Tao Upanishad #29

Such questions arise in our minds because we instantly break things into opposites, into conflict. It does not even occur to us that there is a harmony between opposites. Lao Tzu is speaking precisely of that harmony. Understand it this way: the opposition only appears so.

Lao Tzu says: bring the life-energy back from the head to the navel. As soon as it returns to the navel, there is union with existence. Yoga says: raise the energy from the sex center, the muladhara, up to the sahasrar, the crown, the brain. And on going beyond the sahasrar, union with the vast happens. These are two extremes. From either extreme, the leap is possible. From the middle, nowhere is the leap possible. These are the two ends. Either bring all your energy to the very lowest center, and you can jump; or take your energy to the highest center, and you can jump.

But in one thing both yoga and Lao Tzu agree: energy must not stop at the intellect. Either from the intellect let it return to the navel, or from the intellect let it move to the sahasrar. It should not stop at the intellect; energy should not halt in the middle. And from both extremes, the realm you leap into is one and the same.

So there are three points. First, what appears to us as opposition appears so because we do not see that even between opposites there is a harmony. If we want to make water cease to be water, then either we must cool it below zero degrees so that it becomes ice, or heat it to one hundred degrees so that it becomes steam. In both states, water is no longer water. In both, there is a leap—water becomes something else. Likewise, if human energy comes to the first center or to the last, in both cases the leap happens.

Second—and more difficult to understand—is that energy is circular. In this universe no energy moves in a straight line; it moves in a circle. The path of energy is always circular. If we draw a circle, the point from which I begin is the very point at which, when the circle is complete, I end. So the point where one arrives by leaping from the navel is the same point to which one arrives by leaping from the sahasrar. The navel is where the circle begins; the sahasrar is where the circle completes. Leap from either and one goes beyond the circle.

The navel and the sahasrar look utterly far apart to us because, for us, the navel is somewhere in the belly and the sahasrar somewhere in the head—and if we draw a straight line between them in this gross body, they are far apart. But we are not speaking of this gross body. In the subtle body, the navel and the sahasrar are the closest points—draw a circle and they are nearest; draw a straight line and they are far. The subtle body is an energy-body, not matter but power; in it, a circle is formed and these two ends are adjacent.

Lao Tzu says: return to the first end. Yoga says: go to the last end. There are two kinds of people; therefore both teachings are useful. Some will find returning to the first end very difficult—especially those with a masculine mind. That is why Lao Tzu speaks of the feminine personality. The masculine will want to go forward, not turn back. But it is not that there is no path for the masculine mind to reach truth—there is. Lao Tzu is simply not the exponent of that path; he is the exponent of the feminine.

He says: come back. If a leap must be taken anyway, why labor to go forward? The leap can happen by returning as well. And note: returning requires no effort; going forward requires effort. To go forward, you must apply energy; to return, simply stop applying energy—and you instantly begin to return. For those who can be simple without practice, Lao Tzu’s path is for them. For those who cannot become simple without practice, yoga is their path.

Thus, it may surprise you that India produced an immense tradition of yoga, discovered grand sutras of practice, and yet throughout this long tradition did not attend to the feminine mind. Something is incomplete here. Hence among the Jains all twenty-four tirthankaras are male; among Hindus the avatars are male; the Buddhas are male. In India there is not a single female avatar or tirthankara. Indeed a belief gradually formed—and naturally, if we choose only the masculine mind’s path this belief will form—that liberation is not possible from a woman’s body. The Jains hold that from a woman’s body liberation is not possible; first she must be born as a man, then liberation can occur.

I feel it is quite right that among the Jains one tirthankara—Mallinath—was not male but female; her name was Mallibai. But the Jains could not accept that a woman could attain liberation, so Mallibai’s name was changed to Mallinath; the woman was made into a man. Among the Shvetambaras and Digambaras one of the basic disputes is precisely this: the Shvetambaras hold that she was Mallibai, and the Digambaras that he was Mallinath. It is a very unique quarrel—over whether a single person was female or male! It seems likely the person was female. But the traditional view could not accept: how could liberation happen through a woman’s body? The entire current has been that of the masculine mind.

Lao Tzu speaks for the feminine mind. He says: if one must practice in order to become simple, that simplicity has already become complex. If I have to make an effort to be simple, then it is no longer simplicity. Simplicity means that without my doing anything, it is available. Sahaj—natural—means exactly this: that without my doing anything, it is available. If it is attained by doing, calling it sahaj is futile. So Lao Tzu supports the other extreme.

Both extremes are incomplete—but both take you to truth. The leap happens only from an extreme. The extreme point—that is where the jump happens. If you have entered the masculine journey, then be wholly masculine; take purushartha—effort—to the limit beyond which there is nowhere further to go; from there the leap happens. If you relish naturalness, become so natural that all practice becomes pointless; from that very simplicity, the leap will happen.

Those who choose the path of purushartha will speak the language of ascent—of rising upward. Hence the symbol they choose is the flame, fire. Fire always rises. Light it anywhere, it rushes upward. Therefore the Indian symbol is Agni.

Lao Tzu’s symbol is water. He says: be like water—downward, and more downward; choose the very last hollow. Where there is no place lower, sit there.

Naturalness can only be available by settling at the end. The person who wants to rise cannot be natural; to rise entails struggle, competition. There is no competition for sitting at the back. If you say, “I want to sit at the very last place,” hardly anyone will come to compete with you.

Lao Tzu says: become such that people do not even know you exist. Find the last hollow. The lowest place—where no one is willing to go, where people take off their shoes—sit right there. Seek no position at all. Do not even think of going up. That very language is wrong.

Lao Tzu is right. Those who can be like water will reach the same place. In truth, the first and the last meet at one point—one point. The first is one end of the infinite, and the last is also an end of the infinite. First and last are two names for the same thing. It depends on the journey: if you return from behind, you will call it first; if you go around, complete the circle, you will call it last. So yoga will say “above,” and Lao Tzu will say “below.” Between yoga and Lao Tzu, between yoga and Tao, the ultimate polarity of life—life’s polar duality—finds expression.

Therefore do not worry. Choose what is congenial—what feels dear to your heart. Always remember: what is congenial to you, that alone is your path. However much others may insist, what is not congenial to you is not your path. Even wandering on one’s own path, one arrives; on another’s path, even without wandering, one never arrives. The reason is: we can reach only through our own nature. Even if another’s path looks attractive, impressive, still ask within: is it attuned to me or not? Many times contrary things look attractive—precisely because they are contrary, unknown, unfamiliar. Always keep your nature in view. If you feel you can gladly sit in the last place, without the slightest hurt, that this is easy for you; if you feel that without aggression, by being merely receptive, you will obtain truth—that you will not go in search of truth but simply open your doors and wait; if you have that much patience—patience is a feminine quality; impatience is a masculine quality—if you have that much patience that you can open the door and wait, with the capacity to wait unto the infinite, then in this very moment truth will be present at the door.

But if you have no courage at all to wait, and even sitting at the door you will only display impatience, then it is better to set out on the journey. For if you stand at the door and remain impatient and your life-breath is restless, then an inner journey will keep stirring; and if you do not travel, there will arise an inner pain and struggle and dilemma. Therefore each one should understand. There are only two vast paths: one Lao Tzu calls the feminine path, and one he calls the masculine path. Lao Tzu’s own preference is for the feminine path. And all those who have no relish for ego will share that preference.

Therefore, if you meet a follower of Lao Tzu, you will not find him stiff like our yogis; he will be supremely humble. But his humility will be natural; it will not be forced or contrived. If our yogi displays humility, it will be superimposed. The reason is that his path, in truth, is the path of the ego. He is unnecessarily imposing humility; he is getting into trouble, trying to think in the language of the opposite. He has chosen a path like fire and is trying to be like water—that will be difficult. His humility will be false. He has chosen the path of aham brahmasmi—I am Brahman. He has set out on that journey so that one day he can say, “I am the Absolute.” Lao Tzu’s path is: one day to be able to say, “I am not.”

Keep this clear, and any path will lead. Either expand the ego so much that it explodes. Inflate the balloon so much that it bursts. Although the inflator does not blow thinking it will burst; he thinks he is making it bigger. But keep inflating; there is a limit. You may be inflating for the sake of inflating; never mind. The balloon will reach its limit and burst, and your hands will be left empty. So there is no harm—if you have a taste for ego, then do not be content with a small ego. Inflate it until it becomes the whole cosmos—then it will burst. The day someone can say, “Aham Brahmasmi,” that very day the ego explodes.

Or do not fill the ego at all; whatever little air there is, let that out too. Lao Tzu says: return. Drop even the very idea of filling it, for what is destined to burst—why labor for it? But some people will not be content without labor.

A disciple of Lao Tzu, Lieh Tzu, was once asked: We have heard that the Buddha attained enlightenment sitting under a tree. And we have heard that some yogi, chanting a mantra, sitting under a tree, attained truth by his mantra. Lieh Tzu, what is your view? Lieh Tzu said: As we understand it, chanting mantras, doing practices, performing yogasanas—these are for those who cannot remain without doing. But the real point is not that Buddha arrived by practice; he arrived because he sat. The essential thing is: he sat, therefore he arrived. Some yogi kept reciting a mantra and arrived; the mantra is not the essential thing. He arrived because he sat. The mantra is a pretext—for he cannot sit empty, so he keeps reciting.

Lieh Tzu is saying: whoever has arrived, has arrived because they sat and left everything. Some can sit having left everything; they will not even recite a mantra, because a mantra, ultimately, is useless. Why take that trouble? There is no need to recite anything. Just sit—do nothing at all.

But doing nothing is very difficult. If Lao Tzu’s insight is understood, doing nothing seems so simple; it is not so simple—it is the most difficult. Even children can recite a mantra. In fact, if you do not give children a mantra, you cannot make them sit. The “mantra” can be anything—a toy, anything; give them some mantra and they can sit; otherwise they cannot even sit—the restlessness is too much. We are the same: a person sits with a rosary and turns the beads. That is only a pretext for sitting. The rosary is only because without it you cannot sit. There is a child within—restless—saying, “At least let us roll the beads; something should be happening.”

People come to me and say, “We will meditate, but tell us what to do.” If you tell them, “Do nothing—that is meditation,” they say, “How will that be? Some support is needed!” By support they mean: they need a pretext to do something. Chant Ram-Ram, turn the beads—do anything! If they can do, they can sit.

Lieh Tzu says: the real attainment is by sitting. The rest is a pretext; since you cannot sit empty, we hand you something so that by doing it you may sit. If you could sit without doing anything, even that much labor would not be needed, and attainment would happen. But to sit—just sit—is a great event, a great happening—a great happening! If even for a single moment someone can just sit, it means there is no movement in the mind, no restlessness, no journey, no destination; the energy has come to rest in itself; everything within has become silent and still. We have returned to the center from which we came; we have dissolved into ourselves.

If this happens even for a single moment, that moment is the moment of truth—the moment of truth! That very moment! This can happen in two ways. It depends on you from where you will take the leap. Yoga is a path; Tao is too.

First, at times sit with your eyes closed and consider: Where is the center of my body? Where is the center of the body? You have lived so many days, yet you have probably never searched for your body’s center. And it is a great misfortune that we do not even know our body’s center. Our body—where is its peg, its pivot?

Most people will feel that this peg is in the skull, because the business there runs twenty-four hours a day. The shop is open there; the market is crowded there. So most will feel it must be somewhere in the head. But the skull develops very late. On the day the child’s formation begins in the mother’s womb, there is no brain— yet there is life. That which comes later cannot be the center.

Some who are more feeling-oriented—women, poets, painters, sculptors—will feel the heart is the center. Whenever they have known something of beauty or love, its impact has been felt at the heart. So when people speak of love they place a hand on the heart; when wounded in love they hold the heart. Thus those filled with feeling will declare the heart the center.

But the heart too does not beat with birth. When the child is born, he takes his first breath and then the heartbeat begins. For nine months the heart does not beat. The child only hears the mother’s heartbeat; he has none of his own. That is why any ticking sound will quickly put a baby to sleep. For nine months he slept hearing the tick-tick of the mother’s heart. The drip-drip of water on your tin roof brings drowsiness; in a quiet room even the sound of a clock is tranquilizing. Sleep advisers say listening to a clock can be very calming—for the simple reason that for nine months the child slept to that tick-tick. The child has no heart of his own then—yet there is life.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: the navel is the center—neither heart nor brain. Through the navel the child is joined to the mother. The first glimpse of life is the navel. And that is right—scientifically right. So search within. Lao Tzu says the first step in practice is to bring your assumed center to the navel by searching and searching. The day your real center and your notional center become one, that day you will be integrated. The day the focus meets—the center of your consciousness, the center of your thinking, and your real center—when they come close and unite, you will find your life has changed. You are a different person. A new gravitation, a new pull, will enter your world.

Those who follow Lao Tzu have been performing a small experiment for centuries. It is a fine experiment. They say: as long as you do not know your inner center, you cannot grow. So they do a small experiment. Make two small tanks and fill them with water—equal size, equal amount of water. In one tank fix an iron rod vertically in the exact center; leave the other without any rod—centerless. Release into each tank a fish of the same age. You will be surprised: in the tank with the rod the fish grows faster; in the tank without a rod the fish does not grow as quickly.

In the tank with the rod, the fish keeps circling it day and night. There is a center, and she keeps going around it. In the tank without a rod, the fish wanders here and there; there is no center to circle. Her growth is stunted; she is not healthy; she remains sickly. This experiment has been repeated for thousands of years with the same result: where there is a center, that fish is healthier, develops faster, is fresher, more alive.

Followers of Lao Tzu say: the moment a person discovers his center, his consciousness begins to circle it like that fish. Then growth begins. Those who do not know their center remain like the other fish—lifeless, flaccid, inert. With no center to move around and grow, they do not even know direction—where to go, what to do, what to become. They wander. Consciousness develops by continually orbiting one and the same circumference.

So Lao Tzu says: once the navel center is known, your consciousness receives a concentrated movement. Your awareness keeps revolving there.

Lao Tzu says: walk, but keep attention on the navel. Sit, keep attention on the navel. Rise, keep attention on the navel. Whatever you do, let your awareness circle the navel. Become a fish and keep circling the navel. Very soon you will find that a new, powerful consciousness has been born within you.

Its results are remarkable, and its applications many. You are sitting here on a chair. Lao Tzu says your way of sitting is wrong; that is why you become tired. He says, do not sit on the chair—meaning, do not hand over everything to the chair. Sit on the chair, but do not put your weight on the chair; place your weight on your navel.

You can experiment right now. It is a shift of emphasis. When you dump your weight onto the chair, the chair becomes everything; you merely dangle on it like a coat on a peg. If the peg breaks, the coat drops to the floor; the coat has no centrality—the peg is its center. You sit on the chair like a hanging coat.

Lao Tzu says you will be tired this way, because you are not behaving like a conscious human being; you are handing over everything to a dead object. Sit on the chair, certainly, but remain settled in the navel. Hang everything from the navel. Hours will pass and you will not tire.

If someone begins to live with his consciousness hung from the navel center, fatigue—mental fatigue—dissolves. A unique freshness begins to flow continuously within; a coolness runs within; and a self-confidence arises that only one who has a center knows.

So the first arrangement of this practice is: find your center. And until the center comes near the navel—the exact spot is two inches below the navel, not exactly at the navel—until it settles two inches below, keep searching. Then begin to keep this center in remembrance. When you inhale, let this center rise; when you exhale, let this center fall. Then a continuous japa begins—a continuous chant: with the outgoing breath the navel rises; with the returning breath the navel falls—if you can keep this in remembrance.

It is difficult at the beginning, because remembrance is the hardest thing; continuous remembrance is very difficult. Usually we think, what is the problem? I can remember a man’s name for six years. That is not remembrance; it is memory. Understand the difference. Memory means you know a fact and you hand it to the recording faculty; memory stores it. When needed you retrieve it and recognize it. Remembrance means constant, continuous remembering.

Try it for five minutes: “I will keep track of the belly rising and falling; I will not forget.” After two seconds you will find you have forgotten and are doing something else. Then anxiety arises: I forgot; I could not keep it even for two seconds! The breath is still moving; the belly is still moving—but you went elsewhere. Then bring your remembrance back. If you persist, slowly, slowly, second by second, your remembrance will increase. And the day you can, for at least three minutes, continuously, without missing even a single instant—three minutes is not long, but when you try it will feel longer than three years—without a single lapse, only three minutes! you will find that you have begun to experience the center precisely. Then the whole body will appear separate, and the center separate.

And this center is a center of energy. Its glory is immense for the one who is joined to it, because it constantly makes infinite energy available.

So first, keep continuous remembrance of the navel center and let your awareness circle only around it. That alone is the temple; keep doing its circumambulation. Whatever happens—anger, hatred, enmity, jealousy, sorrow, happiness—Lao Tzu says: in every condition, whatever it is, first return to the navel; then do anything else. If someone brings news that a loved one has died, first go to the navel and then receive the news. Then, Lao Tzu says, whosoever dies, no wound will reach your consciousness.

Perhaps you have not noticed, but perhaps in hindsight you have: whenever someone tells you very deep news, of joy or sorrow, the impact first strikes the navel. You are on the road, on a bicycle or in a car, and suddenly an accident nearly happens—have you noticed the first shock hits the navel? A thud goes to the navel; the navel trembles, and then everything trembles.

Lao Tzu says: whenever anything happens, consciously first go to the navel. First the navel—then anything else. Then neither joy will make you so happy that you go mad, nor sorrow so sorrowful that you become one with it. Your center will remain separate, and the events happening on the circumference will remain separate. And you will remain a mere witness. Yoga says, practice witnessing. Lao Tzu says, just keep the navel in continuous remembrance; the event of witnessing will bear fruit by itself.

This navel center—on the very day it is known exactly, that day you stand outside birth and death. For before birth this navel center comes; and after death this alone remains—everything else is lost. So whoever knows this center knows: neither is there my birth, nor my death. He becomes unborn and deathless.

Keep continuous remembrance. Find the center, and keep continuous remembrance. First, find the center. Second, remember it. Third, when remembrance is lost again and again—and it does get lost—remember that it has been lost. That is a little difficult.

People come to me and say, “We kept attention on the navel, but it gets lost. What should we do then?” I tell them: If it is lost, remember now that it is lost—make that too part of your attention. Be attentive to the inattention also. Whatever is happening—the losing—bring awareness to that as well. Do not let it be lost un-attentively. Whenever you miss, immediately remember, “I missed.” You will return; nothing else is needed. Just this much remembrance—“I slipped”—and remembrance returns; the current reconnects.

And the fourth thing: when remembrance becomes complete, the center begins to be clearly seen, to be experienced, then dedicate everything to the center—surrender. Say to that center, “You are the master; now I let go.” And this becomes easy.

Surrender is very difficult until the center is known. People say, surrender to God. But there is no address for God; how to surrender to one whose whereabouts you do not know? And even if God comes, if you have to perform the surrender, then you remain the master of even the surrender. If tomorrow the heart feels displeased and it seems this God is not to your liking, you can take your surrender back: “Enough; I take it back.” You were the giver; you can be the taker. What will God do? If you take back your surrender, what can God do? A surrender that can be taken back is not surrender at all; it was never given.

Lao Tzu’s process is different. He says: on the day this center is known, surrender need not be done—you begin to experience that the center is already the master; without you, the center is doing everything—breathing in and out; the stream of life flowing; sleep coming, waking coming; birth happening, death happening—everything the center is doing without your doing anything. So where is the question of surrender? Surrender happens.

So the fourth and final event in this practice is to come to an experiential surrender to the center. Then there remains no way for the ego to survive—no way at all. In such a surrendered state, one becomes available to the Supreme.

These are two poles. Lao Tzu does not say, “Don’t act.” He says: act, but as if you are not doing it—rather, it is happening. Just happening. As breathing goes on; don’t take it, don’t release it deliberately—let it flow. So with life. Slip into non-action; let whatever action happens, happen. Krishna says the same, from the other pole. He says: act—don’t run from action—but drop the doer. Drop the feeling, “I am the one who is doing.” The divine is the doer.

In Lao Tzu’s vision there is no place for God as a separate agency, because even pointing that much creates duality. Lao Tzu says: even to say, “God is the doer,” changes nothing—you have simply relocated your ego into God. A doer remains—if not you, then God. Lao Tzu says: there is no doer at all; action is happening.

This is a little difficult. It is easier for us to say, “If I am not the doer, no harm; God is the doer.” Our logic goes on, our reasoning goes on: if I am not the doer, He is the doer. But Lao Tzu says: why put Him into the trouble of being the doer? If you don’t want to be the doer, if being the doer puts you in distress, why put God into distress? There is no doer; action is happening. Gusts of wind come and a leaf trembles. Winds blow, and the ocean’s wave rises and falls. This world is a confluence of actions—there is no doer anywhere.

If this becomes clear, let actions happen. You are neither the one who does nor the one who renounces. Let what is happening happen, and keep watching. Then the very state Krishna speaks of will arise.

Krishna told Arjuna, “Surrender it all!” Perhaps Arjuna was not of the caliber required to be Lao Tzu’s disciple. So Krishna had to say, “Leave it to God—He is doing everything; you don’t come in between. Understand that He alone is the doer; you are merely an instrument.”

And remember, if Lao Tzu were in Krishna’s place, Arjuna would not have received such a long discourse. First, Lao Tzu hardly speaks. If Arjuna could understand without words, that would be enough.

Lieh Tzu says: I have heard there are teachers who explain by speaking, and there are teachers who explain without speaking. Our teacher is of the second kind.

Lieh Tzu stayed with Lao Tzu for years. He never asked a question, and Lao Tzu never gave an answer. When others came and asked, Lieh Tzu would sit in a corner and listen. Years later Lao Tzu himself asked Lieh Tzu, “Have you nothing to ask?” Lieh Tzu said, “If you permit, I will ask.” Lao Tzu said, “All these days you sat here silently!” Lieh Tzu replied, “Just by sitting silently with you, so much was being understood that I did not want to interfere by speaking. Had I spoken, it would have been an obstacle.” Lao Tzu said, “Therefore now I tell you—you can ask. The one for whom speech has become an obstacle is free of the disease of speaking. Now conversation can happen; now words will not trouble you. One who has tasted the joy of the void cannot be diverted from the path by words. Now we can exchange words.”

But the disciple standing before Krishna is of a very different type. And the moment is very different. It is a moment of war; one cannot sit silently for twelve years here. The whole situation is different. And if Lao Tzu were to tell Arjuna, “There is no doer; what is happening is happening,” Arjuna would run away. He would say, “If there is no doer, there is no one to run either.” He would run. Although it would be his mistake, because in running he is the runner. It would be his mistake—he would only be deceiving himself.

We can all deceive ourselves. We are very clever. We are very clever. We can all deceive ourselves. If we want to run, we will say, “What hand do I have in running? Action is happening; I am only a witness.” And we will run—action will not be “just happening.” In Arjuna’s present state of mind, even if he runs he will remain the doer. In fact, because he is identified as the doer the idea of running arises: “These are my loved ones; if I kill them I will incur sin—sin will fall on me.” Therefore he wants to run.

This is why Krishna is wrestling with Arjuna: he is saying, “This idea of yours that you are the doer is false.” And I know that if Arjuna were to come to that state, drop the “I,” and then set down his bow and walk away, Krishna would be the last person to stop him. But that departure would be of a higher and truer order.

I am reminded of a disciple of Lao Tzu, a great archer named Rang Kang Uneji—Arjuna came to mind, so I remembered him. He was a master archer and a follower of Lao Tzu. He used to say: “Let the arrow be loosed, but let not a single muscle of the hand move. If a muscle moves, you have become the doer. Let the arrow fly, but the hand’s muscle must not move. If the muscle moves, you have become the doer—then you shot the arrow.”

A very difficult thing! News reached the emperor, who said, “Bring that Uneji here. What kind of madness is this? We can understand that while shooting a man keeps the feeling, ‘I am merely an instrument.’ We can understand that he does not consider himself the doer and remains a witness to the action. But when the arrow will fly, the bow will be raised, the arrow set to the string and released—the muscle will surely move.”

Uneji was summoned. When he placed his bow and arrows before the court, no one could even lift them—they were so heavy. It is said he was the only man in all of China who could lift that bow. He picked up the bow, set the arrow. The emperor came and looked at his arm. It was like a child’s hand—no muscle anywhere. Uneji said, “That is why I say I am not shooting; shooting is happening.”

If Arjuna were to come to such a state and say, “Look, I am not going; going is happening,” Krishna would not stop him either. But he was not in that state. In truth, Arjuna did not have the qualification to be Lao Tzu’s disciple. He was a kshatriya, a thoroughgoing male. And Lao Tzu’s entire teaching is for a feminine mind. We can take Arjuna as the archetypal male—as a man should be. Therefore Krishna even goads him: “Are you speaking like a eunuch?” He wants to shake the man to his core: “People will call you a coward! For generations they will say you were a coward, impotent, a eunuch!” These blows are aimed at his masculinity—so that his manhood rises and he says, “What are you saying?”—picks up his Gandiva and enters the battle.

Lao Tzu’s entire teaching is for a feminine consciousness. So the disciple of this teaching is fundamentally different. But the point is the same—whether one dissolves one’s ego in God, continues to act and yet is not a doer; or, as Lao Tzu says, understands non-action: that all actions are happening and I am not the doer at all. Thus Lao Tzu doesn’t even say, “Go on acting.” Why even say that? Let action happen: if it happens, it happens; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. If it stops, it stops; if it flows, it flows. I am no one to come in between.

But this does not mean Lao Tzu’s followers will run away from action. Nor does it mean Krishna’s followers will necessarily plunge into action. We know both very well. Followers of Lao Tzu have entered action, even war—this Uneji was a consummate master of archery. And in India we have seen sannyasins who, with the Gita tucked under their arm, run away from the world—and they say the Gita is their very life-breath.

What you will do is neither in Krishna’s hands nor in Lao Tzu’s. It is always in your hands—always in your hands. In truth, teachers can do nothing without your cooperation; and even then, only as far as you are willing to go. Both are saying the same thing, spoken from very different points. One addresses a masculine mind; the other, a feminine mind.

They do seem contradictory. Because whenever we say “practice,” it feels as if something has to be done. This is a fault of our language. In fact, language has no word for non-action. There is no word for non-doing; all words are verbs of doing.

If we tell a person, “All right, now go to sleep,” the meaning becomes: now you must do something to sleep—sleep is treated as a doing. Yet we all know sleep is not an action. No one can fall asleep by trying. Try it some night! The more you try, the more difficult sleep becomes. So sleep is not an action, but our language makes it one. “Sleeping” is grouped along with “walking,” “getting up,” “eating,” “drinking”—but no one can sleep by doing something. Sleep happens only when all doing stops.

That is why for those who suffer from insomnia, their biggest problem is “How to sleep?” They ask, “How?” And “how” is sleep’s enemy. “How” means “what to do?” And doing is the enemy of sleep. Whatever you do will only delay sleep. Should we then tell them there is no remedy for them? Should we say, “There’s nothing to be done—die like this; no remedy!” That would be very cruel and not at all wise. Because even the sleepless can be helped to allow sleep to come.

Then one must suggest actions so boring that they drop by themselves. For example, tell them, “Do nothing else—count from one to one hundred, then from one hundred back to one, then again from one to one hundred—keep doing that.” This is a boring task, a practice of boredom. If a person goes one, two, three up to one hundred, then one hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight back again, and keeps at it, soon the mind will become so bored, so utterly bored, that even the intention to continue will be forgotten. The counting will drop. The moment it drops, sleep will happen. Sleep did not come because of the counting; yet the counting helped. It helped.

Whatever practices Lao Tzu has suggested are all negative practices, like this—devices of negation. Whatever he is saying—“Find your center”—the center is already there; strictly speaking, there is no need to find it. Even if we never search, the center is. Even if we don’t know, it is still there. Our not-knowing does not change the center. Whether we live in the head or in the heart, life is centered in the navel. These are our illusions. Lao Tzu says, “Just search a little—perhaps the mind’s illusions will drop away in the search, perhaps in the very act of looking you will suddenly draw near and there will be a revelation.”

There is a Chinese tale: an emperor went mad. He left his palace and began living in the cellars beneath—in the junk room where all the useless things not needed in the palace were thrown. At first the viziers thought he must be doing some spiritual practice. In the beginning, the mad seem like seekers, and in the end, seekers seem like madmen! They thought, “He’s going down into a cave-like place.”

Gradually he stopped coming up. Then suspicion arose. He forgot all about the affairs of the state. When ministers went down to ask him anything, he would listen but not reply. Doubts grew. He remained there and stopped coming up to the palace. They began persuading him: “Please come upstairs.” He said, “But this is also the palace. What will I do up there? Isn’t this the palace?” The viziers couldn’t answer directly, “No,” because this too was part of the palace—it was a section of it. So when the emperor demanded, “Tell me clearly, is this not the palace? And if you speak falsely, I will have you beheaded,” the viziers were in great difficulty. They could not say it was not the palace, as it was indeed a part of it; and yet it was not the palace as such—it was a junkyard, a trash room.

They were at their wits’ end. They went to a village fakir and pleaded, “Find a way—some way! The emperor asks, ‘Is this not the palace?’ and we cannot answer. He is dangerous—he says he will behead us if we are proved wrong. And we can be proved wrong, because this is part of the palace, though only a rubbish room. Yet he insists this is the palace, so why go elsewhere?” The fakir said, “I will come.”

He asked the emperor, “Do you think this is the palace? And if you speak falsely, I will give you such a curse that your breath will stop here and now.” Before answering, the emperor looked carefully around—other than scrap and junk there was nothing. Even he felt, “How can this be called the palace? Is this the palace?” He could not lie. And yet it was, in a sense, part of the palace. He said to the fakir, “You have put me in a fix.” The fakir replied, “We’re not doing anything new—only using the very logic you used to trap your viziers. Now please do one thing: whether this is or is not the palace cannot be decided here, it seems. Since neither the viziers nor you can answer, come upstairs with me. Let us look at the whole place about which the claim of ‘palace’ is made. Then we will decide.”

This is exactly what Lao Tzu is saying. He is not saying your center has to be fixed or determined somewhere. It is already determined. But come down within yourself just once and see that center. Then nothing will need to be decided about where it is or what it is. And this coming down is a return—a simple coming back, back to home. A homecoming. So Lao Tzu says, is this even a “practice”? You are merely returning to your own house, which has always been yours. It is not really an action.

And yet, the way man is, in the tangle he lives in, he needs the pretext of some action. Some excuse helps him. The fakir became such an excuse. The emperor went upstairs. Then he refused to go back down. He said, “Let the whole world call that a palace—now I will not return there. I had simply forgotten that the palace is above; I had forgotten.”

It is only forgetfulness. Only forgetfulness. One opportunity is needed for remembrance. A small facility is needed. The name of that facility is practice—sadhana. It is negative.

You cannot recall a friend’s name. You rack your brains, you bang your head, you rub your forehead—still the name does not come. I tell you, “Do this: drop it for a while. I will give you a sadhana that will bring the name back.” He asks, “What sadhana?” I say, “Pick up your hoe and go dig a little soil in the garden.” He will say, “You must be mad. What connection is there between digging earth in the garden and remembering my friend’s name?” I say, “Don’t worry—go and dig.”

He begins to dig—and suddenly the friend’s name pops up. Did the hoe and the digging bring the name back? Is there any causal link? Is there a cause-and-effect relationship?

No. And yet there is a connection. In truth, by getting absorbed in digging, a state arose in which the mind’s tension dropped. When he was trying to remember, he had become so taut, so narrow, that the name could not pass through.

We often say, “It’s on the tip of my tongue.” If it’s on the tip of the tongue, what’s the problem—bring it out! But you say, “It’s on the tip of my tongue, and it won’t come.” Is it on your tongue or on someone else’s? And you are certain it is right there; you can sense it coming—and yet what goes wrong? You have become so tense, so full of strain, that consciousness has narrowed. There is no space for even a single name to slip through. The name is there; you can feel its heartbeat; it is touching you. Everything tells you, “There it is.” And yet a tiny gap—an inch—remains between you and it. And in that inch you have become so tight there is no room. You’re told, “Take the hoe and go to the garden.” You get involved with the hoe and the soil. The tension drops; the knot that had formed in between loosens. The name rises to the surface.

Now, is there any real relation between the hoe and the name’s return? None at all—yet there is. The relation is negative. Digging simply shifted your attention. You relaxed within, became calm, you had a little rest. In that repose, the inner bubble rose to the surface. And the name came back.

That is why it often happens that you know everything—until someone asks you. The moment you are asked, everything goes haywire. Before an interview, standing in the line outside, the candidate knows everything. The moment he steps over the threshold, it all disappears. When he comes back out he says, “It’s unbelievable! What happens in that doorway?” He is the same person; what happened to his intelligence?

In fact, the intellect becomes so tense it cannot function; it loses its suppleness, its flexibility, its capacity to think. It jams. That jamming is not external; it is an inner system’s blockage. There are ways to break this system. All practices are ways to break this blockage.

Zen masters have always told their seekers: when a new disciple comes, the master says, “Don’t talk of Brahman and the Self. For a while, do what I tell you.” Split wood, carry water, dig pits, cook food, milk the cow, tend the garden, work the fields. “Brahma-knowledge” closed for a while! Many times it happens that for a whole year the man only chops wood, hauls water, grazes cattle—one full year! He was a university professor. He never imagined he would have to cut wood and strip grass. But for a year he does just that.

In that year, the professor-ness—the insanity—falls away. What will he do while chopping wood? How can one still be a professor when chopping wood? No need—no degree, no learning required. He is just cutting wood. The saw goes on, the wood is cut—and the professor is also cut. The logs fall—and the professor too falls. After a year he becomes simply a man—an uncomplicated man.

Then the master says, “Now ask! Now you will be able to hear and understand—because now you are open. Now you are like open sky. When you came, you were a sealed house without doors and windows.”

So the whole point of Lao Tzu’s negative method is only this: how to create such a state in which the inner blockings—the stoppages that have formed in many places—break, scatter—just that. Imagine a stream whose flow has frozen; now it doesn’t run. What to do? Wait a while for morning—the sun will rise, a new condition will come, sunlight will fall—the ice will melt, the stream will flow again. We too are frozen here and there; the current is stuck, stopped. So we must change the conditions so the ice melts and the current runs! That is why a change of situation sometimes brings astonishing results—astonishing results.

A writer came to Gurdjieff—Katherine Mansfield, a great writer, Nobel Prize winner—she came for practice. Now if a Nobel Prize writer comes, one should think and arrange a refined kind of practice. But people like Gurdjieff are utterly unrefined. He said, “Do just one thing: the road in front—pound it! The gravel and stones have come loose—set them right and pack them down.” She looked at the road and was stunned. It was a long road. She asked, “For how long will I have to do this?” Gurdjieff said, “Keep at it until I call you to stop. When I say ‘enough, stop,’ then stop. And remember, even if it is midnight and you’re asleep, if I say ‘get up and start,’ you start!” She asked, “How many days will it take to finish?” Gurdjieff said, “Don’t worry about that—because some people are also practicing to dig it up. Don’t bother; this road never gets finished. While you are packing it down here, someone else will be tearing it up there.”

Next morning when she began, she was shocked—she could not set it right before others had already loosened it! The road remained the same. She was drenched in sweat. Many times she glanced at Gurdjieff, hoping he would call her in—but he sat comfortably in an armchair, smoking at ease, blowing his smoke rings. Her sweat kept pouring; never in her life had she broken stones or made roads. Blisters came on her hands; they bled. Many times she sighed loudly, hoping he might hear her groans. He went on smoking, not even looking her way. Evening came, the sun began to set. He kept sitting; she kept working.

Around eight o’clock he called, “Enough, Mansfield!” She came inside, expecting he would say, “You worked hard; you’re drenched in sweat; your hands are bleeding!” But he said nothing. He said nothing at all. And at two in the night he woke her again: “Back to work!” Mansfield thought, “How many days can I last? It seems impossible to stay alive here.” Gurdjieff said, “We are finding a way to erase you. If you consent, you will be erased—but you will know that which is never erased.”

After three months, when Mansfield returned, she declared, “That man is strange. He destroyed all my old self. I have returned completely new. It was great compassion—because I had thought he might put me to work with his books, with literature. Had he done that, I would have returned as the same old ‘me.’ He threw me into a task so opposite that all my Nobel Prize, all my reputation and respect—everything turned to dust.”

For three months she pounded the road—and that road which, when she arrived in the morning, was always found all torn up; she would simply start again. It was deeply discouraging—there could be no success in it. The road could never be completed. But it was precisely opposite and it helped to shatter the mind. In three months she forgot. After three months she wrote: “On that same road people would pass by. On the first day as I worked, I knew I was a Nobel Prize winning writer; after three months people passed and I no longer even knew who I was. I had agreed within that I was a woman who packs gravel on a road—and nothing else. And it melted all my ego.”

So the total question is only this: how can what has accumulated inside us melt, so that we become fluid, liquid, and once again able to flow?

Our difficulty is that we cannot accept that evil is inseparable from good. And on the same riverbank, when there is no flood and wheat ripens in the fields—then? And when on that very fire bread is baked—then? But when that same fire burns down a house, we say, why is nature doing evil? Yet you know, if nature were to arrange things so that fire could not burn, then the good that comes from fire would also be impossible. And if nature were to arrange that no water came into the river—fine, then neither good nor evil would be.

Our difficulty is that we put ourselves at the center of the world and think that whatever serves our interests is good, and whatever harms our interests is evil. But we do not consider that the very cause that brings benefit also brings harm. And if you remove the cause, both cease. If no water flows in the river, there will never be a flood; and if fire becomes cold, no house will ever burn. Quite right. But then you know, with the cooling of fire, all of life will grow cold. Both arise together—that is one thing. Therefore whenever we accept something, we must also accept its share of “evil.” Whoever does not is immature, childish.

When I love someone, I should know that love can break—indeed, it will. Whatever joins, breaks. Whatever is made, dissolves. When I give birth to a son and beat drums and play the band, I should also prepare the bier at home. Because tomorrow the bier will be lifted; whoever is born, dies. But the one who made great celebration and completely forgot the bier will beat his chest tomorrow, crying, “Such evil in the world—why do people die?” He never asks, “Why are people born?” We accept birth totally and suffer terribly over death.

Now why does this friend find it evil that the river comes and the innocent die? He means: if the guilty die, that’s acceptable. Who is guilty? The one who didn’t vote for your party? Who doesn’t go to your mosque? Who is not a devotee of your temple? Who doesn’t read the Gita? The man who drinks alcohol? Have you taken the contract to decide what a person should drink? Are you the judge? Who is guilty, and who will decide? Ask in that very village who is guilty, and almost the entire village will be—depending on whom you ask. If you don’t give the decision to just one person and instead ask the whole village, you won’t find a single person worth sparing. The whole village will be judged—some by some people, some by others—but the whole village will die.

Who is guilty and who is innocent? Whom do you call innocent? What standard do you have to weigh and say: the one who died was innocent?

And even if there were a way to know who is guilty and who is innocent, how do you know that dying is an evil? How do you know? To look at it, all evils happen in life. In death, no evil is seen to happen. Have you ever seen a dead person doing any evil? If there is evil, then life is the evil. Death, so far, has done no evil. Has death ever done anything bad?

But our attachment to life is strong. So we call death a terrible thing. This “evil of death” is not a report about death; it is a report about our clinging to life. It only says we want to live, that’s all. Our craving to live is so mad that there must be no death. So we are ready to rot and decay, yet we want to live—we do not want to die. We would prefer a rotten life to a healthy death. Why? Because we say death is evil, death is bad. But what exactly is bad in it? Has death ever tormented you—can you recall? What hardship has death given you so far? All illnesses happen in life. After death, no illness happens. All disturbances are in life—lawsuits, courts, theft, riots, Hindu-Muslim clashes—all that happens. Death is supreme peace. Then why are you so frightened of death?

Are you certain those who died are at a loss? Have the dead ever said, “We lost out; you are in profit”? Who knows—perhaps the dead are thinking, “These poor innocent ones were spared and didn’t get carried away by the river! Many innocents were saved. What wrong had they done that God did not kill them?”

It is all a matter of standpoint, a matter of perspective. And whoever imposes his viewpoint upon existence is foolish. Existence does not care for your views. You are a tiny wave in the ocean; whenever you try to impose your judgments upon the whole ocean, you act unwisely. Therefore the wise one does not pass judgment about existence. He lives without any judgment, without any declaration, without any stance. If there is death, he simply sees death; if there is life, he simply sees life. He knows that life is a mystery and death is a mystery, and there is no judge. Precisely because there is no judge, life is a mystery.

What is evil? What is good? If it were as easy as we think, as we keep declaring day and night! We only reveal our ignorance. Over trifles we say, “This is evil, this is good.” And what good and evil are has not yet been decided—and never will be.

This does not mean I am telling you to do whatever you feel like just because nothing is decided—“Go, kill a few people; who knows, you might be doing good.” I am not saying that. If this feeling truly dawns in you—if this deep understanding descends within you—that we are not the judges, then you simply will not be able to kill. Because killing happens out of judgment. We assume, “This person is bad—kill him.” The more we deem someone bad, the easier it becomes to kill him.

That is why courts kill with the greatest ease. Because courts are absolutely decided that this man is bad. They ran the case for three years, gathered all the evidence; everything settled. Therefore a magistrate kills more easily than any murderer in this world. Because the magistrate has a full decision on his side—it has been proven that this man is bad.

God was still keeping this man alive; even before God it was not yet proven that this man is bad. But a man sits on a platform, puts on a black robe, lines up ten or five others just like himself, and renders a verdict that this man is bad. This man is finished, he will be killed. And what was this man’s evil? Perhaps his evil was that he is said to have killed someone.

Now here is the irony: because he killed someone, he became bad—and therefore we acquired the right to kill him. But the court can kill easily because it has more power—the power of the state. And the magistrate will go and sleep at night carefree, because he does not feel responsible. Where no one is responsible, we can do anything. Irresponsibility is the greatest calamity. A magistrate is completely irresponsible. He says, “The lawbook says this, the statements say that, the witnesses say thus, the case is decided. I am nothing—I merely do the arithmetic. I have calculated that two and two make four. This man should be hanged.” He stands outside it. He will go home and sing evening songs, listen to the radio, play cards, invite friends to dinner, gossip, make love at night, sleep. He will do everything. It means nothing to him, for he is not responsible.

Baudelaire has said: when a man commits evil on the basis of a firm accounting in terms of good, no greater evil ever happens. So if you really want to do great evil, first gather all the accounts to prove it as good. Then you can do evil. Then there is no difficulty.

All wars in this world are like this, all politics is like this. First establish that “this is evil,” then cut with relish—there is no difficulty. Cut down anyone you like. And the one you cut down will begin cutting you tomorrow, and then he too will see no evil. No evil is seen then. Once we have decided that “this is good,” we gain freedom.

But I say the religious person does not decide. He says, “We are helpless and ignorant. Existence is so vast—what can we decide about what is good and what is evil!” He simply does not pass judgment. And such a person attains a deep saintliness in which there is neither condemnation nor praise. Such a person becomes utterly childlike—Lao Tzu says—tender, soft; simple like a child.

I have spoken to you about the necessary questions. One or two I had to leave aside, because they were not directly related. Those friends can come and speak with me separately—that will be better.

And one question I also had to leave, which is related but very big—about rebirth. We will take it up in some future talk.

Now we will sit; we won’t leave. For five, seven, ten minutes—today is the last day—so dive into the kirtan with as much joy as you can. And those friends who wish to join, come here as well. And those who keep standing on the stage—do not stand. If you want to stand, come down. Only those who will dance fully should be on the stage.