you may have noticed: those who smoke, chew betel, drink tea or coffee, sometimes even drink a little wine—these are more sociable. Those who do none of these—it is difficult to befriend them; they are not sociable. They are very stiff. Because they do not smoke or drink tea, their spine becomes rigid; it does not bend. They look at others as if they stand in the heavens and the other is an insect. They do not see human beings. If you smoke—finished! You are no longer a man, you are an insect. You chew betel—finished! You have no standing. Better if this man had smoked. That would do less harm. This ego he is "smoking" is dangerous, poisonous.

Therefore I never call a man good until he is so good that he does not fall into the tendency of seeing evil in others. Until then he is not good, not a man of conduct. Conduct means only this: so good within that he does not even see another’s evil as evil. To lose the capacity to condemn is conduct. Then your so-called saints cannot stay within conduct; and they are not. There is no difference between your conduct and theirs—only in objects. What you do, for it you are a sinner; what they do not do—for that they are virtuous. But both are hinged upon the cigarette; they do not smoke—you do. Conduct for both is tied to the cigarette.

If you go to test your "sadhu’s" saintliness, what will you find? He does not eat this, he does not drink that, he does not wear this—that is his saintliness! And he appears a saint to you. Naturally—because you eat, drink, wear those things. This is the difference in conduct. Often such a "saint" becomes dangerous—because he is of your same caliber. If he smoked, he would be just like you. He does not smoke, and the suffering he endures from not smoking—he calls that tapas, austerity.

Is not smoking a tapas? In truth, smoking is tapas—taking smoke in and out is quite an austerity. The old sannyasins sat with their dhuni, their sacred fire. You carry a portable dhuni with you—fire and smoke both present—and you drink poison. One does not, and he is a tapasvi! He stands over your head. Whenever he looks at you, in his eyes is the direction toward hell: go straight to hell—there is no other way.

Conduct is not formed of such petty things. Certainly not for a man like Lao Tzu. His vision of conduct is unique. He says: those who keep running to obtain outer objects—rare and curious—corrupt their conduct. Which means: those who do not run to obtain outer things, they attain conduct. Conduct means: so fulfilled within oneself that nothing outside calls you. The name of an inner contentment is conduct. A self-contentment. So fulfilled within that nothing outside becomes a race—no thing can make him run. Nothing is so important that he must run. So still in himself that nothing in the world can make him run. Lao Tzu says: such a one has conduct, character, virtue.

Surely, one who is so full within, who feels no lack to be filled—he will have a soul, an integrated will, an inner unity. He will have an inner individuality, a tone, a way. His life will be like a flame that winds cannot shake.

Our flame is such that even without winds it trembles. In fact, when there are no winds, we grow anxious: what will people say—that without any wind we tremble? We call the winds: come! At least let there be the excuse that we are trembling because of the winds.

If a man is locked in a room for twenty-four hours, strange—he grows angry even while alone. Three months, if you are shut in, you will know for the first time: for anger, no other is needed. And all your life you thought: so-and-so said this, therefore I became angry. Otherwise why would I? You take the wind as excuse.

Be alone three months and note—you will be suddenly angry, suddenly filled with sexuality. Then you will know: that beautiful woman who passed by did not send any wind. You were ready—looking for a pretext; then you can say, "What is my fault? Why did this beautiful woman come here? Why is she beautiful? Why such adornment? What can I do?"

No, be shut alone for three months and you will know: very likely no woman will pass, and you will produce beautiful women in your imagination. You will make them hover about you. And then you will tremble. This is wind of your own making. These gusts around the flame are of your making.

Scientists say: if a man is deprived of all experience for three months, he will produce them all himself. He will talk to people...

At home you do not sit quietly; you say, "What to do—friends come, so I have to talk." Yet you wait. The day friends do not come, you wait: why have they not come? If you are shut three months, you will create imaginary friends and begin to talk with them. You will do both: speak from your side and answer from theirs. It will happen.

I say this to show the state of our mind and of our conduct: it is unsteady. Trembling has become our nature—that is our conduct.

Lao Tzu says: trembling is the ruin of conduct; the unshakable is conduct.

What does unshakable mean? Does it mean: do not eat this, do not drink that, do not wear these clothes? No. But let there be no cloth that makes you tremble; no food that shakes you. Does unshakable mean: do not live with anyone? No—live with all; but let no one’s company make you tremble. And if someone’s company is lost, let not even a quiver be felt. Unshakable does not mean run away. It means: let all storms go on, and let the flame of my consciousness become still—slowly, steadily.

This happens. If we hearken to Lao Tzu and give the senses rest, keep them fresh, awaken the inner senses; if we do not run after insanities; if we do not make the accumulation of useless things our infatuation; if we are not crazed for objects—then slowly that conduct is attained which steadies the inner consciousness.

This steadiness of conduct, this settling of consciousness, is a great thing. And when someone’s consciousness settles like this, he does not look upon you with condemnation. He does not see that you eat or drink this and so are sinners. He knows only one sin: that you tremble twenty-four hours. It does not matter with what you tremble. Things may change; trembling can continue. Trembling must cease; it should become zero.

"Therefore the sage does not gratify the unfillable hankerings of the outer senses."

Note the words.

"Therefore the sage does not gratify the unfillable hankerings of the outer senses..."

Desires that are never fulfilled, that by nature are unfillable—there is no provision in their destiny for completion. It is not that our effort is lacking, or that our capacity to run is wanting—no; the object itself is unfillable. As a man, thirsty in a desert, sees before him a lake, runs, reaches there, and it is not there—it appears farther ahead. There is no deficiency in his running, nor in his thirst, nor in his industry; but what he runs after is not. Therefore it is unfillable; he will never reach. He can always run and always believe that a little farther it will be found. All we are attaining in life is of this kind—unfillable.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin married for the first time the most beautiful woman of his town. Two years later he began to look for a new wife. His friends said, "What now? You married the most beautiful; there is none more beautiful." Mulla said, "Now I want to marry the ugliest—because I have seen beauty; what I got was nothing but misery. Let me marry the ugliest." People said, "Are you mad? If beauty did not give happiness, what will ugliness give?" Nasruddin said, "Perhaps the opposite flavor—who knows! This drum seemed pleasant, but it turned out just a drum; now let me seek the opposite."

He did not listen; he searched out a very ugly woman and married her. Two years later he was again searching. Friends said, "Are you mad? You have tasted both which are almost impossible to obtain—most beautiful and most ugly. Now what are you seeking?" Nasruddin said, "This time when I return after marrying, only then see."

There was a sensation in the town. He was a sensational man—what would he do now?

One day he arrived with band and music, palanquin before his house. The whole town gathered. Nasruddin, stiff on his horse, fully dressed as a bridegroom. People were bursting with impatience: lower the palanquin—let us see whom he has married! The palanquin was set down, opened—it was empty. There was no one. Nasruddin said, "This time I have married an empty palanquin. Every time I brought a filled one, I suffered. This time I brought it empty."

They say Nasruddin wrote in his will: what I did not get from those two women, I obtained from the empty palanquin—great peace; great joy.

It can be found with an empty palanquin. For the one who married emptiness—his mirage broke.

We keep changing from one object to another, the second to a third, the third to a fourth. Each time we change the object; the running continues. This running is unfillable. It can never be filled. It is not that with someone else it could be filled—it cannot. The very nature of craving is unfillable.

"But the sage cares for that hunger which is lodged in the inner center near the navel."

For that hunger which is nestled in the inner center—the navel. I told you earlier: Lao Tzu regards the navel as the root center of existence. And he is right. On the one side is the outward spread of the senses. All these senses are related to the brain. Remember: the eyes are in the brain; the ears too; and you will be surprised—the sexual desire is not joined in the head, yet it too is related to mind. Therefore a slight arousal in the mind and the sexual center is active. All senses and desires are connected with the brain. And we seat our consciousness in the brain.

Lao Tzu says: bring it down. Bring it near the heart. Even at the heart, desires begin to be transformed. Bring it lower, near the navel. Then desires fall to zero—and a new hunger is felt. The name of that hunger is spirituality. A new hunger is felt. As soon as consciousness comes to the navel, a new hunger is felt. Then the question is no longer: what shall I obtain, what shall I become? Not that. The only question becomes: the one I already am—let me know that. Not become—know. This is a new hunger. Let my truth be revealed before me. I have nothing to get, nothing to become. The one I have always been—let me know that; let it be unveiled. Let the curtain lift and let me recognize: Who am I? This is the hunger of the navel. As soon as someone brings consciousness near the navel, a new question arises in his life: Who am I?

All spirituality is the answer to this hunger. All Yoga, all sadhanas, are answers to this hunger. They are methods for discovering this question and obtaining its answer.

But we know all other kinds of hunger. We know: a big house—we hunger for it; a large sum of wealth—hunger for it; fame—we hunger for it; prestige, name—hunger for it. All kinds of hunger. One hunger we do not know at all: let me also know who I am! Let me know what I am!

This is the inner hunger of the navel. And one in whom this hunger arises—his life sets out upon a new quest. For without hunger there is no search. Why should one search if there is no hunger? We search only what we hunger for.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: the sage does not fill himself with hunger for color, taste, sound or touch. He does not saturate himself with the hunger of the senses. He turns his consciousness toward that hunger which is hidden at the inner center near the navel—the hunger to know oneself, to be oneself, to obtain oneself.

"The sage denies the first and supports the second."

The sage does not say: drop all hunger. He says: there are hungers which no matter how you fill them will never be filled; they are temporal.

Understand this a little. All the hungers of our senses are temporary. Today you feed the belly; in twenty-four hours you must feed it again. The food is used up in twenty-four hours. It is like putting petrol in your car; you drive and it is spent; you must refill. But then you do not quarrel with the car: "What kind of car are you? I filled you eight hours ago—again the same story!" Nor do you practice restraint: "Now I will run the car without petrol; I will keep it on fast." You know the car has needs. If you will not fill the car, then please get out of it. If you will not feed the body, then please step out of the body—leave it. The body has needs every twenty-four hours; it will demand again and again, because the body is a mechanism. Daily you fill it; daily it empties. Never from the fullness of the body will you obtain a fullness that never empties.

But there is also nothing to be disturbed about. It is right so; there is no need to be anxious. Some foolish ones become enemies of the body. They say: what is the use of giving to the body—it asks again. But if you want to keep the body...and they keep it. They give less food, less water, less rest—thinking they are engaged in some great conquest of the body.

They are only in foolishness. Their desire too is the same: somehow satisfy the body once for all and it will remain satisfied. That does not happen; hence they are troubled. Your foolishness is: you think by satisfying day by day you will reach a point where it need not be satisfied again. Their foolishness is the same; but they turn opposite: now we will not satisfy it at all—because such satisfaction never completes. But both are caught in the same confusion. One says: by satisfying the body I will attain the ultimate satisfaction. The other says: by stopping the body’s satisfaction I will attain the ultimate. Both do not know that supreme hunger that alone can be supremely satisfied.

Remember, small hungers will be satisfied for small spans only. When the belly is hungry—that is no ultimate hunger. When thirst comes—that is no ultimate thirst. As much thirst as there is, two sips of water suffice; but the two sips, in the time of their capacity, evaporate, and thirst returns. A small hunger produces a small result.

We do not know the supreme hunger. There is only one supreme hunger—to know existence, to be one with existence, to unveil existence. Call it Truth, call it God—give it any name. But that supreme hunger, says Lao Tzu, remove your consciousness from the senses, immerse it near the navel—bring it down from the brain. The day you reach the navel, an unveiling happens—a new thirst!

The name of that thirst is prayer; the name of that thirst is meditation. And the search that arises from that thirst is Dharma. And when, guided by that thirst, man reaches the lake where it is quenched, the name of that lake is the Divine.

Enough for today.

Now let us stop; do not go for five minutes. Some people wish to join in it seems, but do not gather courage. They too should come down and join. And if they lack that much courage, then sit and clap where you are—join from there.