Tao Upanishad #30

Before entering this sutra, it is necessary to understand many things that surround it and echo within it.
The first thing to understand is that neither honor nor dishonor is a fact. Neither praise is a fact, nor blame. Praise is felt when someone flatters, soothes our ego; and blame is felt when someone pushes it down, hurts it.
Honor and insult are both experiences of the ego. And the ego is untrue. The ego is the greatest lie in life. What we truly are—we have no idea of. What we are—and of which we have no knowing—that we shall call the Atman. And what we are not, but believe ourselves to be—that is the name of the ego. The ego is an imaginary entity. Without it we seem unable to live, because the real entity is not known to us. It is a substitute. Our true master is unknown to us, so we have manufactured a false master. We have no experience of our real center. Yet to live without a center is very difficult—almost impossible. So we have fabricated a false center, around which we keep ourselves moving, somehow surviving.
The name of this false center is ego. Whatever gives pleasure to this false center we call praise; and whatever gives it pain we call blame. Because the ego itself is false, all experiences arising out of it are false.
So Lao Tzu says: when someone praises you, it seems you have received happiness; and when someone blames you, it seems you have received suffering. And it looks as if someone else is giving happiness, or someone else is giving suffering. But the root cause of happiness and suffering lies within us—our ego. One whose ego is not, cannot be given either happiness or suffering by anyone. And the one whom no one can make happy or unhappy becomes established in bliss.
As we are, anyone can give us pleasure and anyone can give us pain. We are imprisoned in others’ hands, tied to others. Our reins are in everyone else’s hands. A slight gesture, and pain arises. A slight hint, and we feel happy. A small word—and the eyes fill with tears. A slight change of tone—and a smile spreads across the face. Our tears and our smiles—someone outside is operating them.
But Lao Tzu says: even this outer operation has its root cause within. It is our ego. Because of the ego we are influenced by others—friend or foe, praiser or blamer. The other can influence us because we have no real soul-center of our own; we have a pseudo center, a false center. And the very construction of that false center is such that it will remain under the possession of others.
Understand this a little. The ego is not in your possession. This may sound surprising, because we all think, “The ego is mine, so it is under my control.” Do not fall into that illusion. The ego is not in your possession. The ego belongs to others. Hence every word from others has weight. If four people on the road fold their hands to greet you, your chest swells. If four people abuse you, your chest shrinks. If four people look at you with admiring eyes, flowers bloom within. If four people look not with admiration but with condemnation, all your inner joy dies, fragrance turns foul, flowers wither and fall. This ego is within you, but not in your hands. The ego is in others’ hands. Therefore the ego is always dependent on others. Hence it is always searching for others. Ego cannot be alone. If you feel restless in the solitude of a forest, it is not your restlessness; it is your ego’s restlessness. If in the silence of your room you feel uneasy and compelled to seek company, it is not your unease; it is your ego’s unease. In solitude the ego finds it difficult to live. It needs support every moment.
And here is something amusing: the ego can tolerate condemnation, it cannot tolerate aloneness. The ego can live even amidst abuse; it cannot live in solitude. If it receives praise—what to say! But if praise is not available, even blame is better. Aloneness is utterly dangerous. For even in blame the other is still giving you value. If someone abuses me, he is at least acknowledging me. And if he goes on abusing me and moves on, he is even accepting my importance—I must be something! If my name appears in the newspaper even as a criminal, the ego can still live. If on the street my hands are put in chains and I am led to prison, my ego can still live. But alone, the ego cannot live.
The fundamental reason why Mohammed, Mahavira, Buddha or Jesus went into aloneness was to discover whether any ego still survived within them or not. If they could live alone and no memory of the other arose, it meant the ego had dissolved.
Mahavira remained in solitude for twelve years. Ordinarily, Mahavira’s followers think he had renounced society. That is a very superficial view. Mahavira had nothing to do with society. Those twelve years of solitude were to test whether any center of ego still remained in him that hankered for society, that demanded the other. When after twelve years of continuous testing he knew that within him there was no demand for the other, he returned to society. Now he possessed his own Atman. Now whether people showered garlands upon him on the road or hurled stones—nothing could make any difference within. Now he was his own master.
Therefore Mahavira said: now I have become a Jina—a Conqueror. Jina means, I have conquered myself. Until now I was a slave of others; now I am a victorious man. Do whatsoever you like—you will not be able to alter anything within me. I am beyond your grasp.
Understand it thus: the ego within you is the hands of those around you spread inside you. They are society’s hands stretched within you. Hence every society produces ego in each person. Curiously, all societies teach people to be humble, yet every society educates them in ego. And the strange thing is: this very humility is also a social arrangement for the ego.
A father says to his son: be humble—only then will you be respected. The guru tells his disciples: the more humble you are, the simpler you are, the more worthy you become of praise. How amusing! For it is the ego that becomes the recipient of praise. We turn even humility into an ornament of the ego. We bestow prestige upon the one who is humble. And because we give prestige, it becomes easy for him to be humble—for humility becomes an ornament of the ego.
Society cannot function without nourishing the ego, because society wants its hands to be inside you. If those hands are not within you, you become free of society. Hence from the small child to the old man we teach everyone ego—in countless forms. The good man has an ego and the bad man has an ego. The saint has an ego and the sinner has an ego. And within we construct a center upon which the possession will belong to others—those outside.
Lao Tzu says: praise or blame seems to come from the outside, but its fundamental cause lies within. When someone abuses me, it is not his abuse that hurts; it hurts because it is aimed at me. And when someone praises me, what use is his praise? It is because it is my praise that I care. Praise is our food; blame too is a negative food.
Bernard Shaw once said—in jest, but the feeling lives in all of us—“I would refuse heaven if I were given the second place. I would prefer to go to hell if I could be number one.” Ask your own mind: if you were offered the second position in heaven, would you prefer it—or the first position in hell? The same thought will arise within you: better to be number one, even in hell.
This is not a mere imagined question; this is what we all are doing in life. In the effort to be number one we create an entire hell around us. But to be number one is essential—so we endure hell. A man amasses wealth; how much hell he creates around himself! A man climbs the ladder of politics; how much hell he creates around himself! But that hell is not seen. Only one thing is seen: how can I become number one?
But Lao Tzu says: even if you become number one, even if you receive praise and honor, you still will not go beyond suffering. Why? Because the more praise comes, the more the ego’s demand increases. Whatever praise comes is immediately taken for granted. Whatever honor is given, I accept that, “it ought to be so—I am that kind of man.” The demand goes further.
No man has ever lived who felt that the honor he was receiving was enough. It always seems, “I am far more; people have not yet understood. When they fully understand, then!” My image in my own eyes is always bigger than all the images put together that I see reflected in others’ eyes. And this image is not a fixed thing. The more it is encouraged, the more it grows. The more praise it receives, the more water and manure it gets. And it goes on growing. One thing is certain: whatever honor is given to this image, it assimilates it, and the demand moves ahead.
Curiously, however much honor I receive, it will not give me bliss—because I accept it; but if that much honor is not given again, I will suffer. Today you greet me with folded hands; tomorrow you do not. Today, when you greet me, I accept it—“I am such a man that you had to greet me.” But tomorrow, when you do not, I certainly suffer. From the ego, what is received does not bring contentment; what is not received brings pain. What is received, the ego takes in and is satisfied for the moment; then what is not received begins to hurt.
Then a great urge arises to preserve whatever has been gained. “At least let the praise I now receive continue”—a constant effort begins. And then fear is born: it may be snatched away! The honor I receive today may not come tomorrow! So what is gained must be protected and secured. Then fear seizes us; and if it is not given, pain arises.
Thus Lao Tzu says: even if honor comes, the mind does not become peaceful—it grows more agitated, more miserable. And if blame comes, there is pain of course. Blame will hurt. Understand too that blame hurts in exactly the same proportion as there is expectation of honor.
Fourteen hundred years ago, Bodhidharma, an Indian monk, entered China. Hundreds of thousands gathered at the border to receive him. The emperor himself lay prostrate at his feet. But when he raised his eyes to look, the emperor was astonished—and the multitudes were perplexed. Bodhidharma wore one shoe on his foot and had placed the other upon his head. Emperor Wu asked, “I cannot understand—why have you put a shoe on your head?”
Bodhidharma said, “For the sake of balance. I heard the emperor would place his head at my feet. To balance it is proper. Lest the balance be lost, I put a shoe on my head. I wipe off your honor with my own hands by my self-disgrace. The transaction is complete. I have not accepted your praise. And know well: if tomorrow you strike my head with a shoe, I will still have no business with your blame. With this shoe I make my entrance.”
Our expectation is the weight of our blame. As much as I expect honor, in that very measure blame will hurt. If I have no expectation at all, blame carries no pain. Understand it thus: the pain of blame is not in the blame; it is in the expectation of honor. When you abuse me, the pain is not in your abuse. I had thought you would greet me, and abuse came—hence the pain. Honor gives sorrow and fear. And the expectation of honor adds weight to blame, making it heavy.
Lao Tzu says: from both honor and dishonor we get frustration. Blame will bring it—because the feet of ego are swept away. Honor also brings frustration—because it is the root cause of blame. Lao Tzu has said: if you want no one to blame you, then do not ask anyone for honor. Here the mind faces great difficulty. We want that no one should blame us; but we resist the second condition. Who does not want to be free of blame? But Lao Tzu says: if you want no one to blame you, do not expect honor. The mind does not accept this second condition. But everything depends on it. An inch of longing for honor—and a thousand inches of blame are set in motion.
Lao Tzu has said: do not sit upon the throne—else you will be thrown down. Be content even with failure—then no one can make you fail. And take defeat to be victory—then in this world no one has the power to defeat you. This condition is difficult. But it is fundamental—root-level. If you do not want blame, do not ask for honor.
We also try that we may not be blamed. But how do we try? Our effort is suicidal. To avoid blame, we try to arrange for more honor. To avoid blame means to fulfill all the requirements for honor. We become the kind of person people honor. We adopt behavior that society respects. We put on the hypocrisies that society admires. We do what people want—so that honor may come.
But Lao Tzu says: the more you arrange thus, the deeper you will fall into difficulty. First, no person can truly shape himself by others’ measures. All such shaping becomes acting, mere hypocrisy. And from within, the real man keeps breaking through. Next, the one who shapes himself to others’ wishes—even if he gains honor—finds no satisfaction beyond the ego. And the ego has no satiation. The ego is a beggar’s bowl. Pour in as much as you will—it never fills. Its demand keeps moving ahead.
“What we value and what we fear are both present within our own selves.”
What we value—and what we fear!
Temptation and fear are two sides of the same coin. We usually do not see it; it does not occur plainly to us. But the man filled with greed will be filled with fear. A greedy man cannot be fearless. And one who is fearful cannot be so without greed. So a fearful man will certainly have greed within him—no matter what the fear is about.
Even if a man fears God, the cause is greed. Some religions have tried to drive man to God by making him fearful. We call a religious man “God-fearing.” The name is wrong. Fear of God? Then surely greed hides behind it. The greed to gain something—or the greed that nothing be lost—becomes fear. Lest I be thrown into hell, lest I suffer births upon births—this fear, that God may be displeased—these are forms of greed. One who is driven by fear of God is driven by greed. And the greedy can have no relationship with God. Nor can the fearful.
A relationship with God is possible only for the one in whom both greed and fear have become impossible. As I have said, the ego is the base of our greed and fear. Where greed and fear are not, there remains no wall between one and God. The door can open this very moment.
But we do not see greed and fear as one shape, as two aspects of one thing. Greed is the positive pole; fear is the negative pole. To offer reward is greed; to threaten punishment is fear. Wherever there is a reward, there is punishment; wherever there is punishment, there is reward. Heaven is reward; hell is punishment. Honor is reward; dishonor is punishment.
Society controls your reins through this very greed and fear. Society gives honor to the one who obeys it. Society punishes the one who does not. Society honors you if you become its shadow. Society dishonors you if you try to be different and above it. Therefore society will certainly torment Socrates, or Jesus, or Mahavira, or Mohammed. That torment is perfectly natural, because these people are attempting to be above society. To be above society means to be above both greed and fear. Society’s entire fabric is woven out of greed and fear. Whoever tries to rise above these two becomes a danger to society.
Mahavira says: I have dropped all greed. And Mahavira says: I have dropped all fear. When is this possible? When does greed and fear drop? Only when I have no demand upon the other—none at all. When within myself I become so self-fulfilled, so complete, that I need no one to complete me. Then whether I live or die, my completeness is within; greed and fear dissolve.
But in every small and big matter we are dependent on the other. If someone looks at me with love, a lamp is lit within; if someone looks at me with hatred, the lamp is extinguished. I have no light of my own. Whatever I have is borrowed—from others. I am a borrower, which others have endowed with small donations. Hence I must remain afraid. At any moment, if they pull out their bricks, my house will collapse. So I must fear those who have given to me; and I must remain filled with greed to get from those who have not yet given. In this way, try to think of yourself too: you are a house constructed out of others’ donations.
In some old Jewish settlements, there was a rule: whenever a new Jew arrived in the town, every person in the village would gift him one coin. If there were ten thousand people, he would receive ten thousand coins. His life could move—his house could be built, his shop opened. Later, when another newcomer arrived, this man too had to give him one coin.
A fine social arrangement. No one could remain poor in the village. But I narrate this for another purpose. We too arrive in this life and small pieces are given to us from all sides. On the basis of those fragments we build the inner house of the ego. Something the father gives, something the mother, something brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors, the village folk. And out of all these, the house of our ego is constructed within. Then fear remains—anyone may pull out a brick! Hence we fear those who have given us; at any time what is given may be taken back. And upon those who have not yet given, our eyes remain set—may that too be received.
This greed and fear live within us. And any relationships that we construct in life based on greed and fear will bring suffering. No happiness can come from them, because dependency is suffering to its very depths. And if even my soul is borrowed—if it is stitched together only out of others’ fragments…
Long ago, Picasso made a portrait of a politician. It was a work of skill. In it he used no paint—only cuttings from newspapers. He cut pieces from the newsprint, pasted them on canvas, and made the politician’s portrait.
A deep point! A politician has nothing besides newspaper cuttings. That is his soul. Have you noticed? When a politician loses office and news about him stops appearing, it becomes hard even to find out where he has disappeared. You will hear of him only once more—when he dies. In between, you cannot even find out whether he is alive or dead. One last news item will come. He is a collage of clippings.
But not only the politician—so are we all. If I say to you, “You do not look beautiful to me,” why so much hurt? If I say, “You are ugly,” why so much pain?
You have no knowing of your own beauty. What people have said—that is your beauty. I withdraw my brick; I say, “No, you do not appear beautiful to me.” A crack appears in your house. Fear arises: today one man has pulled out a brick; tomorrow two will, the day after three—what will become of my beauty?
I consider you intelligent—then you are intelligent. If I call you foolish—you become foolish. Why anger? Because you are intelligent only by my support. If someone calls Buddha unintelligent, he laughs and leaves that village. Because Buddha is not intelligent on anyone else’s account; he is by his own. Whatever he is, he is by himself.
What is our pain in blame? That within we are nothing of our own. We are only what others have made us. Our being depends on the opinions of a few people. Our ego has been decided by others’ opinions. “People say”—therefore we dread this: “What will people say?”—for we are nothing else.
People come to me to meditate and they say, “If I do this, what will people say?”
Who are these people? They are the very ones who constructed your ego. You fear them lest they change their mind and begin to say, “You seem mad now. What are you doing?” Your soul is pledged in their hands. What they say, that you become. What they are saying—that is what you are.
Do we have any being of our own? Any authentic existence? Or are we just a bundle of clippings—an accumulation of others’ opinions?
As we are, this is our state. Hence blame hurts, because it pricks us and brings down our house. Praise seems to bring happiness because it strengthens the house.
I have heard: Benito Mussolini was passing one night by a cinema hall. On a whim, he went in; the film had already begun; he sat in the dark. When the film ended, Italian films would show Mussolini’s picture at the end to honor him, and everyone would stand and hail Mussolini. All rose and cheered.
Naturally, Mussolini remained seated—very pleased that everyone was cheering. He asked the man beside him, “You are enjoying cheering, aren’t you?” The man said, “It would be better if you too stood and enjoyed it. Not enjoying this could be very costly and dangerous. Inside, I also wish to sit with the same swagger as you. But who are you? Perhaps you don’t know you are in Italy, and to live without cheering Mussolini is difficult. My wish too is to sprawl as you do and remain seated.”
Another memory: Churchill was on his way to speak in Parliament. His car broke down. He hired a taxi. But the driver said, “I can’t take you. I just heard on the radio—Churchill is about to speak in Parliament. I have stayed back to listen to him.” Churchill’s spirit must have swelled—immensely pleased that a driver refused a fare! Churchill took out a big note, put it in his hand, and said, “I am delighted to hear that, but I must go.” The man seated Churchill and started the taxi. Churchill asked, “What about the speech?” The man said, “To hell with Churchill!”
A moment earlier this man had inflated Churchill’s soul; a moment later… Perhaps it did not occur to Churchill that the swelling and shrinking of such a soul lies in a taxi driver’s hands. The key is not in Churchill’s own hands. It is in the driver’s hands.
All our keys have been exchanged. All our keys lie with others. And the one we call master has given his keys into the hands of his servants.
It is for this very situation that the sutra says: “What we value and what we fear—both are present within us. With respect to honor and dishonor, the meaning is that after the attainment of honor, to be lower is dishonor.”
What does dishonor mean? It is comparative—relative. If a person has lived in a state of honor, then to be below that state is his dishonor. Whenever we seek a state of honor, we are simultaneously seeking a state of dishonor. Whenever we climb up, we are creating the condition to fall. In any direction, by any path, in any manner—whenever we fill the ego—we are simultaneously creating its opposite path.
That opposite path we do not see. When I climb the thrones of honor, I do not see that I am also preparing my fall. I am doing it myself. And when I fall, I place the responsibility upon others. When I was climbing, the responsibility was mine.
Every height is followed by a depth. Every mountain is followed by ravines. No peak can stand without its valleys. As a mountain tries to become higher and higher, the abyss forms at its side. When someone climbs the peak of success, he digs around himself the ditch of failure. It progresses moment to moment. There is no way to escape it—except one: do not climb to the peak. If you want to be saved from falling, do not climb.
This is difficult—for we all want to climb; we do not want to fall. We do not accept the other half. When birth happens, we do not accept death. With birth, death is already present. The day I am born, I have accepted dying as well. Yet all my life I shall try that death should not be. No effort will bear fruit. With birth, death has already occurred—not a future event now. It has become part of the past. It has happened, because one end cannot be without the other. With success, failure occurs; with honor, blame.
Therefore a curious thing: the more people are honored, in the same proportion blame spreads around them. There is no other way—balance is maintained. It is difficult to find such a man in the world who has received only praise and no blame. Leave aside emperors, politicians, the wealthy—they are blamed. But think of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ. Even if they did not seek honor, and even if blame made no difference to them, people bestowed honor—and people bestowed blame too. And the measures were equal. That measure cannot be reduced.
Therefore if there are people on one side who regard Krishna as God, there will be people on the other side who would consign him to hell. If on one side people call Buddha “supremely wise,” on the other there will be those who call him “supremely ignorant.” If on one side people call Jesus the Son of God, on the other there will be those who crucify him.
And when Jesus was crucified, two others were crucified alongside—two thieves. Jesus was hung in the middle, the thieves on either side. He was crucified with thieves so that no illusion would remain that they were crucifying a prophet. They were crucifying a vagrant, an outcast, a troublemaker, a madman.
If someone asks Lao Tzu, he will say: this had to be; this would be. Jesus has no concern—therefore Jesus is neither happy nor unhappy. But the disciples were very unhappy when Jesus was crucified, because they thought, “The Son of God—how can he be crucified?” They did not know: when they declared him the Son of God, the counterbalancing force was simultaneously created in the world.
Existence is a profound balance. Here everything remains balanced. Imbalance never happens. What is the way?
According to Lao Tzu there is only one way: in whatever you seek, also see its opposite. When you seek honor, understand clearly that you are seeking dishonor. When you crave, know that you are generating fear. When you go out to obtain love, know that you have also invoked hatred. When you clutch at life, know well that now you are clutching at death.
The vision of the opposite is Lao Tzu’s fundamental sutra. He says: at every moment, also see what is opposite. Do not see only one side. Life is a duality. See the other clearly too. And you cannot escape the other. Whoever has chosen the one has chosen both. And the one who wants to escape both must not choose even the one.
The emperor of his land wanted to make Lao Tzu the prime minister. Lao Tzu ran from one village to the next. When the emperor’s men reached the second village, they learned he had gone to the third. The emperor was puzzled. He was eager to make him prime minister—and this man was fleeing! At last the emperor sent a messenger to say, “Do not run in vain, do not be troubled. Just tell me this much: I wish to seat you in a great post of honor—the highest honor of the nation—to make you prime minister. Why are you running?” Lao Tzu sent back word: “I am not fleeing from the honor. I am fleeing from the dishonor hidden behind every honor.”
But the second is not visible to us. To see that second is wisdom. In every dimension—never in just one—this other is always present. If a man lives in such a way that he sees this duality everywhere… And remember: when the vision of duality dawns, craving begins to attenuate.
Many advise: renounce desire, drop wanting. But Lao Tzu’s sutra is very deep. He does not say, “Drop desire.” He says: see clearly the opposite of desire—and desire will drop. If I truly see that making friends is the way to manufacture enemies; if this is seen not intellectually, not superficially, but deeply—penetrating my life—then I will not need to try to avoid making friends; it will simply not arise.
A curious point here:
Making a friend is in my hands; not making an enemy is not in my hands. If I have taken the first step, the second is no longer in my control. We all take the first step—and then want the second step not to happen. It is not in our hands. Success—I asked for it. I could have not asked—that was in my hands. But failure is no longer in my hands. Honor—I desired it—that was in my hands. The other is not.
Buddha said something very delightful: drop concern with death; try to avoid birth. Because once birth happens, death is not in your hands. A Brahmin once came to Buddha and asked, “How can I be free of birth and death?” Buddha said, “Leave death to death—free yourself from birth.”
Ordinarily we ask, “How can we be free of birth and death?” Death is not in your hands; you cannot be free of it directly. The first link is in your hands—birth. Be free of that. If there is no birth, there can be no death. Death is possible only if birth is.
So Buddha said: worry about how not to be born. Why does birth happen?
The man could not grasp it. In asking to be free of birth and death, he had no idea about birth. In truth he wanted freedom from death. He said, “I am frightened of death; I feel great terror; that is why I want freedom.”
He did not want freedom from birth. He wanted a birth after which death would not be. He wanted life without death. He did not want freedom from birth; he wanted freedom from death.
We too have the same erroneous thinking. People come to me and say, “How can I be free of suffering?” They cannot—until they come and ask, “How can I be free of happiness?” Because happiness is the choice; suffering is the consequence. Happiness is in my hands; suffering is not.
Understand it thus: I run, and then I say, “This shadow that runs behind me—how can I make it stop?” I will say: whether I run or not is in my hands; whether my shadow runs or not is not. If I do not run, the shadow will not run. If I run, I cannot stop it.
Suffering is the shadow; happiness the choice. Honor is the choice; dishonor is the shadow, the consequence. We all want to avoid the consequence. We sow the seed; we water it; we manure it—and then we try that the plant may not sprout. We exert so that the plant sprouts, but in the mind we want it not to sprout. We sow happiness; suffering is its sprout. But both are not seen together. Whoever sees both together—he becomes religious. My definition of the religious is this: one for whom in the polarity two are seen as one. Happiness and suffering become two ends of a single thing. Honor and dishonor become two ends of a single thing.
Remember: as soon as this is seen, I come to know what I can do and what I cannot; where my capacity reaches—and where it ends.
I stand with a bow and arrow. Until I release the arrow, it is in my hands. Once released, it is no longer mine. A word thickens within; until I speak it, I am the master. Once spoken, my mastery is lost.
The first step is the choice of happiness, honor, power. The second step is inevitable. You cannot escape it.
Lao Tzu says: if both are seen together, what will be the result?
If both are seen together—seen as one—the craving in life will vanish. No one wants suffering—yet everyone suffers. All want happiness—yet no one can lay a hand on his heart and say, “I am happy.” Surely, somewhere a fundamental mistake is happening—not just to one, but to all.
The mistake is this: no one wants suffering; all want happiness. We choose happiness—and suffering becomes the result. We run after happiness—and suffering comes into our hands. One who wants to avoid suffering will have to learn to avoid happiness. This alone is sadhana. And to learn to avoid happiness will seem very difficult—but it is not as difficult as suffering. When someone greets me on the road, I should be alert at once. I should hear in that greeting the echo of its opposite waiting at the corner. Then I will be saved. It is not necessary that abuse will not come later—it may. But then it will be meaningless for me. Within, nothing will be altered. Then the actions of the abuser and the greeter will remain theirs; they will have nothing to do with me. If my connection is not made, I am free. And only in such freedom does the stream of bliss descend.
Thus Lao Tzu is discussing the bondage of man at the very depths. If, within happiness and suffering, honor and dishonor, praise and blame, birth and death—if in each pair the one begins to give me a glimpse of the other—then there remains no momentum for our desire that runs blindly into the world.
Alice has reached heaven—the land of fairies. She stands by the queen beneath a tree. “Stands” is not right—both are running. The queen runs, Alice runs. After hours of running, Alice looks up—the tree is where it was, and they are where they were. Nothing has changed, and they are drenched in sweat. Alice asks the queen, “We have run all day, and we are exhausted. Your land is amazing—after so much running we have not reached anywhere! The tree is where it was; we are where we were.” The queen says to her, “It is precisely because we have run so much that we are where we were. Think, what would have happened had we not run? It is because we ran that we remained under the tree. Think—had we not run, what would our condition be?”
We all run all our lives and remain where we are. And our logic is the same: “After so much running we are still here; had we not run, we would have been worse off. We worked hard for honor, yet received so much dishonor. If we had not striven for honor, what would have happened! We sought so much wealth, yet remained poor; had we not sought, we would have fallen into hell.”
But had Alice asked Lao Tzu, he would have said: “Do not run—stop and see!” Because if running leaves you where you are, it is worth stopping and seeing.
There are only two kinds of logic in the world. One is the queen’s logic to Alice—the ordinary mind’s logic—which always says: “Even with such effort these pebbles have been gained; if we do not run, there will be great trouble. Keep running.” The other is the logic of Buddha, Mahavira, Lao Tzu. They say, “Stop and see! Do not run.”
Alice then asks the queen, “What should we do to get beyond this tree?” The queen says something very amusing: “If you run with all the strength you have—exactly the full measure—you will be able to remain under this tree. If you wish to go beyond it, you must run with twice that strength.”
But how can there be twice that strength? The queen says, “With all your strength, if you run, you will remain under this tree. To go further, you need double the strength.” Absurd—meaningless. When running with full strength leaves you here, where will double strength come from? Yet the logic appeals to Alice. She says, “That is true. Let me try to run with twice the strength.”
We too are persuaded this way. When after much effort we do not receive honor, we think, “Try with double strength.” We desire fame and do not receive it; we think, “Exert more fully; perhaps we used too little strength.” Remember: the more strength you pour into seeking fame, the more infamy you will reap. The more you strive for respect, the more disrespect you will receive. Because life is a balance between polarities.
So should we stand still—stop this running?
Lao Tzu does not say: stop. This is a subtle point—remember it. Lao Tzu does not say: stop. For he says, even if you stop, it will be another kind of running; you will stop out of some greed. Even if you stop, it will be because: “Good, then blame will not come; dishonor will not come; failure will not be.” Even if you stop, your mind will remain the same greed—for honor, fame, prestige, success, wealth, immortality.
Lao Tzu says: I do not tell you to stop; I ask you to see the futility of running. The result of that vision is stopping; no effort to stop is needed.
Someone asks Buddha, “If I drop desires, will I attain peace?” Buddha says, “That is a new desire.” A new desire! “I do not tell you to drop desires; I tell you to understand desires. Because if you understand, you will not be able to desire. Then you will not ask, ‘If I drop desires, will I gain peace?’ That peace too becomes an object of desire. When desire is not, what remains is called peace. When there is no seeking of happiness or avoidance of suffering, what remains is called bliss.”
Lao Tzu’s sutra is priceless. And to practice it there is no need for special disciplines or rituals. You can fulfill it while walking, standing, sitting, working, sleeping, eating, going to the market, sitting in your shop. Only remember this much: if you do not take the first step, the second will never happen. Become aware at the first step—the second will fall away. As you take the first step, watch where you are going.
Chuang Tzu—Lao Tzu’s disciple—had a child born at home. Chuang Tzu sat outside his door, beating his chest and weeping. Villagers came to congratulate him. They said, “Chuang Tzu, what are you doing?” Chuang Tzu said, “My master has said: when the first step arises, be alert. In birth I have seen death—therefore I weep.”
Years later his wife died. The emperor came. Chuang Tzu was sitting under his tree, beating a small drum and singing. The emperor had come to offer condolences. He said, “Are you mad, Chuang Tzu? Do not be so grieved—that is enough. But is this a time to sing?” Chuang Tzu said, “Once I saw death in birth; this time I have seen birth in death.”
Let us keep seeing this sutra in all the facets of life. Gradually you will find that much has dropped without your dropping it; much has fallen without effort. And one day, suddenly, you find you are standing—the running has ceased. And one day you find the ego, built on others’ supports, has fallen apart. And as it falls, the realization begins of that which is our real being—our Atman.
Enough for today. But we will pause for five minutes now. All will join in kirtan. Then you may go. Those friends who wish to join the kirtan, please come up. And if any of you wish to join, come down to the area below the platform. Do not remain seated—clap your hands and join the kirtan.