Tao Upanishad #34

This sutra is very rare. Rare because it runs counter to our usual notion of a saint. What we think about a saint is not what Lao Tzu thinks.

Lao Tzu’s saint is a more whole, a more integrated being. Our saint is incomplete. The one we call a saint, ordinarily it would be more appropriate to call him a “good man.” The wicked and the virtuous both lie within the grasp of our understanding. Whoever does evil is wicked; whoever does good is virtuous. In the virtuous we add up whatever is auspicious; and in the wicked we collect whatever is inauspicious.

But Lao Tzu’s saint is a whole person, integrated. He is not against the wicked, nor is he merely virtuous. He is both, and beyond both. He is both at once—hence he is capable of going beyond both.

To understand this sutra, let us first understand two or three things. Then we shall enter the original soul of the sutra.

One important point Lao Tzu makes: “In ancient times the saints established and skilled in Tao, by a subtle and supremely sensitive insight, entered the ultimate mystery of life; they were so deep that they were beyond human understanding.”

First, in science new truths are constantly being revealed. Hence in the world of science there are original thinkers who make new discoveries. In the world of religion, original thinking has no meaning. In the realm of religion there is no discovery of new truth. In the realm of religion truth is neither new nor old. It is eternal. It is the same truth being revealed again and again. For the individual it is new, because he knows it for the first time; but the truth itself is not new. Truth is ever.

That is why scientific truths are new today and become old tomorrow. Whatever is new is bound to become old. Religious truths are neither new nor do they become old. Because that which is not new has no way of becoming old. Religion is a personal discovery of that truth which always is. Therefore whether it is Krishna, Christ, Mahavira, or Lao Tzu, all of them speak of those seers who had attained this truth before.

This requires a little reflection. Whenever a scientist speaks of a truth he will say that no one has discovered it before. If someone had already found it, his discovery would be meaningless. If Newton has to prove something, he will insist that no one has found it prior to him. In science this is essential. If someone has discovered it already, there is no point in Newton’s being. Hence in science every thinker must prove that he is new, original.

Religion is exactly the opposite. Here if any thinker tries to prove that he is new, it means he is wrong. Because the truths of religion are not stale, not borrowed, not dead, not false. Whenever someone knows them they are fresh and new. But this does not mean that before him they were unknown. Thousands have known them before. The truth is the same.

Therefore, a scientific truth is true today and will be untrue tomorrow—hence it can be new. Understand it this way: only the untrue can be new; Truth cannot be new. And you can discover untruth in a way different from others; because untruth can be personal—everyone may have his own untruth. But everyone cannot have his own truth. Truth is one. And whenever someone opens his heart, he becomes available to that truth.

In science it seems that man opens the door to truth; in religion one opens one’s heart to truth. And in the ultimate depth of the heart there is only one. Hence Krishna says that the seers before him have said the same. Mahavira says that the Tirthankaras before him have known the same. Christ says that the prophets before him have said the same. Mohammed also says the same. None among them claims that what he is saying is new.

Lao Tzu also says that in ancient times the saints established in Tao penetrated the supreme mystery with a most sensitive insight. But Lao Tzu does not mention any of their names. This too is worth reflecting on.

Lao Tzu holds that those who have entered deepest into truth, history has been unable to remember them. Because history can remember only those who were comprehensible to the people of their time. There have been many in this world who knew the ultimate mystery. But that mystery was so profound that when they spoke it and lived it, people could not understand. Therefore the names of many of those seers of the ultimate have been forgotten. Of many we have the words but the names are lost. Of many we have the names but the words are lost. And of many both name and word have disappeared.

Lao Tzu is speaking of those saints of whom history makes no mention—because they were so deep that they were beyond human understanding.

Human understanding draws a very small circle. And what can enter within human understanding is very petty. The more vast, the more great something is, the more difficult it becomes for human understanding. Many times it happens the way the eyes close before too much light. Before the sun the eyelids flicker and shut. Just so, many times before those who have experienced the ultimate truth, our understanding blinks and closes; we cannot understand anything. Why is this so?

Here too it is necessary to understand the difference between science and religion. To understand science, your understanding need not be enlarged; only more information has to be added to your understanding. If I know counting up to ten, to know up to twenty my understanding need not be changed; I must simply become familiar with the numbers up to twenty. My understanding remains the same; I will know counting to twenty. I can know up to a thousand. Only addition keeps happening. My understanding remains the same; my collection keeps increasing.

Therefore psychologists say that generally a child’s understanding does not grow after the age of eighteen. At eighteen understanding stops, but the collection keeps growing. This does not mean there is no difference between an eighteen-year-old and an eighty-year-old. There is a difference. But the difference is not of intelligence, it is of accumulation. The old man has a larger collection, more information. The eighteen-year-old has less information. But scientists say, there is no difference in understanding. Understanding stops at eighteen. Eighteen is only the final figure; for most, understanding stops even earlier.

In the last world war, in America, when they attempted to calculate the intelligence score of the soldiers being recruited, they were astonished. After testing the IQs of hundreds of thousands, the average mental age came to thirteen and a half—mind’s age. Thirteen and a half was the average. Man’s understanding stops around thirteen and a half; afterward the collection keeps increasing. In terms of understanding there is no difference between a person of thirteen and a half and an eighty-year-old. In terms of accumulation there is a great difference.

In science we only keep enlarging a person’s collection. Hence all our education depends not on understanding but on accumulation. Our education does not increase intelligence; it only increases memory. Therefore all our examinations test memory, not intelligence.

But religion is entirely different. Religion is not understood through an increased collection; your understanding must grow. Your understanding must mature. The more mature your understanding, the easier it becomes to understand religion.

I said our average mental age stops at thirteen and a half. There is a sweet story about Lao Tzu: that he was born old. This is very symbolic; it means Lao Tzu had, from childhood, the kind of understanding an old man of a hundred might have—if his understanding continued to grow and grow, not his accumulation. Accumulation and understanding—this is the difference between knowledge and wisdom. Knowledge can grow without increasing intelligence; but wisdom cannot grow without transforming intelligence. And religion speaks of such a realm that until our very mind is transformed, it will remain beyond our understanding.

Lao Tzu says those subtle-seeing, sensitive saints entered the ultimate mystery; but they were so deep that they were beyond human understanding.

Even today religion is beyond human understanding. And perhaps religion will always remain beyond human understanding—because man’s understanding is fit to grasp objects, but not fit to grasp experiences. Our understanding is capable of understanding the other; it is still incapable of understanding oneself. The other is very easy to understand; oneself is very difficult. Because we do not have the kind of understanding needed to know oneself.

Understand it this way: if my eyes went faulty and I could see only at a distance and not near, it would mean the eyes are fixed at distance. To see near I would need glasses; to see far I would not. Near is difficult; far is easy. Almost in the same way, man’s understanding has become fixed at distance. To see the other is easy, to understand the other is easy. The farther something is from oneself, the more we become clever. The nearer it comes, the more we become foolish. And when the question is oneself, then we become utterly stupid.

Hence a very amusing thing happens: all of us are very skillful at giving advice to others; in giving advice to ourselves we are not as skillful. If you watch someone while he is advising another, he will appear very wise. In the very same situation, whatever he himself does will be utterly foolish. What is the matter? The other is at a distance. At a distance our understanding comes into focus. Near, our understanding becomes foggy, begins to wobble. The nearer we come, the more the eyes tremble; and when we are at the very center—utter darkness.

A different kind of understanding is needed—one that knows how to be focused on oneself. Religion means: the capacity to be centered in oneself. A deep centering, standing within oneself. And the capacity to see oneself as one sees the other. The capacity to see oneself with such detachment as one sees the other. The capacity to see oneself from a distance, as one advises the other. To go beyond oneself, to be other than oneself, to be unattached, untouched—like a witness—and see oneself: this capacity leads into the profound mystery of religion.

We are all clever—as long as it is a matter of the futile, our cleverness is at its peak. The more futile the subject, the more clever we are. The more essential the matter, the more we lose our intelligence. With garbage we are jewelers; with a diamond we go blind.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: Many did enter; but they were beyond the understanding of man. Why were they beyond? He also gives some reasons. And because they were beyond human understanding, great misunderstandings arose about them. When Lao Tzu indicates their qualities, we too shall see how deep our own misunderstandings are.

“And since they were beyond human knowledge, of them one can only attempt to say in this way.”

They cannot be described precisely. About them one cannot speak exactly. Because the language we live in belongs to our present understanding. And for that understanding in which we have never lived, there is no language. If we must express the futile, we have an adept language.

Have you ever noticed? If you have to be angry and hurl abuses, you become so eloquent beyond measure. But if you have to love and pray, you become instantly dumb. We have a language for anger; we have none for love. Because language for love can arise only when there is understanding of the near. The language of anger is easy, because anger is for the far, for the stranger, for the other. So we can abuse. And the expression our abuse attains, our love never attains.

Lovers often discover they have nothing to say. What to say? How to say? But the same lovers, when filled with anger and hatred, never find themselves at a loss for words. There will be plenty to say.

We have no language to express the near.

Therefore Lao Tzu says, “Of them one can only attempt to say thus.”

Exactly cannot be said—only an attempt can be made. One can grope in the dark and make a few indications. But remember: no indication is to be held too tightly. The inner world is so subtle, so delicate, so fragile, that if you close your fist on it, its life will slip away. To catch a mystery, the hand must remain open. No attempt should be made to grasp it hard.

“They are utterly cautious and alert, like someone crossing a stream in winter.”

Lao Tzu will give a very misty picture—deliberately misty—so that our understanding may ascend into that mystery, into that twilight. He does not give tight words; he makes gestures.

Lao Tzu says: as when it is winter, a stream is icy, you put your foot in and the blood freezes—if someone crosses such a stream, as alert as he would be, so are they alert. In crossing this life, their alertness is like that of one crossing a wintry, icy stream.

Consider a little. If you have to cross an icy stream, every hair on your body will be awake. Lest you slip into the water! As you raise each step, your whole attention will be on that step. The past will be forgotten; the future will be forgotten. Each step will become important only in the present.

Or think of walking over a trench, a ravine—on a very narrow path; a slight misstep and you will fall into a bottomless gorge and lose your life. There, will memories of the past remain? Will thoughts of what has been occur to you there? Will dreams seize your mind? Or will plans for the future possess you? Impossible. For if the mind lapses even a little from the present, below is the bottomless abyss. No—there you will walk utterly alert, awake—perhaps for the first time in life. Each step will be filled with your consciousness, will be mindful.

Therefore in Japan the Zen monks, deeply influenced by Lao Tzu, discovered many devices for teaching awareness. Among them is the art of the sword. One could never have imagined what relation there might be between meditation and swordsmanship. But this sutra of Lao Tzu is the causal root.

The Japanese mystics discovered that if you make a man sit and tell him to be quiet, he does not become quiet. In fact, in ordinary restless states he appears more quiet than when he sits down to meditate; in meditation he becomes more restless. Those who have ever attempted to sit in meditation all know this: the mind becomes more turbulent, runs more, gets busier. Things never ordinarily thought of begin to appear. Thoughts that never arose roll over the mind. Somehow it seems that all the inner madness begins to surface.

Try sitting quietly for half an hour. That half-hour will become an hour of madness. Outsiders may think you are meditating; you will know well that you have gone absolutely mad. What is the reason?

Lao Tzu says: that awareness is only experienced when life is a danger—moment to moment a danger. Life is indeed dangerous every moment; only we have no idea of it, hence we move as if asleep. As if a man has a bandage tied over his eyes and does not know he is walking along the edge of a precipice and a single misstep will end his life. With eyes bandaged he will continue lost in his thoughts even while walking along the brink. Remove the bandage—thoughts will stop. The danger will become visible.

So the Zen monks say: draw the sword. And in wielding the sword, come to that point where only the sword remains, and danger is so intense that your mind has no possibility of running forward or backward. It stops this very moment. Therefore symbols of swords are carved before Zen temples. And the halls where the sword is taught are called meditation halls.

Lao Tzu says: those men, those saints became alert—this is the first characteristic.

If someone asked us who is a saint, we would say: he does not drink, he does not eat meat, he does not dine at night, he lives in a hut, he is naked. We will make some such definition which has nothing to do with saintliness. Lao Tzu says: awareness. And in awareness everything we say is included. But in what we say, awareness is not included.

A man can be unconscious and be a meat-eater; he can be unconscious and be a vegetarian. A child born in a meat-eating household will eat meat. A child born in a vegetarian household will eat vegetables. Both are unconscious. Neither the vegetarian is aware nor the meat-eater. If, as children, we had exchanged their homes, the meat-eater would have become a vegetarian and the vegetarian would have become a meat-eater. No obstacle would have come—not the slightest. With as much ease as one drinks milk, another in a different milieu drinks blood. In drinking milk there can be the same unconsciousness as in drinking blood.

The one who drinks milk may think he drinks with great awareness—he is mistaken. The meat-eater may think he eats meat with awareness—he is mistaken. The arrangement of our life is utterly unconscious. In that unconsciousness we can do anything. In that unconsciousness we can be trained and conditioned to do anything. Put meat before a non-meat-eater and he will vomit—not because he possesses a great soul, but because his past conditioning is opposed to meat-eating. That’s all. He has no practice in it. His stupor is the same; the conditioning is different. There are people who consider milk also as non-vegetarian. Put milk in front of them and they will vomit. You will never vomit at the sight of milk—never; milk is pure food. But there are sects who believe milk is also part of blood. And it is. That is why milk increases the blood so much. In blood there are two kinds of corpuscles: white and red. The white ones gather and become milk. Hence milk is a complete food; because your body receives the whole blood. One who understands this and has been trained in it will recoil even at the sight of milk. There are people who consider eggs vegetarian—because they say that until life manifests, it is only like a vegetable. They will have no problem with eggs. None of this depends on your awareness. It depends on your milieu and conditioning—on what you have been taught.

Hence a man like Lao Tzu will not emphasize your outer arrangements—what you eat, what you drink, when you sleep, when you rise. His emphasis is on something deeper: whatever you do, do you move through life the way a person moves through an icy stream in winter—alertly? Whatever you do, do you do it with awareness?

And here is the strange thing: if a person becomes aware even within his conditioning, his life is transformed. Then what you eat is not important. What is important is whether you are aware while eating. And one who is aware will naturally drop the futile. In awareness the false will fall of its own accord. In awareness, only the right will remain; the wrong cannot remain. The very definition of right and wrong is this: that which remains even when you are aware is right; that which begins to crumble the moment you become aware is wrong. Whatever I can do in awareness is virtue; whatever demands I be unconscious in order to do it, that is sin. Unconsciousness is sin; awareness is virtue.

Therefore in the first definition of saintliness Lao Tzu says: they are utterly cautious and alert, like one crossing a stream in winter.

Here the emphasis is on a quality, not on conduct. The emphasis is on inner awakening, not on outer behavior. Even if you imagine crossing an icy stream—you will do it in your own way. One may run; another may go slowly. Each will have his way. One may sing while crossing; another may be silent. But inwardly there will be one quality—awareness. How one crosses is secondary. That one crosses with awareness—that is enough.

In Lao Tzu’s time there was a very famous man. He was not a monk; he worked as the butcher in the emperor’s kitchen, slaughtering animals. For thirty years he had cut animals for the imperial dining hall. It was a great kitchen; many animals were killed daily. Lao Tzu often told his disciples: if ever you want to see a truly aware man, go and look at that butcher. People were shocked: a butcher and aware!

Obeying Lao Tzu, someone once went to that butcher. He watched him slaughter. One thing was certain—the man’s skill was incomparable. The visitor asked: you kill so many animals; the knife you use—how long before it goes dull?

The butcher said: my father used this very knife; his father too; I also am using it. But we cut with such awareness that its edge does not die; it becomes new every day. We do not cut in unconsciousness so that it strikes bone. We cut with such awareness that wherever two bones meet, the blade passes in between. And those two bones themselves serve to keep the edge keen.

The man asked the butcher: don’t you ever feel troubled at killing them?

The butcher said: only that which can be cut is cut. That which cannot be cut has no way of being cut. What I cut is already dead. And the living—there is no way to cut the living with any weapon.

He said exactly what Krishna said in the Gita. But Krishna’s words can enter our understanding; the words of a butcher will be difficult for us to understand.

The man returned and said: he talks very wise—but his conduct does not seem like a wise man’s. Who knows—perhaps he only talks. Lao Tzu said: go, take a sword, and cut off the butcher’s hand. The man went and raised the sword. The butcher stretched out his hand and said: strike exactly on the joint, otherwise you will spoil the blade. You have no sense—you are new at this. On the joint exactly!

The man did not have the courage. He came back. But understand: this man is not only aware while cutting animals; he is equally aware when he himself is to be cut.

Lao Tzu’s emphasis is on awareness, not on conduct. Awareness is an inner quality—a happening within—consciousness, awakening. Conduct is an outer arrangement. Conducts can be different. The conduct of two saints can be different—indeed, it will be. Only two wooden-heads can have the same conduct. The conduct of two saints will differ. But the awareness of a thousand saints will not differ; it will be one. And if a thousand fools assemble, their awareness will not be one; their conduct can be the same.

Understand it this way. A military parade stands in formation. Their conduct will be exactly the same. “Left turn!”—a hundred thousand will turn left. “Right turn!”—a hundred thousand will turn right. Their conduct can be organized from the outside, uniformed. And the strange thing is: in training a soldier, we have to make his conduct so uniform that his individuality is utterly erased. And in the very measure that conduct becomes uniform, in that very measure intelligence becomes feeble. It must.

A soldier has no need of intelligence. If he had, wars could not happen in the world. Hence no one wants the soldier to be intelligent. The more mindless he is, the more efficient, the more obedient, the more uniform in behavior he will be.

On one side is a line of soldiers—hundreds of thousands—who will behave like one person. Seat two saints together; their behavior will not be the same. Sit Buddha and Mahavira together; their behavior will not be the same even a little. But inwardly their awareness will be exactly the same.

Saints are determined by awareness; ordinary people are determined by conduct.

Because all of us are determined by conduct, we also judge saints by conduct. Hence it becomes difficult to understand. The entire controversy in the world about saints arises for this single reason. Those who accepted Mahavira as a saint—how can they accept Buddha as a saint? Their conduct differs. Those who accepted Buddha—how can they accept Krishna? Their conduct differs. Those who accepted Krishna—how will Christ appear as a saint to them? His conduct differs. How will you place Mahavira and Mohammed together? There is no way. And because we can see only conduct, we are in trouble.

Moreover, each of us carries fixed notions about conduct. If I was born in a Jain household, Mahavira’s conduct will weigh heavily on my mind. Then I will wander the whole world carrying that pattern of conduct. Jesus will not fit into it, so I will think Jesus is not enlightened. Jains do not accept that Buddha attained the supreme knowledge. For if he had, his conduct should have become like Mahavira’s.

A very thoughtful Jain wrote a book. With great goodwill he tried to prove that Mahavira and Buddha give the same message to the world. But he titled the book: “Bhagwan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha.” I asked him: why such a difference? He said: everything else is fine—but Buddha did not reach that state. At best a mahatma; we cannot place him alongside Mahavira as Bhagwan. I asked: did you choose this knowingly? He said: no—since you asked it struck me; it must have happened unconsciously. It was not clear in my mind.

There is a mold then. Buddha wears clothes; Mahavira is naked. The devotee of the naked Mahavira will think: Buddha has not yet dropped his attachment to clothes—naturally. And when attachment to clothes has not gone, what else could have gone? So we may accept he is a good man, a mahatma, a saint—but we cannot place him with Mahavira.

How will you place Christ with Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna?

The devotee of Christ has the same difficulty. His conduct is clear to him. He knows that a man of Christ’s stature sacrifices himself for all. For whom did Mahavira sacrifice himself? For no one. So however good Mahavira may be, he is selfish. His meditation is for himself; his liberation is for himself. Everything is for himself. Christ is different. He offered his life for all; he hung himself on the cross so that all might be blissful. Therefore to one who follows Jesus, Mahavira and Buddha appear far behind. Whom did they serve? They served no one. If they served, it was only themselves. They did everything for their own sake. This is deep selfishness. And one who is not yet free of his own self-interest—how will he be free of ego? Hence the follower of Jesus knows: only he who has dropped his own self-interest and sacrificed for the interests of all can be free of ego.

But if you ask a devotee of Mahavira, he will say: the cross comes as the fruit of karma. Surely some sin must have been committed in a past life. If even a thorn were to prick Mahavira’s foot—let alone a cross!—Jains believe that if Mahavira is walking and there is a thorn lying point-up, it instantly turns point-down. In the very place where Mahavira passes—he is so meritorious—why would the world give him even the suffering of a thorn? He has never given suffering to anyone.

These are our frames of conduct. Then the difficulty begins. And everyone has his own frame, for each creates around one saint a complete blueprint and then carries it everywhere. It will never apply to anyone else. Never to anyone. It will be difficult to find a second saint who matches it. Then we become poor. Each has his own selection; all the rest become forbidden.

Therefore Lao Tzu does not discuss superficial virtues. He speaks of the inner. Whether Mahavira is naked or Buddha is clothed—this makes no difference. As aware as Mahavira is in his nakedness, so aware is Buddha in his robes. And if Mahavira is absorbed in his own meditation and Jesus is absorbed in all, as aware as Mahavira is in his meditation, so aware is Jesus in his concern for all. The inner quality of awareness alone has value. If that inner quality is absent, then both self-interest and others’ interest are blind. If that inner quality of awareness is present, then both self-interest and others’ interest are equally virtuous. If I, blind, set about serving others, that blindness is as bad as being blind in serving myself. Self-interest is not bad; serving others is not good. Blindness is bad; awareness is good.

Understand this well, because much depends on it. Our whole way of thinking, living, and being inspired depends on it. The inner is valuable, not conduct. Conduct is the shadow of the inner. And the shadow will differ because personalities differ. Meera will dance; Buddha cannot dance. Try to place dance alongside Mahavira and it will look absurd. But as supremely aware as Mahavira is standing silent, Meera is not a bit less aware in the moment of her dance.

If you insist on dancing, the devotee of Meera will say: how dry and stiff Mahavira stands there—like a dead trunk! Not a single green leaf in his life! No bird sings, no flowers bloom, no fragrance! Standing like the dead. Where is Meera—her tinkling anklets, her song, her veena! Here life has manifested in its full blossoming. Then Mahavira will look dry and arid.

But if one is a devotee of Mahavira, he will say of Meera: this is all passion, attachment. This crying for Krishna—this is the sign of a miserable heart. This thirst for Krishna, this asking—this is desire, lust. This Meera saying, “When will you come to sleep upon my bed?”—what is all this? This is the surge of lust—repressed desire flowing out here and there—taking shape as prayer.

If we take conduct as primary and valuable, we may do justice to one saint, but we will do injustice to all the saints of the world. And this happens daily. Until we value the inner, we cannot understand the saints who have appeared in diverse forms. Therefore, all the qualities Lao Tzu has indicated are inner.

“They are utterly cautious and alert, like someone crossing a stream in winter.”

Within, a lamp is lit—cautious, alert.

“They remain constantly undecided and watchful, like a person surrounded by dangers on all sides.”

This is a very precious sutra.

“They are constantly undecided and watchful—irresolute, like one feeling danger all around.”

Ordinarily we will think the saint will be resolute, definite. Our minds will say the saint must be firm in decision. Lao Tzu says—irresolute, uncertain of mind. He says a reverse thing. It will be a little difficult to understand. Difficult because we lack a deep understanding of life. Let us understand.

A man says: I have firmly decided that I will not lie.

Against whom does he make this firm decision? Against himself. And why is such firmness needed? Because he knows for certain that within him the liar is even more firm. If he does not stand firm against it, lying will certainly happen. So he says: I have made a firm decision. The firmer he decides, the sooner it breaks. The more it breaks, the more he decides again. But firmness against whom? Only one who still has an opposing voice within needs such decisions.

We decide only in regard to what is hidden within as the opposite. I decide I will not be angry—because I know an angry one is hiding within. I decide I will not fall into lust—because lust is hiding within. I swear brahmacharya—because I know: within, except brahmacharya, everything else resides. Opposite voices exist within. Hence to suppress the opposite I must make firm decisions, be resolute, filled with vows. By pushing and pressing I somehow drag myself along.

But in those within whom no opposite remains—what will they decide against? They will be decisionless. Do not take this to mean they will be wavering. Do not take this to mean they are unclear; hence undecided. They are so clear that there is no need to be decided.

Mahavira does not rise in the morning and take a vow: today I will practice ahimsa. Ahimsa is so natural that there is no need of such a decision. Ahimsa will be. Wake Mahavira from sleep and still ahimsa will be. No decision is needed for it. Buddha does not decide beforehand: if you ask this, I will answer that. Only those decide beforehand who have no capacity to answer. Then it has to be settled in advance. The answer must be fixed, clear. If someone asks thus, I will reply thus. But for those whose consciousness is awake, there is no decision. Something is asked—an answer comes. It comes; there is no prior decision for it. There is no need to be predetermined for it.
Someone once asked Bernard Shaw. He was about to speak to an assembly, and someone asked, “What will you speak on? Have you decided anything?”
Bernard Shaw said, “If I am the one who has to decide and I am the one who has to speak, I will both decide and speak right there. If someone else has to decide while I have to speak, then I’ll need to prepare in advance. Since it is my task, I will do it at the right moment, on the spot.”
That man said, “But it’s better to be definite beforehand; what if you make a mistake!”
He was right—for himself. If he had to speak, he could speak only after deciding in advance. And the irony is, the ones who decide beforehand are the ones who most often blunder in speaking. The one who does not decide cannot blunder—because whatever comes is the speaking.
Irresolute, indefinite means just this: whatever the moment brings, I am totally ready for it; I will do whatever I can. There is no preconception for it. I do not decide today how I will live tomorrow. And the person who decides today how he will live tomorrow—his tomorrow has died today. His future has already become his past today. If I decide what word I will speak after this word, I have become a machine, not a man. The less a person trusts himself, the more he will live by prior decisions. People with little trust will predecide everything—only then can they move. Those whose trust is complete will move in utter non-decision. Each of their steps will be the deciding one. Each of their steps will be the deciding one.
The disciples asked Jesus. That night he was arrested, and the next morning he was crucified. A disciple asked him, “When you are crucified, what will you do?” Jesus said, “At least let the crucifixion happen first. Let it happen. I don’t know; as you will see something happening, I too will see what is happening. How can a decision be made now?”
Our weak mind proceeds by making decisions. Remember, deciding is a symptom of a weak mind. Generally we believe that the one who decides is very strong-minded. Fine—if a weak mind decides, he will be stronger than those weak minds that do not decide. A weak mind that decides will be stronger than minds that are weak and do not decide.
But Lao Tzu is speaking of those sages whose mind is no more. A weak mind is one thing; here, mind itself has dissolved. And as long as mind remains, weakness remains. Mind is weakness. What would they decide? Time comes, and they live moment to moment. There is no plan for the next moment.
In Jesus’ prayers there is a famous one: “O God, give me my daily bread; let me not worry about tomorrow. Today is enough.” Today means: this very now, this very moment is sufficient.
They are continuously undecided. They have no decisions, because they have themselves. Those who do not have their own being will live by decisions.
Someone comes to Buddha; he gives one answer. Another person comes with the same question; Buddha gives a different answer. Many times Ananda says to Buddha, “Don’t you feel you are inconsistent? A moment ago you said this to one man, and a moment later you said that to another. And both questions were the same.” Buddha says, “The questions were the same, but the two persons were different. And one asked in the morning and the other at noon. How much Ganges water flows between morning and noon! I am not bound to the morning. It is noon now; so there will be a noon-answer. In the evening there will be an evening-answer.”
Therefore if you go looking for consistency in Buddha, you will have to search very deeply; only then will you find it. On the surface you will find inconsistency. One statement will seem to contradict another. Only petty minds, mediocre people are consistent. Search their whole lives and you will see: what they said when the milk spoon was at their lips, they will still be saying when they are dying. Utterly consistent, harmonious. Which means simply that beyond the cradle they never lived; the cradle itself became their grave. One who lives cannot be consistent in the shallow sense; there will be an inner consistency. It is difficult to find. Only one who attends to inner harmony can find it.
Buddha says to one man “God is not,” to another “God is,” and before a third he remains silent. So inconsistent—God is, God is not, and both! But within there is a deep consistency.
At night Ananda asks, “I won’t be able to sleep; I am in trouble. I heard all three of your answers.” Buddha says, “First, Ananda, what was not said to you was not for you to hear. You did not ask, it was not your question—why did you take the answer? If you collect every answer like this, how will you sleep? And when I, the giver, sleep soundly, why are you anxious?”
But Ananda says, “No, that’s your business; as for me, I am in great difficulty—how can these things be true together? In the morning you said God is not; at noon you said he is; and in the evening you were silent when asked. Inconsistency appears. Give me a little peace, tell me something, so I may sleep.”
Buddha says, “How can I be inconsistent! Inconsistency is possible for one whose doctrine is fixed. The man who came in the morning—I am like a mirror—whatever his face was, it formed within me. The man who came at noon was a different man. I am a mirror. I am not sitting bound to my own theory. Whatever his face was, that formed within me. Would you say to a mirror, ‘You are so inconsistent! In the morning one face appeared, at noon another, at dusk a third’? The man who came in the morning to ask whether God is was a non-believer; he believed there is no God. He came to have me witness his belief—‘Say there is no God.’ He was wrong. He had decided without searching that God is not. So I had to break him and say emphatically, ‘God is.’ I shook him. Now he will have to search. Now I will follow him for life. Whenever he thinks, ‘There is no God,’ the face of Buddha will arise in him: ‘That man said, “There is.”’ I will haunt him.
“The man who came at noon was a believer—just as unsearched a believer as the morning man was a non-believer. He had not inquired, he had assumed God is. His belief was as ignorant as the other’s disbelief. I had to shake him too; I had to send him on a journey. I said, ‘God? Absolutely not.’ Now when he stands in a temple with a plate of offerings, somewhere he will see me—‘Buddha has said there is no God.’ He had come to get a heavyweight testimony from me so his worship could go deeper. But his worship is false; his feeling of God’s being is untrue—he knows nothing yet. To accept “is” without knowing and to accept “is not” without knowing are the same. Ananda, you think these are opposites. Therefore I had to give opposite answers. But there is one consistency within both: I wanted to shake both out of their ignorance.
“In the evening, the one who came was neither a believer nor a non-believer. His inquiry was not to get a witness; he had not come to have me certify his stance. His question was simple and innocent. He asked, ‘Is there God?’ He had no belief. Without any belief he asked, ‘Is there God?’ To such a man, if I say ‘Yes,’ he might accept it because I said yes. If I say ‘No,’ he might accept that because I said no. He was so innocent that words in his presence were dangerous. So I remained silent. And my silence shook him, and he went away with the answer that if you want to know God, don’t ask ‘is’ or ‘is not’—be silent.”
These things look inconsistent—on the surface. Within there is a single thread of harmony. It is subtle, hidden; it will not be caught by words.
Such persons are irresolute, indefinite… they have no doctrine. No rigid binding—no binding at all. Free, ever ready to fly in the sky. And alert. Remember: the more decided you are, the more you will be benumbed. The more undecided, the more alert. You want decisions chiefly so you can sleep peacefully; so that this alertness is not required twenty-four hours.
People come to me and say, “Please say it for sure—does God exist?” I tell them, “No matter how definitely I say it, what will it do for you?” They say, “We’ll gain confidence, a decision that God is.”
Why do they ask this? Not because they want to search for God; but because if it is fixed that he is, they need not stay alert, need not search. Searching is risky. Searching requires effort, energy, courage. One has to pay the price. Better that none of that bother arises—let someone just say it. “You only say it,” they tell me. “Why do you hesitate? Say firmly that he is, and we will be at ease.”
Why does a person want to be at ease? So he can grow numb, fall asleep, and do nothing. The more undecided a person is, the more aware he will be.
Have you noticed? A stranger comes and sits down next to you; your spine at once leaves the back of the chair—you sit erect, alert. A stranger is beside you, and you become vigilant. Then you begin your little survey: Name? Where from? What salary? Do you get anything on the side, too? In a little while, you lean back against the chair again: “All right—got him figured out.” Now you relax. There is nothing to fear—he’s just like us, a thief like us; no stranger, fine—just like us. Now you are at ease.
Our eagerness to “get acquainted” is not because we are genuinely curious about the other. It is so we can be made easy—so it becomes clear: Who is he? Hindu, Muslim, Jain? Then we can fix him. We have a category in our minds: a Muslim is like this, a Jain like that, a Hindu like that. We quickly fit you into one of our boxes and relax. Your presence was creating restlessness; the mind kept asking, “Who is this person?”
We are forever trying to sleep. Our religions, scriptures, so-called saints—they all help us sleep; they console us.
Lao Tzu says: they were indefinite, irresolute, alert.
When nothing at all is fixed, then one must be alert. The whole world is a stranger. No one is known. All acquaintance is false. So one must stay alert. Each inch you move, you move on an unknown path. Uncharted—no map, no knowing where the ocean will take you, no compass in your hand—so you must remain alert. The more undecided a person is, the more alert he will be. The more decided, the safer, the more benumbed.
This too, Lao Tzu is speaking of the inner—undecided and alert! Alert means: awake, as if danger surrounds you on all sides.
Have you ever seen a deer in the forest? A tiny sound, a leaf rustles—and like a deer, alert, he stands still. Every hair listens: What is happening, where? His whole being becomes awareness. Danger on all sides. A small rabbit too, at the slightest sound—watch him—how alert he becomes! A cat sleeps in your house; a small sound, and she is instantly alert. From sleep she leaps straight into awareness. Danger!
Man is the safest of animals. And man has made himself so secure that he has lost even the animal’s alertness. Secure—house, door, lock—security everywhere. Money at home—now in the bank. All secure. No danger anywhere. Even if you die, there’s life insurance. Even death has no danger: money will be paid. All this security has destroyed inner alertness. Animals are more alert than we are.
Lao Tzu says: a sage is inwardly like that—alert. He creates no securities, makes no arrangements. As if danger is everywhere, every moment—he lives in the midst of it.
And there is danger. Make as many arrangements as you like, danger does not disappear. Death is ever-present, on every side—any moment. But we keep postponing it, deferring it. We keep believing within that others die; it’s not our affair. Death is always someone else’s; that much is certain—it is never ours. Whenever you see, someone else dies. We remain at ease: it’s always someone else. But those who die were just as at ease. Death is all around. Everything can be lost in any moment. Imagine: someone places a knife to your chest and says, “Just one second—think whatever you want to think.” Thinking will stop. With only one second left, what is there to think? Thinking will halt completely. All security is broken. No deliberation remains. This very moment is all; death is standing there. You will be alert.
So Buddha used to send his monks to the cremation ground: “You will not be able to enter meditation until you feel the nearness of death.” Go, sit at the burning ghats. Watch corpses burning. Watch bodies rotting. See animals tearing corpses, dragging them away. Skulls scattered everywhere. Stay at the cremation ground. When death begins to appear to you as being all around; you wake in the morning—bodies burn; you wake at noon—bodies burn; you wake at night—flames leap; wherever you go—bones; wherever you move—skulls; death appears all around you.
When Moggallayan first came to Buddha, Buddha said, “Go to the cremation ground, Moggallayan, and contemplate there.” Moggallayan said, “You are here—let me contemplate near you. What will the cremation ground do?” Buddha said, “You cannot contemplate yet; for I too are a security for you—‘I am with Buddha—what fear?’ First go, first see death close. The day death is close to you, that day I too can be close; not before.”
Moggallayan said, “At the cremation ground I feel great fear. I am better near you.”
We go to saints also for security. We go to temples, mosques, gurudwaras—for security. We are arranging and arranging, even beyond this life. Let there be no danger anywhere; we are setting things up on every side. People ask, “The soul is certainly immortal, isn’t it? Certainly!” Within them is plain uncertainty. They are afraid even to say “the soul is immortal.”
A woman once came to me. She was doing some research on the immortality of the soul and rebirth. But I was puzzled; she talked about rebirth and the soul’s immortality, yet she was very frightened; her hands and feet trembled. Even when she spoke of the soul’s immortality, her hand kept shaking. She came to me, and I told her, “Raise your hand and then speak, so I can keep watching it.” She said, “What do you mean?”
A paper lay nearby; I handed it to her, “Hold this paper in your hand so I can see your tremor clearly in the paper. Then say whatever you want to say.” She said, “My hands do tremble, and I sweat a lot; I’m very nervous. But the soul is immortal! Only the body dies; the soul never dies.”
I asked, “How did you get this inspiration for research? Did you study, meditate, get any glimpse of the soul?” She said, “No. When I was a child, my mother died. Then my father died. And death weighed heavily upon me. But death is only of the body; the soul is immortal.”
The fear of death is there; the clinging to the soul’s immortality is a security against that fear—someone, please assure me! So now she is doing research, not because the soul’s immortality will benefit anyone, but so that if it is proven, the fear of death that pursues her will leave.
Buddha said to Moggallayan, “First experience death; only then can you become alert. And if you become alert, you can enter meditation—otherwise you never will.”
Meditation means just this: alertness, freshness, continuous awareness; not a single moment of inner stupor.
As if surrounded on all sides by danger—such were they: alert and undecided!
They “moved through life as if they were guests, engaged in a serious acting.”
A guest comes to your home. You are the host. When the guest arrives and is new, he must do a serious acting; as he becomes familiar, he drops it. The host too, when a guest is new, acts serious—borrows chairs from next door, hangs a clock on the wall, brings in a radio, sets up a telephone with no connection. Then as the guest becomes familiar, these things are gradually removed. And when the guest becomes too familiar, the effort begins to remove the guest.
In unfamiliarity there is acting. When we meet a stranger, we do not meet with our real selves—only our artificial faces meet. From this, great delusion arises. Two people become friends; that first meeting is not between them, but between two false faces. After two or four hours—how long can those faces stay on?—they slide off and the real face comes out. Then we feel betrayed: What we took this person to be, and what he turned out to be!
No betrayal has occurred. When there is unfamiliarity in life, people keep a serious demeanor toward each other so that only what should be seen is shown—polite, proper, disciplined. As closeness grows, discipline drops. Deep friendship means you can abuse each other and no one minds. Seriousness disappears.
Lao Tzu says they live in life as if they are guests—the whole life. In every situation, they are outsiders in this world—guests. They never experience this world as their home. Saints never take this world to be their home; they never feel at-home in it.
Colin Wilson wrote a remarkable book, The Outsider. He labored to show that all the truly significant people are outsiders—Buddha, Socrates, Lao Tzu. Here they live as if in an unfamiliar house, as guests. And their guesthood never breaks, because the strangeness never breaks.
It is a curious fact: the less acquainted we are with ourselves, the more we feel we know others. And as self-acquaintance grows, unfamiliarity with others grows. Understand it this way: if someone says, “I know so many people,” you can be certain he does not know himself. And the one who knows himself knows instantly, “I do not know anyone.” He lives like a guest.
But Lao Tzu adds a very interesting point: they are in life as if they are guests—performing a serious acting. Guest-like; and whatever they do is acting, not reality. Take an example to get the flavor.
Buddha returned home after many years. Ananda had taken a promise from Buddha before initiation that he would always remain with him. Buddha arrived at the royal palace. At the city gate the whole town welcomed him. Only Yashodhara, his wife, did not come. Buddha said to Ananda, “You see, Ananda, Yashodhara is not to be seen.”
Ananda felt very concerned: “A Buddha—and still thinking of his wife! Twelve years, such supreme enlightenment—and still a thought of the wife!” But Ananda kept patience: “We will see; we will ask at the right time.”
At the palace gate too, the wife was not there. Then within the palace. Buddha said to Ananda, “Ananda, I promised you that you will be wherever you wish to be with me. Even now I will not break my word. But still, I request you: my wife has sat angry for twelve years; I left her and ran away. There was no other way, no other way. And now if, for the first time after twelve years, I meet her in a crowd, her anger will not melt. Give her a chance to be angry, to shout, to let out what she has gathered for twelve years. It would be good if you stay a little behind; I will meet her alone.”
Ananda grew even more anxious. “Why does Buddha need to meet his wife alone?”
But Buddha was right. Meeting alone proved transformative. Seeing him come alone, Yashodhara surely expressed anger, shouted, hurled reproaches: “You deceived me! You did not trust me enough even to ask me!” Buddha stood silently and listened. The anger poured out; the hurt poured out; then she began to weep. Twelve years of pain and sorrow emptied. Then her tears dried. Buddha stood silently. She kept speaking. Then she lifted her eyes and looked at Buddha. And then Yashodhara said, “That you came alone—that alone has changed me. If you had brought a crowd, I would have felt I had no place in your heart. Knowing you came alone, my twelve years of sorrow broke. Knowing you stopped Ananda at the door, all my anger dissolved.” Buddha still stood silent. She fell at his feet. Her anger was gone, her grief gone; she asked forgiveness. Buddha said, “What I have brought—my only longing has been: when will that be yours too!”
All this is acting. On Buddha’s plane, this is acting. Yet the wife was initiated; she became a bhikkhuni. Five years passed; she went deep into meditation. Then one day Yashodhara said to Buddha, “You acted superbly! How thrilled I was that day to know you asked at the city gate, ‘Yashodhara is not to be seen?’ My twelve-year sorrow dropped. How thrilled I was knowing you came alone, keeping Ananda outside. All my anger dissolved. But now I know—you acted wonderfully. Your acting was the very cause of my transformation.”
Lao Tzu says: such a person never becomes a true insider to this world; yet he continuously acts as if he is. He cannot establish any worldly relationships; yet he continuously acts as if all relationships are very deep. And this acting is serious—must be serious; otherwise it will not hold. If it is acting and not serious, it will not last.
This too is an inner mark of a saint: in the world he lives as an outsider while behaving as an insider, as a guest, engaged in a deep acting. He is no longer the doer. Now whatever is, is outside—a play. He is merely playing the part of Rama in the Ramlila. He is not the real Rama.
And if we go to find the “real Rama,” there will be much delight. If we look for the real Rama, even he was nothing more than an actor in a Ramlila—and that is his beauty. Therefore, the very Sita for whom he risks his life—he abandons her to the forest on a foolish washerman’s remark. The very kingdom he labors tirelessly to win—he gives away like that. If all this were real for Rama, it would be very difficult. It is not real; it is part of a great acting.
And Rama is extremely serious; otherwise, for such a trifling matter as a washerman’s words, what sense was there in abandoning Sita? But he is utterly serious—he completes the acting. We found a good expression; we call it Ramlila—the play of Rama. Rama is weeping—that is acting. Sita is lost; he beats his chest—that is acting. He asks the trees in the forest, “Where is my Sita?”—that is acting. And the fun is, he ran after a golden deer. We know there is no such thing as a golden deer; surely Rama knew too. He runs after a golden deer; then cries out to Lakshmana, “Save me!”
Sita says a very striking thing. Lakshmana is not ready to leave; he was set as guard, and Rama has told him not to move. But Rama’s life seems in danger; a cry for help comes: “Save me, Lakshmana!” But Lakshmana cannot leave. Then Sita says, “I know full well—you want your brother to die so you can have me.”
It is a very sharp word—and Sita could say it only if it were part of the acting; otherwise it would make no sense. Poor Lakshmana is caught; he becomes angry: “Enough! I am not going because Rama told me to stand guard, and Sita tells me my eyes are on her!” Rama forgot Lakshmana’s position; Sita too forgot. Anger flares, the ego is hurt. Lakshmana leaves Sita and goes.
This is part of a great acting. Sita’s words have pained many people deeply—but only those who do not understand the arrangement of this play and take it as hard reality. To them Sita’s words will seem improper, behavior harsh, the matter petty. But it is only acting.
Lakshmana does not have this state; for Lakshmana, everything is real. In the whole play we chose Rama as the principal and called it Ramlila—that had a reason. One could have made Bharata the principal—he would not be less of a hero. Ravana too could be called principal; the event cannot occur without him. And Sita is central anyway—the whole net spreads around her. But leaving all, we named Rama the hero, for he alone in the whole drama truly knows it is a play, a lila.
“Their asmita—‘I-am-ness’—goes on dissolving continuously, like ice melting every moment.”
Like ice melting in the sun, so the saint’s asmita—the feeling of being, that “I am”—melts away. Consider this. This is the deep difference. One is called a saint as long as some portion of his asmita remains to be dissolved. The day it melts totally, that day the saint is no longer a saint—he has become God. Asmita—the feeling of “I am”…
Take it two ways. Within us there is ahamkara—“I.” This “I” is utterly false. If it melts, saintliness arises. In saintliness, the emphasis is not on “I,” but on “am.” In “I am,” our stress is on “I”; “am” is only a tail, a shadow. The saint’s “I” drops—only “am” remains: am-ness, asmita. Ego, “I”; am-ness, the feeling of being. But even this keeps melting like ice. And the day even this melts—when neither “I” nor even “am” remains—on that day, the saint is gone; only God remains, only existence remains.
So Lao Tzu says: their asmita keeps melting moment by moment—like ice melting. This too is an inner event. If we look closely at Buddha, Mahavira, or Krishna, or Christ, we will not find a fixed hold anywhere on their “being.”
Mahavira is going down a path. People say, “Don’t go that way; there is a terrible serpent there. No one goes there. The path has become deserted. The serpent is very fierce and attacks. From a distance, his hiss kills.” Mahavira says, “If no one goes that way, what will the serpent eat?”
If someone told you there was a snake—or forget a snake, even a rat—on that path, “Don’t go that way; the rat is dangerous,” your first thought would be of yourself: to go or not. Mahavira’s first thought is of the serpent: “Will he be hungry?” This asmita has melted and keeps melting. Here, the “I” does not arise at all; the thought is of the other—“Then I must go.” Mahavira says, “Good you told me. Now I must go. If I don’t go, who will?”
Mahavira goes looking for that serpent. There is a sweet story: when the serpent bit his foot, blood did not flow; milk flowed. Milk cannot flow from a foot, but it is poetic symbol. Milk is the symbol of love, of the mother. Only the mother has the possibility that blood becomes milk. And physiologists say even a mother’s blood does not turn into milk simply by love; rather, her great love for the child transforms her own blood into food for the child—milk. It is a symbol: the serpent bit Mahavira’s foot and milk flowed. Understand the symbol fully only if you understand that Mahavira said, “The serpent will be hungry. If I don’t go, who will?” It is exactly the pain of a mother when the child is hungry. Hence the symbol that milk flowed. Milk will not flow; but even if blood flowed from Mahavira’s foot, it flowed like a mother’s milk flows for her hungry child—love. This is the dissolution of asmita—no sense of “I.”
News comes to Buddha: “Do not go by that road. Angulimala is there. He cuts people up. He has made a garland of nine hundred and ninety-nine fingers. He needs one more. He is so mad that they say if he finds no one today, he will go to his mother’s house and kill his mother and wear her finger as the thousandth. He needs a thousand fingers. Nine hundred ninety-nine are complete. For three months no one has passed that way; he is utterly insane.” Buddha heard and set off on that road. Companions, disciples, followers said, “What are you doing? There is no need to go there. One who is ready to kill his mother will not spare you.” Buddha said, “Let him spare his mother and take me; that is why I go.”
This asmita is melting. Even the sense of “being” is thinning from within.
When “I” goes, man becomes a saint. When even “am” goes, he becomes God. The saint’s asmita keeps melting; he is slowly scattering and merging into the divine.
“They make no proclamation about themselves, like the wood that has not yet been carved into any form.”
You sit on a chair—it is wood. Another piece became a plank. Another—door. Another—an idol. Those pieces have made announcements: “I am a chair, a door, an idol.” Lao Tzu says: a saint makes no announcement about himself. He is like uncarved wood—so he cannot declare, “What am I?” Fresh-cut from the forest—still formless. He can become anything; but he is nothing in particular.
Lao Tzu says: saints remain always unmade. No announcement that “I am this.”
Remember, the moment there is an announcement, there is a boundary. The unannounced will be boundless. And the boundless must remain unannounced; it cannot declare what it is. There is no announcement. We all announce what we are: “I am a magistrate,” “I am a doctor,” “I am a leader,” “I am this, that.” We all make announcements. Ask a saint, “Who are you?”—there can be no declaration.
When Emperor Wu of China asked Bodhidharma, “Who are you?” Bodhidharma said, “I do not know.” Wu was astonished. “I thought I would learn self-knowledge from you—and you yourself don’t know who you are!”
Bodhidharma is hard to understand. This is what Lao Tzu says: beyond our understanding. When Bodhidharma said, “I don’t know,” Wu understood it as an ordinary man would: “I don’t know.”
Bodhidharma laughed and said, “Stay a while with those who speak a different language, so you can understand mine.”
Bodhidharma meant: unannouncement. How can I say what I am? How can it be said? “I don’t know.” The saint remains unannounced. The un-saintly mind constantly wants to announce—this, this, this—because it is afraid; if it does not declare, who will know? The saint is assured—whatever he is—unannounced, silent.
“They are like a valley—empty.”
Not like a mountain peak. Not like Everest—rising skyward, proclaiming itself. Like a valley—hidden, in the dark, with no proclamation. In cover, in shadow, secret, silent.
And the most astonishing thing: “like muddy water—vacant like a valley and dull like muddy water.”
Can you imagine a saint like muddy water? In the rainy season, water flows muddy—that is what they are like. Not even a proclamation of being pure, sacred—not even a proclamation of being a saint—like muddy water. No announcement. They can flow in the gutters as well as in the Ganges—makes no difference. They can live with the lowest as with the highest; in heaven or in hell—no difference.
One last story. A Japanese emperor, reading Lao Tzu, sought a saint—“vacant like a valley, dull like muddy water.” Where to find such a one? He went to temples with golden spires. There he found saints like peaks. But the emperor kept asking, “Like a valley? Like muddy water?”
He searched; nowhere did he find the saint he was seeking. When he was returning to his capital, at the city gate a beggar sat begging. He shouted to the emperor, “I have often seen you riding by, here and there—whom are you seeking?” The emperor said, “I am seeking that saint who, as Lao Tzu says, is like a valley; like muddy water.” The fakir laughed loudly and said, “Go on now.” The emperor said, “You asked, and now you say ‘Go on’?” The fakir said, “Now you go.”
The emperor was amazed. Looking closely into the fakir’s eyes, he saw a valley there. “But you are a beggar—and your eyes look like a valley! I never looked at you precisely because you were a beggar—I feared you might ask me for something. And I searched everywhere else.” The fakir said, “You searched where only peaks can be. You never searched here. But don’t tell anyone. We hide ourselves under the robe of begging. Don’t tell, don’t announce.”
The emperor rushed to the palace to announce, to bring courtiers. But the fakir could not be found again. Other beggars reported: “He said this much: ‘My master’s command was—do not announce; and by mistake I announced. I spoke to the emperor. The emperor looked into my eyes and saw my valley. My master had said—keep your eyes lowered, let no one see your valley. My master said—remain in the robe of a beggar, like muddy water.’”
Lao Tzu has given these inner indications.
That’s enough for today. The rest tomorrow. But sit for five minutes. Leave only after the kirtan.