Verse:
Chapter 13 : Sutra 2
Praise And Blame
What does it mean to say that, what we value and what we fear are as if within the self?
We have fear because we have a self.
When we do not regard that self as the self, what have we to fear?
Therefore he who values the self as he does his own self--May then be entrusted with the government
of the world; And he who loves the world as his self--To his care may the world then be entrusted. We are frightened for this very reason: we have taken the ego to be our very being.
When we no longer take the ego to be our Atman, what remains to fear?
Therefore, the person who gives the world the same respect as he gives himself — the governance of the world can be entrusted to such a one.
And the one who loves the world as he loves himself — the protection of the world can be placed in his hands.
Tao Upanishad #31
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
Chapter 13 : Sutra 2
Praise And Blame
What does it mean to say that, What we value and what we fear are as if within the self?
We have fear because we have a self.
When we do not regard that self as the self, what have we to fear?
Therefore he who values the self as he does his own self--May then be entrusted with the government
of the world; And he who loves the world as his self--To his care may the world then be entrusted.
Praise And Blame
What does it mean to say that, What we value and what we fear are as if within the self?
We have fear because we have a self.
When we do not regard that self as the self, what have we to fear?
Therefore he who values the self as he does his own self--May then be entrusted with the government
of the world; And he who loves the world as his self--To his care may the world then be entrusted.
Transliteration:
Chapter 13 : Sutra 2
Praise And Blame
What does it mean to say that, What we value and what we fear are as if within the self?
We have fear because we have a self.
When we do not regard that self as the self, what have we to fear?
Therefore he who values the self as he does his own self--May then be entrusted with the government
of the world; And he who loves the world as his self--To his care may the world then be entrusted.
Chapter 13 : Sutra 2
Praise And Blame
What does it mean to say that, What we value and what we fear are as if within the self?
We have fear because we have a self.
When we do not regard that self as the self, what have we to fear?
Therefore he who values the self as he does his own self--May then be entrusted with the government
of the world; And he who loves the world as his self--To his care may the world then be entrusted.
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
There is a question concerning yesterday’s sutra. The question is important — not merely out of curiosity, but from the standpoint of sadhana as well.
It is asked, Osho: Renouncing the desire for happiness is the very cessation of suffering. The choice of happiness, of respect, of life is in our hands. Suffering, disrespect, and death are mere results; avoiding them is not within our control. How is it possible that the choice of life is in our hands? I want to know this. I only want to know how it is in my hands that I may not be reborn.
It is asked, Osho: Renouncing the desire for happiness is the very cessation of suffering. The choice of happiness, of respect, of life is in our hands. Suffering, disrespect, and death are mere results; avoiding them is not within our control. How is it possible that the choice of life is in our hands? I want to know this. I only want to know how it is in my hands that I may not be reborn.
On this, keep two or three points in mind. First: I did not say “renounce the desire for happiness.” While explaining yesterday’s sutra, many of you must have taken it that way—that I said, renounce the desire for happiness. I did not say that, nor is that Lao Tzu’s intent. It is not the meaning of Buddha or Mahavira either; nor is it Christ’s import. Yet whenever Christ, Buddha, or Lao Tzu speak in this direction, we hear it that way. So first understand this: what Buddha says rarely reaches our understanding; and what reaches our understanding is rarely what Buddha said.
“Renounce the desire for happiness” is not Lao Tzu’s meaning. To know happiness as misery—that is Lao Tzu’s meaning. There is a difference. A man renounces only when there is something to be gained; renunciation too is a bargain, and underneath it greed hides.
A man can renounce the world to attain liberation. Tell him there is no liberation, that it does not exist—then will he still renounce? Renunciation becomes impossible. One may give up happiness to gain bliss, but giving up happiness for bliss is not renunciation of happiness, because our craving has only shifted into a new dimension. Not renunciation of happiness; rather, know that happiness is misery. And when one knows that happiness is misery, then one does not have to renounce—renunciation happens.
To “do” renunciation and to have renunciation “happen” are fundamentally different. The doer always acts out of greed, out of the desire for some other happiness; therefore he can never truly renounce. But when it happens, it happens without desire.
Suppose I am holding pebbles and stones in my hand. If someone tells me, “Give them up,” I will surely ask, “Why?” For renunciation has no meaning unless the “why” can be answered. Hence the so‑called religious monks and ascetics keep telling people, “Leave this,” and immediately add, “and this is why.”
Lao Tzu is not saying that. Nor am I. Pebbles and stones are in the hand. Lao Tzu says: know that they are pebbles and stones—recognize them. He does not say, “Renounce,” because the moment you raise renunciation, the question “Why?” arises.
I am taking pebbles to be diamonds; therefore I cling to them. If I see they are stones, I will not have to drop them; my fist will open. I will not need the slightest effort or a new desire to “give them up.” Effortlessly, without strain, the hand opens when the stone is seen as stone; it falls by itself. And if a stone has fallen like this, can I later go about saying, “I have renounced stones”? If they were stones, where is the question of renunciation? And if I still say, “I renounced,” then to me they were still gold, still jewels.
There is little difference between the hedonist and the renouncer in their vision. They stand back to back; their outlook is the same. The hedonist believes they are jewels; hence he clings. The renouncer believes they are jewels; hence he leaves. If they are not jewels, what value is there in leaving them? Yet the renouncer keeps boasting how much he has given up. He keeps accounts as much as the hedonist does. The hedonist tallies how many lakhs he possesses; the renouncer tallies how many lakhs he has left behind. But those lakhs are still lakhs—still of value to both.
In fact the renouncer often values things more than the enjoyer—why? Because the enjoyer is also secretly burdened with guilt: “I am clinging, I am indulging, I am ignorant, I am a sinner.” The renouncer too enjoys the same things—in the name of renunciation. What he has “left” becomes part of his ego. Now there is no guilt; his coins shine brighter. A thief can steal the enjoyer’s coins; nobody can steal the renouncer’s coins. In the enjoyer’s wealth others can share; in the renouncer’s wealth no one can share. His wealth is very safe.
No, Lao Tzu is not telling you to renounce the desire for happiness. Lao Tzu says: know what happiness is. The moment you know, it drops; renunciation happens. Those who do renunciation are ignorant; those through whom renunciation happens are wise.
The wise have never renounced anything. This will be hard for the mind, because we think a man becomes wise by renouncing. It is the other way round: by becoming wise, renunciation happens. The wise never “do” renunciation; renunciation happens to them naturally.
Therefore no scars are left behind. Like a dry leaf falling from the tree, what is useless falls away from the wise. The tree never even registers the fall of a dry leaf; there is no wound, no trace. You can’t tell when it dropped.
But pluck a green leaf and the tree is hurt. If someone knows that he has renounced, know that he has not reached the state of renunciation. If the thought arises, “I have renounced,” understand: he is still within the circle of indulgence.
Lao Tzu says: in happiness see misery; in birth, see death; in honor, see dishonor. Seek the glimpse of the opposite. You will find it; it is there, hidden. Look steadily, attentively. Happiness will turn into misery. The thorn will show behind the flower. Then there is no need to leave; leaving itself is not Lao Tzu’s talk. If the thorn shows in the flower, the hand opens.
So first understand: it is not that renouncing the desire for happiness is freedom from suffering. To know happiness as misery—that is freedom; not only from suffering, but from both happiness and suffering.
Our mind is strange. We are even ready to give up happiness if we can be rid of suffering. But remember: there cannot be release from suffering alone; there is release from both happiness and suffering. Anyone will agree to drop suffering; sometimes we even agree to drop happiness if only suffering would stop—but that too is just an attempt to drop suffering. One who knows that happiness and suffering are two sides of the same coin knows this as well: either both will remain, or both will fall away. If there is freedom, it will be from both; if there is involvement, it will be with both.
Third point: “I only want to know that I may not be reborn.”
But why? Why not rebirth? Because there is suffering, pain, anguish in life—therefore no rebirth? The race for happiness continues. “Let there be no rebirth” becomes a future desire. And desire is always about the future. Any desire—always about tomorrow. Desire cannot exist in the present; the present has no room. The present moment in your hand is too small; your desires are too many to fit into it. Desire seeks space—tomorrow, the day after, the coming years. And this is desire’s extremity: the coming birth! A vast future.
No—“let there be no next birth” is also desire. And as long as desire is there, birth will go on.
This is the dilemma of religion. The deepest dilemma is that whenever we understand religion, we immediately translate it into the language of desire. Religion does not say, “Try that there be no rebirth.” Religion says, “Understand what life is—then rebirth will not happen.” It is only a consequence, a result—not a “fruit.” Fruit is something to be desired; result is not to be desired. Do something else, and the result happens.
Buddha’s rebirth does not happen—not because he spent his life trying to prevent rebirth. If that had been his effort, his rebirth would be certain. A mind running towards the future runs in desire. Properly understood, the future has no existence in the world—except in human desire. The future does not belong to time; it belongs to desire. Therefore whenever one becomes desireless, the future disappears. Not only the future—time itself disappears.
Someone asks Jesus, “What will be the most special thing in your heaven?” Jesus says, “There shall be time no longer.”
The one who asked was expecting: wish‑fulfilling trees? celestial maidens? unending pleasures? fountains of wine? He wanted some special bait for which it would be worth renouncing this world. Jesus’s reply would not have appealed to him; it would have frightened him. Where there is no time, there can be no desire, no wish‑fulfilling tree. Even our heaven is an extension of our desire. Our religion, our liberation, our heaven—they are all appendices of the same world. There is little difference.
A friend asks: “May I not be reborn.” Why? Why not rebirth? Because life contains suffering? If life contains suffering, forget about rebirth; understand the suffering of life. One who understands the suffering of life finds craving gradually weakening. If everywhere there is suffering, then even if I want—what can I want? There is nothing worthy of wanting. Every want leads to suffering.
The day it dawns that all wanting is only wanting of suffering; that whichever path I travel, I arrive at suffering; whatever I think, I fall into suffering; whatever I desire, I end in suffering—the day it becomes clear that all paths lead only to suffering, will I desire that there be no rebirth? That too is a desire; and all desires lead to suffering. Will I desire to find God? That too will be a desire; and all desires lead to suffering.
No—then I will not desire at all. In that very moment, when there is no desire whatsoever, time disappears, the future breaks, the past disintegrates. Only the present moment remains. In that moment there is being, not life.
Understand this a little. In that moment there is being, not life. One who knows being hidden within life has no rebirth—because rebirth belongs to life. Life is the sum total of all desires laid over being. Rebirth is the continuation of this life—it is nothing new. The body is new; your desire is old. And your desire is still so intense that it requires a new body; therefore a new body is found.
The moment there is no desire, there is no need for a new body. Rebirth becomes impossible. But do not make “no rebirth” a desire; otherwise it will never be possible. Understand desire. Recognize the fact of desire; go deep into it and you will find: desire itself is suffering.
Therefore I said the choice of life is in our hands. Rebirth is not in our hands. If we keep choosing within life, keep arousing desire, rebirth will certainly be—there is no way around it. If I keep clutching at pleasure, suffering will come; if I keep seeking respect, insult will be the outcome. Thinking about the second is useless; only the first is in my hands.
That means: if I desire, I will suffer. If I do not desire… Here take care—this is subtle, and here we go wrong. We think, “All right, I will now not desire.” Then this itself becomes our desire: “Let me attain the state where there is no desire.” “Let me be desireless”—this becomes a desire. And we are back inside the circle.
No—only understand, only recognize. Follow each desire to its end. Suffer it, experience it. One day, when this experience sinks deep and all desires become futile, there will not arise a new desire, “How shall I become desireless?” That day there will be no desire at all. Desirelessness is the absence of desires, not a new desire. Liberation is not a new bondage; it is the futility of all bondages. Desire is life; desirelessness is liberation. And this is in our hands. This awakening is in our hands. It can happen whenever one wishes. The irony is: desire gives us so much suffering, yet we do not wish to awaken; so we do not awaken. All pleasures bring suffering; every flower pierces the chest like a thorn and becomes a wound. But we do not look at that; we start searching for new flowers to forget the old ones. One door opens to hell; we start looking for another door to heaven.
We do not pause to consider: yesterday I opened this very door thinking it heaven; it turned out to be hell. The doors which earlier I opened thinking them heaven—they became hell. And now I go to open yet another “heavenly” door! If this can be seen… It will not be seen because I say it, nor because Lao Tzu says it. It can be seen only when the continuous experience of suffering in your own life deepens.
But the mind’s device is to forget suffering and remember happiness. People drink, sit in cinemas, listen to music, watch dance. Ask them “Why?” They say, “To forget—to forget something; to forget suffering.”
Suffering is not to be forgotten; it is to be known rightly. One who knows suffering rightly is freed from happiness. One who knows suffering rightly is freed from desire. One who has no desire has no birth. His being remains—purest. That purest being is bliss.
But do not make a mistake. That bliss has nothing to do with your happiness. In that bliss, suffering is lost—and happiness too is lost. Therefore Buddha did not even like to use the word “bliss,” because it suggests happiness. In any dictionary, however you define bliss, happiness remains in it—otherworldly, infinite, eternal perhaps, but happiness nonetheless. Buddha dropped the word. He said: peace, not bliss. He said: all will become silent, all will be quiet. Call that silent moment what you will. In that silence there is no future, no journey. It is a meeting with the center of being.
This is in our hands. It is in our hands because we have understanding. It is in our hands because we can, if we wish, focus the stream of understanding on suffering right now. That is called meditation: to focus the stream of understanding on suffering. And whoever employs his understanding upon his life’s experiences becomes available to renunciation—and to the state from which there is no return.
“Renounce the desire for happiness” is not Lao Tzu’s meaning. To know happiness as misery—that is Lao Tzu’s meaning. There is a difference. A man renounces only when there is something to be gained; renunciation too is a bargain, and underneath it greed hides.
A man can renounce the world to attain liberation. Tell him there is no liberation, that it does not exist—then will he still renounce? Renunciation becomes impossible. One may give up happiness to gain bliss, but giving up happiness for bliss is not renunciation of happiness, because our craving has only shifted into a new dimension. Not renunciation of happiness; rather, know that happiness is misery. And when one knows that happiness is misery, then one does not have to renounce—renunciation happens.
To “do” renunciation and to have renunciation “happen” are fundamentally different. The doer always acts out of greed, out of the desire for some other happiness; therefore he can never truly renounce. But when it happens, it happens without desire.
Suppose I am holding pebbles and stones in my hand. If someone tells me, “Give them up,” I will surely ask, “Why?” For renunciation has no meaning unless the “why” can be answered. Hence the so‑called religious monks and ascetics keep telling people, “Leave this,” and immediately add, “and this is why.”
Lao Tzu is not saying that. Nor am I. Pebbles and stones are in the hand. Lao Tzu says: know that they are pebbles and stones—recognize them. He does not say, “Renounce,” because the moment you raise renunciation, the question “Why?” arises.
I am taking pebbles to be diamonds; therefore I cling to them. If I see they are stones, I will not have to drop them; my fist will open. I will not need the slightest effort or a new desire to “give them up.” Effortlessly, without strain, the hand opens when the stone is seen as stone; it falls by itself. And if a stone has fallen like this, can I later go about saying, “I have renounced stones”? If they were stones, where is the question of renunciation? And if I still say, “I renounced,” then to me they were still gold, still jewels.
There is little difference between the hedonist and the renouncer in their vision. They stand back to back; their outlook is the same. The hedonist believes they are jewels; hence he clings. The renouncer believes they are jewels; hence he leaves. If they are not jewels, what value is there in leaving them? Yet the renouncer keeps boasting how much he has given up. He keeps accounts as much as the hedonist does. The hedonist tallies how many lakhs he possesses; the renouncer tallies how many lakhs he has left behind. But those lakhs are still lakhs—still of value to both.
In fact the renouncer often values things more than the enjoyer—why? Because the enjoyer is also secretly burdened with guilt: “I am clinging, I am indulging, I am ignorant, I am a sinner.” The renouncer too enjoys the same things—in the name of renunciation. What he has “left” becomes part of his ego. Now there is no guilt; his coins shine brighter. A thief can steal the enjoyer’s coins; nobody can steal the renouncer’s coins. In the enjoyer’s wealth others can share; in the renouncer’s wealth no one can share. His wealth is very safe.
No, Lao Tzu is not telling you to renounce the desire for happiness. Lao Tzu says: know what happiness is. The moment you know, it drops; renunciation happens. Those who do renunciation are ignorant; those through whom renunciation happens are wise.
The wise have never renounced anything. This will be hard for the mind, because we think a man becomes wise by renouncing. It is the other way round: by becoming wise, renunciation happens. The wise never “do” renunciation; renunciation happens to them naturally.
Therefore no scars are left behind. Like a dry leaf falling from the tree, what is useless falls away from the wise. The tree never even registers the fall of a dry leaf; there is no wound, no trace. You can’t tell when it dropped.
But pluck a green leaf and the tree is hurt. If someone knows that he has renounced, know that he has not reached the state of renunciation. If the thought arises, “I have renounced,” understand: he is still within the circle of indulgence.
Lao Tzu says: in happiness see misery; in birth, see death; in honor, see dishonor. Seek the glimpse of the opposite. You will find it; it is there, hidden. Look steadily, attentively. Happiness will turn into misery. The thorn will show behind the flower. Then there is no need to leave; leaving itself is not Lao Tzu’s talk. If the thorn shows in the flower, the hand opens.
So first understand: it is not that renouncing the desire for happiness is freedom from suffering. To know happiness as misery—that is freedom; not only from suffering, but from both happiness and suffering.
Our mind is strange. We are even ready to give up happiness if we can be rid of suffering. But remember: there cannot be release from suffering alone; there is release from both happiness and suffering. Anyone will agree to drop suffering; sometimes we even agree to drop happiness if only suffering would stop—but that too is just an attempt to drop suffering. One who knows that happiness and suffering are two sides of the same coin knows this as well: either both will remain, or both will fall away. If there is freedom, it will be from both; if there is involvement, it will be with both.
Third point: “I only want to know that I may not be reborn.”
But why? Why not rebirth? Because there is suffering, pain, anguish in life—therefore no rebirth? The race for happiness continues. “Let there be no rebirth” becomes a future desire. And desire is always about the future. Any desire—always about tomorrow. Desire cannot exist in the present; the present has no room. The present moment in your hand is too small; your desires are too many to fit into it. Desire seeks space—tomorrow, the day after, the coming years. And this is desire’s extremity: the coming birth! A vast future.
No—“let there be no next birth” is also desire. And as long as desire is there, birth will go on.
This is the dilemma of religion. The deepest dilemma is that whenever we understand religion, we immediately translate it into the language of desire. Religion does not say, “Try that there be no rebirth.” Religion says, “Understand what life is—then rebirth will not happen.” It is only a consequence, a result—not a “fruit.” Fruit is something to be desired; result is not to be desired. Do something else, and the result happens.
Buddha’s rebirth does not happen—not because he spent his life trying to prevent rebirth. If that had been his effort, his rebirth would be certain. A mind running towards the future runs in desire. Properly understood, the future has no existence in the world—except in human desire. The future does not belong to time; it belongs to desire. Therefore whenever one becomes desireless, the future disappears. Not only the future—time itself disappears.
Someone asks Jesus, “What will be the most special thing in your heaven?” Jesus says, “There shall be time no longer.”
The one who asked was expecting: wish‑fulfilling trees? celestial maidens? unending pleasures? fountains of wine? He wanted some special bait for which it would be worth renouncing this world. Jesus’s reply would not have appealed to him; it would have frightened him. Where there is no time, there can be no desire, no wish‑fulfilling tree. Even our heaven is an extension of our desire. Our religion, our liberation, our heaven—they are all appendices of the same world. There is little difference.
A friend asks: “May I not be reborn.” Why? Why not rebirth? Because life contains suffering? If life contains suffering, forget about rebirth; understand the suffering of life. One who understands the suffering of life finds craving gradually weakening. If everywhere there is suffering, then even if I want—what can I want? There is nothing worthy of wanting. Every want leads to suffering.
The day it dawns that all wanting is only wanting of suffering; that whichever path I travel, I arrive at suffering; whatever I think, I fall into suffering; whatever I desire, I end in suffering—the day it becomes clear that all paths lead only to suffering, will I desire that there be no rebirth? That too is a desire; and all desires lead to suffering. Will I desire to find God? That too will be a desire; and all desires lead to suffering.
No—then I will not desire at all. In that very moment, when there is no desire whatsoever, time disappears, the future breaks, the past disintegrates. Only the present moment remains. In that moment there is being, not life.
Understand this a little. In that moment there is being, not life. One who knows being hidden within life has no rebirth—because rebirth belongs to life. Life is the sum total of all desires laid over being. Rebirth is the continuation of this life—it is nothing new. The body is new; your desire is old. And your desire is still so intense that it requires a new body; therefore a new body is found.
The moment there is no desire, there is no need for a new body. Rebirth becomes impossible. But do not make “no rebirth” a desire; otherwise it will never be possible. Understand desire. Recognize the fact of desire; go deep into it and you will find: desire itself is suffering.
Therefore I said the choice of life is in our hands. Rebirth is not in our hands. If we keep choosing within life, keep arousing desire, rebirth will certainly be—there is no way around it. If I keep clutching at pleasure, suffering will come; if I keep seeking respect, insult will be the outcome. Thinking about the second is useless; only the first is in my hands.
That means: if I desire, I will suffer. If I do not desire… Here take care—this is subtle, and here we go wrong. We think, “All right, I will now not desire.” Then this itself becomes our desire: “Let me attain the state where there is no desire.” “Let me be desireless”—this becomes a desire. And we are back inside the circle.
No—only understand, only recognize. Follow each desire to its end. Suffer it, experience it. One day, when this experience sinks deep and all desires become futile, there will not arise a new desire, “How shall I become desireless?” That day there will be no desire at all. Desirelessness is the absence of desires, not a new desire. Liberation is not a new bondage; it is the futility of all bondages. Desire is life; desirelessness is liberation. And this is in our hands. This awakening is in our hands. It can happen whenever one wishes. The irony is: desire gives us so much suffering, yet we do not wish to awaken; so we do not awaken. All pleasures bring suffering; every flower pierces the chest like a thorn and becomes a wound. But we do not look at that; we start searching for new flowers to forget the old ones. One door opens to hell; we start looking for another door to heaven.
We do not pause to consider: yesterday I opened this very door thinking it heaven; it turned out to be hell. The doors which earlier I opened thinking them heaven—they became hell. And now I go to open yet another “heavenly” door! If this can be seen… It will not be seen because I say it, nor because Lao Tzu says it. It can be seen only when the continuous experience of suffering in your own life deepens.
But the mind’s device is to forget suffering and remember happiness. People drink, sit in cinemas, listen to music, watch dance. Ask them “Why?” They say, “To forget—to forget something; to forget suffering.”
Suffering is not to be forgotten; it is to be known rightly. One who knows suffering rightly is freed from happiness. One who knows suffering rightly is freed from desire. One who has no desire has no birth. His being remains—purest. That purest being is bliss.
But do not make a mistake. That bliss has nothing to do with your happiness. In that bliss, suffering is lost—and happiness too is lost. Therefore Buddha did not even like to use the word “bliss,” because it suggests happiness. In any dictionary, however you define bliss, happiness remains in it—otherworldly, infinite, eternal perhaps, but happiness nonetheless. Buddha dropped the word. He said: peace, not bliss. He said: all will become silent, all will be quiet. Call that silent moment what you will. In that silence there is no future, no journey. It is a meeting with the center of being.
This is in our hands. It is in our hands because we have understanding. It is in our hands because we can, if we wish, focus the stream of understanding on suffering right now. That is called meditation: to focus the stream of understanding on suffering. And whoever employs his understanding upon his life’s experiences becomes available to renunciation—and to the state from which there is no return.
Osho's Commentary
This sutra is a little difficult; it has to be understood from two or three directions.
Lao Tzu does not rely on a personal soul; he is exactly like Buddha. Ironically, for this very reason Buddha’s feet could not take root in India, but Lao Tzu’s did in China. Buddha spoke the deepest things any man has ever spoken, but so deep they did not reach us on the shore; and if they did, they were distorted. The meanings we drew were our meanings.
Buddha said: stop even the talk of soul; for even the notion “I am a soul” separates me from existence.
Difficult indeed. If there is no soul, it seems everything is lost. People would ask Buddha: “If there is no soul, then why morality? Why samadhi? Why sadhana? Why all this discipline?” If there is a soul, we understand: to attain it. That is the language of our greed. A man renouncing to gain the soul—we understand. People asked: “If there is no soul, why renunciation? If there is no soul, whose liberation? And if one is liberated and there is no soul, what remains?”
People’s questions are natural; they can understand nothing but the language of greed.
Buddha said: your very being is your suffering; as long as you are, you will suffer.
This is very hard. “Drop desire” one might accept—at least I will remain; I will be the one who drops. “I will drop all”—but at least I will remain. Buddha says: if you remain, everything remains—for in your being the whole world is contained. You are only a sum of desires.
Have you ever thought: if you put aside all your desires one by one, will you not be like an onion whose skins are peeled away? If you set aside all your desires, will you remain? One thing is certain: whatever you now take yourself to be will not remain. And what remains, you have no idea of. From your side, it looks like zero; you are lost.
Therefore in India too Buddha’s depth could not take root. When he denied even the soul—“you are not”; to know this is knowledge—it became too difficult. In China, because of Lao Tzu, when Buddha’s teaching arrived later, China could grasp it. Lao Tzu had sown the seeds: “We are afraid and greedy only because we have taken the ego to be our being. This ‘I am’ inside is the cause of our suffering, greed, and fear.”
In truth there is no “I”; there is all. In that “all,” I also am, but not as an “I”—as a wave in the ocean. The wave is in the ocean; not separate, not different. Yet it appears different in form. Knowing that a wave is ocean, still we talk of the wave separately. I am a wave. But if a wave believes “I am separate,” the journey of pain begins. If a wave believes “I am separate,” then her birth becomes important; her death becomes important. And who, besides the wave, can save her from the fear of death?
She looks around: waves are falling, vanishing, ending. Graves are being dug all around. She knows: my grave is near; I too am about to end. Even when the wave is charged with the frenzy to touch the sky, she knows her feet are slipping, the ground is vanishing, soon my grave will be ready. The wave sees graves being made everywhere. The fear of the wave—of death—why is it? Not because the wave will end, but because the wave has known herself as separate from the ocean. If the wave knows herself as one with the ocean, where is ending then? She was when she was not a wave; she will be when she is no more a wave. Then this play in between is just play. There is no need to take it seriously. If the wave knows she is ocean, there is no fear.
So Lao Tzu says: “What does it mean that honor and dishonor both lie within oneself? We are afraid because we have taken the ego to be our being.”
Better to say it as in English: “We have fears because we have a self.” When we do not regard the self as the self—what have we to fear? “I am”—this is the foundation of fear.
Why? Because if I am, then the possibility that I might not be comes into being. Understand this a little: if I am, I can also not be. Then fear will seize me.
Buddha says: know that you are not; then there is no fear in this world. For the only fear is of ending; and all other fears arise from it, are its offshoots and branches. Know that you are not—then what fear?
Here keep in mind: Should we just accept “I am not”? Mere acceptance will do nothing. Who will accept? The one who accepts will remain. If I accept “I am not,” still I am. Who accepts? This too is my belief.
Therefore Buddha said: this is not to be believed; it is to be inquired into. Seek whether in truth you are. Seek: where are you? In the body? Then search in the body. In thought? then search in thought. In feeling? then in feeling. Search within tirelessly: where are you? Buddha says: searching and searching, you will find—you are lost; you are not.
This not‑being is not belief, not philosophy, not doctrine; it is deep realization. The Indian scholar erred with Buddha because he thought “no soul” was Buddha’s doctrine; so he said, “We can prove the soul exists.” For Buddha it was not doctrine, it was realization. If it is a doctrine, it is false.
Nagarjuna, Buddha’s disciple, wrote the Mulamadhyamika Karika—unique, perhaps unmatched on earth. Nagarjuna showed that nothing exists—not I, not you, not the world—nothing. Naturally he ran into difficulty, easy to refute: “If nothing exists, for whom is this book written? If you don’t exist, who writes, who debates? If no listener exists, whom do you address?”
Nagarjuna’s difficulty! What he says is a deep experience. He is really saying: as individuals, nothing exists. As individuals, nothing exists—only the ocean is. But the moment we say “the ocean is,” we limit it. So Nagarjuna says: we will only say what is not; we will leave unsaid what is. Know the not‑not‑not; when the whole journey of negation is complete, that which remains—the remaining—that is; nothing else.
Lao Tzu asks: what is our fear? Why is blame unpleasant and praise pleasant? Praise means someone says you are a big wave; blame means someone says a petty wave. Lao Tzu says: you are not the wave at all. As long as you take yourself as wave, praise will please; blame will hurt. There will be friends to protect your wave; enemies who threaten it.
By mistake, in the last moments of his life, Buddha was given poison. A poor man had invited him. In Bihar people collect mushrooms in the rains; sometimes they are toxic. They were toxic; Buddha ate them. The poison was bitter. He returned; the poison spread in the blood. Buddha died of food poisoning. Friends said: “You could have said it was bitter!” Buddha said: “It was bitter—but who would have said it?” People said: “Do not talk like this. It is life and death!” Buddha said: “If I were, I could also die. I am not—so where is death?”
If you are, you will die. But should we just believe this? Millions of Buddhists keep believing “there is no self.” It makes no difference. It does not confer Buddhahood. Believing “there is not” is as much belief as believing “there is.” Belief has no value.
Know. Enter within, search: am I? As the search deepens: at the surface it seems “I am body.” Some thinkers persuade you, “Do not take yourself as body; know yourself as soul.” They take you one step. Others say: “The soul cannot be found; body is not all; I am mind”—and stop there. Buddha takes the last step. Lao Tzu too. These are the most courageous of men.
Ordinarily a man says “I am body.” We call him atheist. The one who says “I am not body, I am soul”—we call him theist. Buddha says: whoever says “I am” knows nothing—whether body or soul. One who knows: “I am not.”
And yet being remains. When I say “I am not,” still there is being—but that being has no connection with “I.” When I say “the wave is not,” still there is wave—but it has no insistence on being wave; it is ocean. If a wave goes searching within—“Am I?”—she will soon find the wave is lost; the ocean is found. Whenever anyone goes within, he quickly finds the person is lost and the divine found.
Lao Tzu does not even call it “God,” because that name in human language is too polluted. We have mouthed it from such uncomprehending lips, have attached so many foolishnesses to it, and have made such mischief in its name that Lao Tzu remains silent; he does not use the word. He says only this: know this much—when the “I” is not, then praise cannot touch you—for whose praise? Blame cannot touch you—for whose blame? Even life cannot touch you—for whose life? You will become one with the untouched, untouchable ocean.
“When we do not take the ego as our soul, what fear remains?” To take ego, identity, “I‑ness,” separateness as oneself—that itself is fear.
“Therefore one who gives the world as much respect as himself…”
When will that be? Only when there is no ego at all. If I am, I cannot give you as much respect as I give myself. Why?
Nietzsche said—rightly, though in strange words: if there is a God anywhere, at best he can be number two after me. How can I put anyone above myself?
This is very revealing. Even if you want to, you cannot. If you place anyone above yourself, it is still you who place him. And the one who places remains above. Even if I lay my head at someone’s feet and say, “I surrender everything,” the surrender is mine; I am the owner of the surrender. Tomorrow I can take it back. Who can prevent me? So even when I place my head at someone’s feet, it is still my decision. Ultimately I am the decider. Tomorrow if I lift my head, there is no way to stop me. Even in surrender the resolve is mine. So I cannot place anyone above myself—even at someone’s feet. The impossibility is inner.
But does this mean surrender has never happened in this world?
It has—only when I see that I am not. As long as I am, surrender too is my resolve.
Buddha’s cousin Ananda took initiation from Buddha. He said, “After initiation I will no longer remain; your command will be final for me. But as yet I am ignorant, and your elder cousin. Before initiation, as elder, let me take a few promises from you. Keep them.” He took three promises. A lovely incident. Ananda was among the most extraordinary. Buddha said, “What hurry? Later too, if you ask, I will agree.” Ananda replied, “Later where will I be? Who will ask? Better decide now. Right now, I am.”
Buddha gave the promises; he kept them lifelong. For forty years Ananda remained like a shadow behind Buddha—the closest of all. After Buddha’s death, the sangha convened to compile his sayings. Ananda was the most authentic witness. He slept in Buddha’s room, was with him twenty‑four hours. Yet the monks refused him entry; they said Ananda was not yet enlightened. He pleaded at the door; they shut it. Why? Because of that faint line of ego—the three promises he had extracted. Ananda accepted the reason: “I am not worthy to enter. When I become worthy, I will knock.”
He sat in meditation for twenty‑four hours. The council proceeded inside. After twenty‑four hours he knocked. They opened the door. “Ananda, you are completely changed! Your face’s aura, the sound of your steps, the way you walk—this is a different man!” Ananda said, “In this meditation it became clear: what elder, what younger! What vow, what assurance! My surrender too was conditional—there was a condition. Today I have asked forgiveness. I have dropped the condition. I have no insistence now. If you let me in, good; if you do not, good. I will sit outside.” The sangha said, “Now nothing prevents you from coming in. It was your insistence—‘Let me in, I alone am authentic’—for which we had to close the door. Now you can come; inside and outside are the same.”
If surrender has a condition, if it is a “doing,” the master remains the “I.” Through this “I,” surrender cannot be. When this is not, what happens is surrender.
Lao Tzu says: this “I” is the root of all our misery.
But how to erase it? Many try to erase it; they fail; it becomes stronger. What does not exist cannot be erased. Get this clear: if it exists, it can be erased; what does not exist cannot be erased. One who tries to erase it falls into delusion. It can be known, searched for—where is it?
Ramana Maharshi’s method was to ask: “Who am I?” If we are to make Lao Tzu’s method, it would be: “Where am I?” “Who” is meaningless—assumes I am. Lao Tzu would ask within: “Where am I?” Where? Where am I? “Who am I” already presumes I am; now only “who” remains.
Lao Tzu says: first search whether you are. Then search—where? Enter within inch by inch and at each step ask, “Where am I?”
And the wonder is: the “I” is not found anywhere. When a man has searched everything within—body, mind, life‑energy, soul—and nowhere finds that “I am,” still he finds something is. Something is—an unknown X. That is the ocean. If you find “I am this,” that is a wave, however deep.
One who says “I am body”—atheist. “I am mind”—atheist. “I am soul”—atheist, by Lao Tzu and Buddha’s reckoning. One more step: “I am not.” Let everything be cut away—neti, neti. When nothing remains, that which remains—remains. That unknown has no name. Entering that unknown, fear is no more; nor any temptation.
“Therefore one who gives the world as much respect as himself…”
When? Only when the self has entirely disappeared. As long as the self is, I will inevitably remain supreme. However valuable another may be—even if I say, “You are far above me; I am the dust of your feet”—still I remain the one who says it. My own statement cannot annul my supremacy. The very statement that I am the dust of your feet cannot cancel my vantage. The “I” is intrinsically supreme; declarations change nothing. The “I’s” assertion is necessarily the supreme assertion.
So when can it happen that I respect the world as much as myself? On the very day my “I” is not. On that day the distance between me and the world is gone. On that day either I expand and become manifest in all, or all expand and become manifest in me. On that day there is no wall between I and thou. On that day, everyone’s being is my being. On that day equal honor for all is possible. On that day love for neighbor as for oneself, as Jesus said, is possible—but only when the self is no more.
“Such a person can be entrusted with the governance of the world.”
So difficult! Lao Tzu’s arrangement is arduous. Only such a person is safe with power. But such a person does not want power. And those who want power are precisely the ones for whom it is dangerous.
A famous saying of Bacon’s is: “Power corrupts.” It is incomplete. Power corrupts because only the corrupt seek power. Power does not corrupt; the corrupted seek power. If there is corruption within you, it cannot manifest without power; when power comes, corruption appears.
Hence people exclaim in surprise: “How strange—someone who was such a great servant became so perverse on attaining office! Power spoils everyone.” Not so. He was “servant” only while weak; servility was not an inner virtue but a helplessness. With power, the man’s truth shows. To see someone’s true face, give him power. Power does not corrupt; it frees the corrupt to manifest.
Lao Tzu says: only one in whom the “I” has dissolved is fit to be handed power; because when “I” and power join, depravity results. If within the “I” is lost, power cannot produce depravity; for the only one who can be depraved is the “I.”
“And one who loves the world as himself can be entrusted with the world’s safety.”
And here lies the difficulty: such a person does not desire power, and yet only such a person can be entrusted with it. What is Lao Tzu saying? He says: to one who desires power, power must not be given. To one who desires honor, honor is dangerous. To grant prestige to one who craves it is to water his disease. Give prestige to one who does not desire it; give power to one in whom the ego that seizes and drinks power is no more. Only then…
In the context of this sutra, keep two or three things in mind.
In the last twenty‑five centuries since Lao Tzu, there have been hundreds of revolutions throughout the world—and all of them have failed. Every revolution claims that power will now go into the right hands. But whatever hands it goes into, they prove wrong. Clearly the issue is not with revolution. Because all revolutions have failed. None has succeeded—and none will. For no revolution fulfills Lao Tzu’s criterion: power always goes to those who want it.
Hence some, wearied—like Kropotkin or Bakunin—say: no power at all; anarchy. For all power turns out costly. And to topple every power again and again, one has to make revolution again and again. The powers we build through revolution today, we must overthrow tomorrow with another revolution. For twenty‑five centuries the people have done only this: raising the “right” men to thrones; once raised, the truth is revealed—they were wrong; then bringing them down. The circle continues.
Lao Tzu says: this circle will not be broken by revolutions but by individuals. The day power—of any direction, any dimension—can be placed in the hands of such a person, that day power will cease to be dangerous and costly.
Perhaps the power of the whole cosmos in God’s hands is not costly and dangerous for this very reason: He is as if He is not. Do we find God’s presence anywhere? His non‑presence is His presence; by being absent He is present. How many times have people shouted: “If you exist, show yourself once!” How many challenges have been hurled! No challenge reaches Him; for there is no ego, no center there to hear. God remains non‑present, absent. This vastness runs from His hand only because there is no “handler” there—no ego.
And Lao Tzu imagines: humankind will attain that order it has longed for only on the day we can place power in the hands of such a person.
He says this for another purpose too: if within there is no ego, sit such a person even on the greatest throne—nothing changes. Whether he lies in dust or sits on a throne, within there is no difference. If you keep this in mind, then watch within: notice when the difference arises. Recognize it gradually with awareness.
One man abuses you and another garlands you. Inside, the temperature leaps with such a swing—beyond measure. Watch it. And the day the garland and the bestowed abuses feel the same…
Let me tell you a secret sutra from Lao Tzu’s tradition—a meditation not recorded in the books but passed ear to ear. It is his method of meditation. Imagine a scale, a balance. Its beam is in your head; its pointer stands exactly between your two eyes, where the “third eye” is imagined; its two pans hang near your chest. Lao Tzu says: keep watch, twenty‑four hours, that the two pans remain level and the pointer remains straight.
If you master this inner scale, everything is mastered.
But you will be in difficulty. Try it and you will see. With the slightest breath one pan will sink and the other rise. You are sitting alone; a man passes by the door. Just seeing him—he has done nothing—one pan goes down, the other up.
Lao Tzu says: keep the inner consciousness in equilibrium. Let both opposites be the same, and the pointer remain in the middle.
Lao Tzu’s disciple Lieh Tzu was dying—on his deathbed. Many had gathered for a last farewell. He was among Lao Tzu’s rarest—together with Chuang Tzu. People asked questions; Lieh Tzu answered. But in between he would close his eyes, then smile, and answer again. Someone said, “Time is short; death seems near. Do not close your eyes in between. Answer all our questions.” Lieh Tzu said, “Your questions are fine; you have asked them all your life and I have answered all my life, yet you have heard nothing. At death, let me at least attend to my balance.”
So in between he would close his eyes and look at his scale: are the pans even? He would smile: “Perfect.” Then he would answer. Someone asked, “At this time, your scale has long been mastered; where is the occasion to check? No one is abusing you; no one honoring you. Death is near and we are seekers.” Lieh Tzu said, “There they are—your faces I know. For fifty, sixty years deaf people have been listening; they ask again; I answer again. I look at my balance—to see if there is any tremor at the thought, ‘Should I bother explaining again to these uncomprehending ones?’ The balance does not move; and I laugh. Then I answer. But looking at you, it occurs to me—let me check the scale once more: does it move or not?”
If one keeps mastering this inner balance through life’s pleasures and pains, honor and dishonor, darkness and light—one day one attains the supreme equilibrium where there is not life but being; not wave but ocean; not “I,” but all.
That is all for today. Sit for five minutes; the kirtan sannyasins will sing—join with them.