Tao Upanishad #41

The greatest difficulty in understanding Lao Tzu lies in the grooves of our own thinking. With the way we think, it is very hard to grasp Lao Tzu. His very method of thought is opposite, his logic is opposite. He looks at life from another dimension altogether. Hence, the questions you ask relate less to Lao Tzu and more to you.

If you wish to understand Lao Tzu’s vision, you will have to set aside your own a little and look. If you look at Lao Tzu through your vision, your words, your fixed notions, then not only will it be hard to decide whether Lao Tzu is right or wrong—you won’t even understand what he is saying.

Put the way you think aside for a while; then you will be able to understand Lao Tzu. Afterwards, the decision is yours—decide whether he is right or wrong. But it is not right to decide before understanding. And there is an obstacle to understanding. That obstacle is that we have a framework of seeing; Lao Tzu stands utterly contrary to that framework. As if we touch with the hand while he sees with the eye; or we see with the eye while he listens with the ear; and the whole language is different. As I said yesterday: if consciousness grows, on the other side unconsciousness will grow, stupor will grow. Whatever meaning of consciousness we know, we have received from Mahavira, Krishna, and Buddha. That meaning won’t work with Lao Tzu. So the questions that arise in your mind are not really yours; there runs a current of thinking in your mind—then we get frightened: what does this mean?

Does it mean that if one Mahavira attains consciousness, the supreme consciousness, then because of Mahavira another person will fall into supreme unconsciousness? That would be violence. And we cannot even conceive that because of Mahavira someone should fall into unconsciousness. It sounds strange—that someone’s consciousness grows and someone else, without any connection, must for no reason fall into unconsciousness.

But if we ask Lao Tzu, he will not say that Mahavira’s consciousness increased. Lao Tzu will say: Mahavira went beyond both consciousness and unconsciousness. And when one goes beyond both, he leaves no trace, no line, on the world. Ask Lao Tzu—he will not say that Krishna is the supremely conscious person. If he is supremely conscious, then a supremely stupefied person will have to balance him. In Lao Tzu’s reckoning they are men who have gone beyond consciousness and unconsciousness, have transcended, gone out of the duality, become beyond-dual.

Then because of them no line will fall anywhere in this world. Those who are within duality will of course balance each other. Lao Tzu, therefore, will not call Mahavira a “virtuous man.” Because the virtuous will certainly produce the unvirtuous. Virtue and vice are a duality; good and bad are a duality. Lao Tzu will say: Mahavira has gone beyond both. He is now neither bad nor good. For even to be good, one must remain related to the bad. The word ‘good’ has no meaning if not thought in relation to the bad. He is good, because he does not lie—but then good must be linked to lying. He is good, because he does not get angry—but then anger must be linked. He is good, because he does not steal—but then theft must be linked. All goodness will remain linked with badness. If we call Mahavira good, then Mahavira is not beyond duality. And then by him bad will also be produced. But Mahavira is not good. Mahavira is not bad either. These two categories do not apply to him. He has gone beyond both.

It will be hard for us to understand—because we have made a stream of thinking. We have divided everything into bad and good. There is no third category. And the third category alone is the real category. Whoever enters that third attains life’s ultimate state—which Lao Tzu calls the Tao, the natural law, the effortless dharma.

So this will be our constant difficulty in understanding Lao Tzu: your fixed notions. Put them aside. It is not necessary that by putting them aside you must accept Lao Tzu as right. But do set them aside, so that you can understand what he is saying. Then later decide whether he is right or wrong.

And as far as I can see, whoever understands what he is saying can never think that he is wrong. And whoever thinks he is wrong—there is only one meaning: he has not understood what Lao Tzu is saying. His way of saying is different, his reach is different, his manner of expression is different. If you clutch the manner tightly, you will fall into trouble—and man has always fallen into trouble. Mahavira’s way of saying is one thing; the Buddha’s is totally opposite. Krishna speaks in one way; Christ speaks in an entirely different way. The turmoil of so many religions in the world is due to the inability to understand the manner of saying. Humanity has not yet become mature enough to see that differences of style, differences of language, need not be taken as differences of truth.

Ask Mahavira something—Mahavira will have his own manner of saying; he must. The Buddha has his own manner of saying. And truth is so vast that there is room within it for the Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ, all of them. We all think that truth is a very small thing. Once we sit in it, how can another sit in it? Truth is a very big thing—there is ample space. Even for the one opposite to you there is ample space. But our thought is: once I am seated upon truth, where is there any space left for another to fit? All the rest must be false. Truth is a vast happening—it even contains the opposite.

It is a great wonder that untruth is a very small thing; it cannot contain the opposite. Have you noticed? If you are speaking an untruth, you can never accept its opposite—because to accept it would break your untruth. Untruth is very narrow; there is not much space in it. Hence the one who speaks untruth cannot accept another. Truth is a vast happening. What you speak—and its exact opposite too—can both be true. And only the one who can see space for all truths attains the supreme truth.

But we are all narrow, bound to our own viewpoint. Mahavira has said: until you rise above viewpoint, you will not attain philosophy. It sounds reversed: until you rise above viewpoint, you will not attain vision. Mahavira says: right-view is that of the one who has risen above all views.

By ‘view’ is meant my particular way of seeing. If I am bound by my way of seeing, I cannot understand your way of seeing. And if there is no bondage in my way of seeing, I can understand all views. Then one day it may dawn on me that however contrary the rivers may flow, they all reach the ocean. Then I will not say that the river flowing east is wrong because my river flows west. Then I will behold the ocean from all the rivers. But if the view is bound, there is great difficulty; then we fail to understand. Then there remains no way of thinking.

Lao Tzu is difficult in this sense. His method of thinking, his way of seeing, his arrangement of speech are unique. And precisely for this reason there is a deep joy in understanding him. If you can understand, you will grow, you will expand; your awareness will widen. If you cannot understand, you will remain narrow.

And it is always good to understand one who thinks in a language opposite to yours. The one who thinks in your language cannot change you—he only increases your collection. You had ten ideas, they become twelve, they become fifteen. But the one who thinks differently opens a new sky for you. Not merely an addition—your consciousness becomes enriched.

So to understand Lao Tzu, you need to set aside your views a little. Otherwise your views will raise questions—questions that are meaningless, because they are not raised after understanding.

Understand this sutra, and things will come into perspective.

‘Drop wisdom.’

It will feel difficult. To seek wisdom—that makes sense. But drop wisdom! We have three words: information, knowledge, and wisdom. Most people take information as knowledge. The more they know, they think, the more knowledgeable they become. Quantity appears to them as quality; if I know a thousand things, I have become a knower.

You have become a slightly larger computer. Your memory has increased, your store has grown; you have not grown. Memory is not knowledge. Information is not knowledge. One may have much information; then the person becomes well-informed, educated—not a knower.

But this is not very difficult to grasp. Many have said: drop information, attain knowledge. Information has no essence; however much you collect, what will it do? And whatever is collected is borrowed. All information is borrowed, while knowledge is one’s own. Hence drop the borrowed and attain your own experience. This too can be understood.

But Lao Tzu says: drop knowledge as well. Drop even this knowing. Because knowing and not knowing are a duality—a conflict. Drop this too.

We might accept this as well. The Buddha has also said: what will you do by knowing? If you have known the scriptures, what will happen? It is not a question of knowing; prajna must grow—inner discernment must grow. Understanding must grow. Wisdom is the essence of knowledge—as though flowers are pressed and attar is made, the essence. The essence of all experience and all knowledge is wisdom. Wisdom is a fragrance. A thousand knowings pressed become a drop of wisdom.

But Lao Tzu says: drop wisdom too. Then it feels very difficult. Drop information—we can understand; it is borrowed. Drop knowledge—we can understand; because knowledge and ignorance form a duality. But if we drop even wisdom, the mind immediately says: we will become like stone. Then what will be the difference between us and the inert? What will be the difference between you and the chair on which you are sitting?

But this mind which raises such a question will create difficulty in understanding Lao Tzu.

When Lao Tzu says: drop wisdom, what does he mean? He says: whatever can be grasped and dropped is not yours. That which you cannot drop—that alone is wisdom. Drop whatever you can drop. Keep dropping whatever can be dropped. A moment will come when you will say: nothing is left to drop—no wealth, no house, no information, no memory, no knowledge, no wisdom, no experience. The moment you can say, ‘now nothing is left with me that I can drop,’ Lao Tzu says, though it is not appropriate to give it a name—this is wisdom.

The wisdom you fear to drop, thinking you would become inert if you dropped it—that is not wisdom at all. Properly understood, Lao Tzu means: that which cannot be dropped is wisdom. Therefore he says, without worry: drop wisdom. Because whatever you can drop was not wisdom. In Lao Tzu’s terms, wisdom is swabhava—your intrinsic nature. It cannot be dropped. Whatever can be dropped is not swabhava.

Lao Tzu says: ultimately, only that should remain which I am. No accumulation should remain clinging to me. Drop others’ knowledge, of course; why carry even your own knowledge? Drop that too. Others’ experiences are borrowed anyway; your own experiences are also dead. What I knew yesterday is a corpse today. The essence of what I knew yesterday is my wisdom—but that too belongs to the past, is finished. Drop that too—it is ash.

When a coal burns, ash accumulates. Have you noticed that what is ash now was coal just a short while ago? It has not come from outside; it is part of the coal. But if the coal is to keep burning, the ash must be shaken off.

Lao Tzu says: even your wisdom is ash upon your swabhava; it too comes from you. You are the ember. Keep brushing off the ash. Let only the flaming fire remain; let only your nature remain. Let there be nothing upon it. What difference is there between the ash put upon you by others and the ash born from your own coal? Should your own ash be dear just because it is yours—and should you cling to it?

If you have lived fifty years, then the ash of fifty years of experience has piled up upon you. What you learned from others is information. What you came to on your own is knowledge. From knowledge and information, the extract, the essence, the fragrance that has arisen in you is your wisdom. Lao Tzu says: drop this too. Remain only that which you are—purely in your swabhava. Naked nature—let only that remain which is. Mahavira calls this Atman. The Buddha calls it Shunyata. These are distances of words. Lao Tzu simply calls it swabhava; he calls it Tao.

‘Drop wisdom, remove knowledge—and people will be benefited a hundredfold.’

If people come to rest in their pure swabhava, sorrow, pain, restlessness, burden, tension, anxiety—all will be dissolved from their lives; then they will blossom innocently in themselves. People will be benefited if this whole load of knowledge, information, cleverness, punditry is taken away. If the entire chain of experiences is removed and the consciousness, the Atman—or whatever name we prefer—the essence hidden within us remains in its own suchness, with nothing upon it—empty, pure—that which Heidegger recently called Pure Being—this is what Lao Tzu is speaking of—people will be benefited a thousandfold.

We think that the more knowledge, experience, information, cleverness people accumulate, the more will be the benefit. Lao Tzu says the opposite. In fact, the more knowledge, information, and cleverness grows, the more layer upon layer of ash gathers over your nature. Your ember will be lost beneath layers of ash. It will become difficult to reach yourself. So many garments will be upon the body that it will be difficult to reach the body.

Ordinarily every person is like an onion bulb. Peel off layer after layer, and yet another layer appears; peel more, a third emerges. You are a bundle of layers—experience, knowledge, information, understanding, education, conditioning, civilization, culture. Where have you been lost? No one knows. Man gets lost in his own garments. Lao Tzu says: remove all garments! Let only that remain which you cannot remove. His single condition is: let only that remain which cannot be removed. Only then will you truly be benefited. Otherwise, the greatest loss in the world is only one: to lose oneself.

The sutra is titled: Know Thyself. In English the title is even more beautiful: Realize the Simple Self. ‘Simple’ is worth pondering—simple, effortless. ‘Know thyself’ carries a slight awkwardness.

Jesus or Socrates uses the phrase: Know thyself. The Upanishads say: Know thyself, become an Atma-vid. Lao Tzu says: the Simple Self. Not the soul of the spiritualists, not the soul of the doctrinaires, not the soul of the learned and the pundits—the Simple Self, that simple soul which abides even in the ignorant. Not talk of some great doctrine or scripture—the simplest that you are—naked, effortless—that; know that alone. But if you wish to know that, then whatever you know now—remove it. Whatever you have known till now—put it aside. Peel off all the onion skins. When nothing remains to be removed—emptiness remains—then know that you have come close to the effortless swabhava, the Simple Self.

‘Remove knowledge, and people will be benefited a hundredfold. Drop humanitarianism, remove justice; and people will begin to love their own again.’

Often the one who cannot love anyone begins to love humanity. To love a single person is difficult; to love humanity is easy. To love the neighbor is very difficult; to love humankind is very easy. Love a person and complications begin; loving humanity has no complication. Where is humanity? There are human beings; humanity is nowhere to be found. Wherever you go, you will find a person; you will not find humanity. Humanity is an abstraction, a notion. Loving a notion is very easy. Loving Bharat-Mata is easy; loving your own mother is very difficult, very difficult—because on the other side there is a living person. And whenever you relate to a living person, there is hassle, quarrel, disturbance—great difficulty. To love a word has no difficulty.

Therefore, those who are humanitarians—who say they love the whole of humanity—if you look into their lives, you will find they have not succeeded in loving even a single person. Then they began loving a dream, a word, an ideal. With an ideal, with a word, with a dream—no hindrance, no dilemma, no complexity.

But it is a great deception; because humanity cannot be loved—only human beings can be loved. Love is a journey. And love is a moment-to-moment refinement, a touchstone, a fire through which one must pass. But where humanity is, there is no fire. There is no one on the other side—you are alone. It would be more truthful to say: we have not loved anyone. To say ‘we love humanity’ is deception. It is a device to hide the fact that we have not loved. Often those who cannot love a person begin to love God. But those who lack the capacity to love a person will not be able to love God either. Love of God is not a device to escape the love of persons; love of God is the ultimate flowering of the depth of loving persons. Someone loves a person, and loves so much, so deeply, that the person becomes a door and dissolves—and through the finite person the infinite begins to peek—then God has come to the door!

But every person is a closed door—a wall; there is no door to be found, no entry possible. One closes his eyes and claims to love God. That God exists only in this man’s imagination, nowhere else. God is present all around; but wherever you touch, you will meet a person. If someone thinks to love a depersonalized God, he will deceive himself. He can take the absence of love as love of God and fall into delusion.

Lao Tzu says: drop humanity—so that love can happen toward human beings. Drop big principles; you are not yet qualified for them. Drop what is far—so that love can begin with the near.

And if one is to walk, one must begin from the near. If I have to travel, my first step must be taken right where I am. A thousand-mile-distant destination cannot be the place from which to take the first step; I am not there. Wherever I am, from there I must begin the journey. If the journey of love is to begin, I must take my first step near. If religion is to begin, I must take my first step near.

One says: I cannot love people; I will love humanity. He is beginning the journey from the destination—from where he is not. One says: I will love God. If God had been found, there would be no need now to love God. And if He is not found, how will you love Him? How will you love one you do not know? People say: by loving we will come to know God. But how will you love one you do not know, with whom there is no acquaintance, no meeting? Beware lest our so-called love be a deception—an escape from those we can love!

God can be loved; the vast can be loved—but a journey always begins from the near. Even to reach the sky, the first foot must step upon the stair of one’s own house. To go far, one must begin from near. The last step begins with the first. No journey begins with the last step.

But doctrines make us catch the last step first. In all our minds are lofty words. And Lao Tzu is an enemy of words. Our minds are full of fine principles. There is no shortage of doctrines in our minds. We may be standing in hell, but we have the words of heaven. We clutch these words tightly—because we fear that if even these words slip from us, the hell in which we stand will become clearly visible. So as not to see hell, we keep engrossed in talk of heaven. To forget hell, we have woven a net of words around ourselves. Standing in hell, we keep talking about God. Those talks are only distractions.

Lao Tzu says: drop these words! Drop this knowledge, drop these scriptures! If there is no love in your life—no harm; but do not love humanity.

This is a very amusing and profound point. Man cannot live without love. If he comes to know: I cannot love humanity, and I cannot love a person—then for the first time a revolution will begin in his life. A restlessness will begin, an anguish—out of which transformation will take place. But someone cannot love the neighbor, cannot manage it, and goes on loving God—then no empty space is created in which revolution can happen. It seems as if love is happening. If it becomes clear to him that he cannot love God; that it is the neighbor he can love, and he cannot love the neighbor—

Understand it rightly: to love the neighbor you will have to change yourself. To love God, nothing needs to change. To love humanity, as you are you are competent; no condition, no qualification. Hold the hand of a small child with love and your whole life will have to change. You cannot remain the same man. Love is fire; it will change you. And if any love is not changing you, it means you are only in thought—there is no love.

Lao Tzu says: remove the big words—humanity, God, the vast—remove them. Experience that there is no love in your life. And remember—Lao Tzu’s alchemy is this: without love you cannot remain empty. If you do not deceive yourself, you will have to love that which is near.

Therefore he says: ‘Drop humanity, remove justice; and people will begin to love their own again.’

They will begin to love their own again! Today no one loves his own.

I was reading: Forequith has written that an internationalist is one who loves every country except his own. A humanitarian is one who loves people far away, having left out those close by.

There is no hindrance in the distant. Where is the hindrance? A beggar sits hungry at your door—no restlessness arises; someone is hungry in Bangladesh—you become very perturbed. How strange! A dead man lies upon your street—no harm; someone dies in Vietnam and a great spiritual crisis befalls you! What has happened to man? Why does the far attract so much?

It attracts because for the far you can always hold others responsible. The man hungry on your street—you will have to hold yourself responsible. If someone is dying in Bangladesh, then Bhutto is responsible, or someone else; not you. If someone dies in Vietnam, America is responsible, Nixon is responsible; not you.

Tolstoy wrote: my mother was very compassionate; there was no end to her compassion. We were of the royal family; Tolstoy belonged to the Czar’s noble line. My mother was a countess. Tolstoy writes: such was her state of compassion that while watching a play her eyes would swell from weeping. Two maids stood on either side to change handkerchiefs as they wiped her tears. Such blows struck her heart during the play—someone dying of hunger, someone’s house on fire, someone failing in love—and she would weep and weep.

And Tolstoy writes: outside, our coach on which we rode—snow falls constantly in Moscow—and often it happened that our coachman would freeze and die in the snow. When my mother, the countess, came out and saw the coachman had died, she had him removed, thrown by the roadside, seated another coachman, and the coach moved on. And my mother kept wiping her tears—the ones shed over the play.

Tolstoy writes: from that very day I understood to what extent man can deceive himself!

The near is not seen at all. We are utterly blind and deaf toward the near; we are very alert toward the distant. Does it not occur to such a mother that the man has died? But is a coachman even a human being? And one who can weep in the theater—how astonishing that no thought occurs to her!

No, it does not occur. In truth, weeping in the theater is an escape. Those who weep in the theater will be utterly blind and deaf in life. Weeping in the theater, they discharge their tears cheaply, without cost. To weep for the coachman would be costly—something would have to be done. Man has devised a great arrangement—by creating principles for the distant, he has escaped responsibility toward the near. There is such deep dishonesty in this that there is no measure for it.

Lao Tzu says: drop humanity, drop justice—and people will begin to love their own again. This is a completely different way of looking at life. He says: drop concern for the distant. If love is near, it may spread far someday. We throw a stone into water—the waves rise near, then spread outward. Have you ever seen a stone whose waves first rise far, and only later come near? The day you can throw such a stone, that day Lao Tzu will be wrong. Before that, he cannot be wrong.

Life has its laws. Here everything begins from the near. If there is love in my heart, its first ripple will touch those nearest me. If the wave of love rises in my heart, the one nearest will be moved first; he will be touched by my love first. And if the wave of my love is so large that it can travel farther, it will touch the distant as well. If it is larger still, it will go farther. If my love is so great that it can traverse the whole world and reach to God, only then can my love be offered at His feet—not before.

But I am miserly. I think: what is the use of wasting love on these useless people? Let me save it and offer it directly at God’s feet; the quantity will be larger, the profit greater.

But there is no way to reach God’s feet like that. And love is not a property to be saved. Love is a growth, a development; the more one loves, the more one becomes love. The more you love, the more love you become. Love is not a commodity that gets used up. If it were a commodity, then the more I distribute, the less would remain; at God’s door I would arrive a beggar, for I would have already given it away on the way. Then saving would be necessary.

But love is not a commodity. Love is like the other deep functions of life—you breathe; the more you breathe, the more alive you become. The more you walk, the more grows your capacity to walk. The more the eye sees, the more grows its capacity to see. The more you love, the more love grows. These are capacities—ever-developing. They are not inert assets that diminish. Do not think that by running your capacity to walk will decrease and the stock be exhausted. The more you run, the more you can run. The more you love, the more you can love. Each larger wave gives birth to an even larger wave.

Only the one reaches God’s feet who loves so much, so much, that the waves of his love keep rising—and no one can exhaust his love. All bathe in his love; yet his love does not get spent—it goes on increasing. One day that love, too, touches the feet of the Vast. The tiny pebble we tossed into the ocean—one day its wave can touch the infinite shores. But if the pebble grows afraid and thinks: I am small, what strength do I have? At best a wave or two may rise—better to save myself; I will raise waves only when I reach the shore—then those waves will never rise.

Lao Tzu says: drop humanity, drop justice.

Remember, Lao Tzu is very much against justice. It sounds strange—why is he so against justice? We say: so-and-so is very just. And we have no idea…

Understand: Christians say God is just, loving, compassionate. Lao Tzu will laugh if he hears it. He will say: the one who is loving cannot be compassionate; and the one who is loving cannot be a jurist either, cannot be just.

Understand a little. If God is just, then He cannot be compassionate. How could He? Then whoever deserves punishment must be punished; compassion has no place. Whoever should go to hell must go to hell; there is no question of compassion. And if God is compassionate, and even the one who should be in hell enters heaven, then those who are in hell are being treated with great un-compassion. It would mean God favors flatterers, giving them a place in heaven.

The Jains therefore removed God from the middle. They say: karma directly, otherwise chaos will ensue. You have done evil, you will receive evil results; there is no judge in between—karma itself is the judge. They say: if we keep a person in the middle, difficulties will arise. Because a person may feel compassion, may fall into love; he may sometimes be merciful, sometimes merciless. He may show favoritism between his own and others. And Jains say: if God is such that He never has compassion, never loves, then why keep Him in the middle at all? Then impersonal law suffices. Put your hand in fire, it burns. Fire shows no compassion, no love, no justice. Fire works by a dead law. So Jains say: the law of karma works; there is no ruler in between.

In one sense it is right. If you accept a ruler in between, then recognize two points: if the ruler is just, then compassion is impossible—and all prayers are futile; eulogies have no meaning. Cry at God’s door: forgive me, I erred—nothing can be forgiven. If God is justice, prayers are useless—meaningless.

If God is compassion, then character is useless—prayer is enough. Then all energy should be poured into prayer. No need to fuss with ‘do not steal, do not be dishonest, do not do evil’—all that is foolishness. With that same energy, obtain God’s compassion. Do anything you please and pray.

Omar Khayyam said: a mullah in the village told him, ‘Omar Khayyam, you are old now—stop drinking. Think of the Day of Judgment when you will stand before God.’ Omar had a cup in hand; he lifted his eyes and said softly: I have firm trust in His mercy. Do not create doubt in me at the time of my death. My faith is strong. If the Compassionate One cannot forgive this little cup, this little wine, this trivial Omar Khayyam—what will happen to the big sinners? God is merciful.

If compassion is, justice is impossible. If justice is, compassion is impossible. Both cannot coexist. Yet most religions call God both compassionate and just.

Lao Tzu says: remove justice—love is enough.

Consider this too: justice arises only where love is not. The very perspective of justice is born in the absence of love. Understand it so: you press your father’s feet and say, ‘It is my duty’—my kartavya; you serve your old mother and say, ‘It is my duty.’ Have you noticed that duty is a very ugly word? Duty means: it should be done, therefore I am doing it—but the heart is not in it. She is my mother, old, my own—therefore I am taking her to the hospital. Duty!

But when you take your beloved to the hospital, do you say, ‘It is my duty’?

Where love is, duty will not arise. Where love is not, duty will arise. Duty is a substitute. When love dies, then the same things which love would have done now must be done under the name of duty. If there were love, there would be joy in doing. Duty is only a burden to be got rid of somehow.

Lao Tzu says: justice is the absence of love. If there is love among people, there will be no injustice, and justice will not be needed. Because injustice happens, justice is required. And Lao Tzu says: once injustice happens, you cannot solve it by justice. Let injustice not happen! Understand it so: there are two kinds of medicine—preventive, given so that you do not fall ill; and curative, given after you become ill. One is before disease, one after.

Lao Tzu says: justice is medicine after the disease. Because injustice is, justice becomes needed. He says: I speak of a religion by which injustice does not happen—so that justice is not needed. Therefore he says: drop justice. Why? Because if you drop justice, injustice will become visible. In the smoke of justice you have hidden injustice well. In the name of justice, injustice does not stop; it only becomes invisible.

Lao Tzu’s disciple Lieh Tzu once became minister in a certain kingdom. The first case that came to him: a man had stolen—a big theft—from the richest man in the village. Lieh Tzu heard the case. He gave six months’ sentence to the thief—and six months’ sentence to the one whose house was robbed. The rich man was enraged. He said: Lieh Tzu, are you mad? Is this justice? Have you ever heard such injustice? On your very first day as judge, you are joking! Six months even to me, the one who was robbed?

Lieh Tzu said: You collected so much money in the village that thieves were bound to be born because of you. As long as you remain, theft cannot cease. You are the original offender; this man is number two. Had you not amassed so much wealth, this man would not have stolen. Your hand is in his theft—you are partners. Half the work you did, half he did. I eradicate injustice from the root. To eradicate injustice is what I call justice, said Lieh Tzu.

But the ordinary sense of justice would have given six months only to the thief—not to the rich man. That is the justice happening in every court. Lao Tzu says: drop this justice—because you are merely hiding injustice. Your courts, your laws, your parliaments are no more than devices to veil ancient, perpetual injustices. And the injustices that arise because of that basic injustice—you go on suppressing them. But the root injustice does not end.

Lieh Tzu had to go before the emperor. The emperor said: such justice we have never heard; I cannot keep a man like you as my minister—today or tomorrow you will sentence me. It is a matter of the whole arrangement. If this rich man is a culprit, how long will I remain outside guilt? Lieh Tzu said: precisely to remind you of this I gave that sentence.

We are all criminals. But big criminals escape; small criminals are caught. The big have the arrangement in their hands; the small do not. Therefore whoever goes against the big is caught.

Lieh Tzu said: I will dispense justice only like this. Keep me if you wish, or I will leave. Because what you call justice, my master has taught me, is not justice. Drop that justice.

Understand that under our fine notions deep sins are hidden—which we do not see. The reason we do not see them is habit. They are so old, so ancient, so traditional; we are so accustomed to them that they are invisible. We live like unconscious people among them. They have mingled into our blood and bone. If someone points them out, we are astonished: what is this?

If Lieh Tzu says: six months even to the one whose house was robbed—it appears shocking. But is it really shocking? Or is it only that we have no place for it in our notion? What is shocking here? In depth, it is right. But in our notion there is no place for it. Therefore it appears startling.

Oscar Wilde wrote in his autobiography: I tried many ways to shock people, but people are most shocked when you speak a truth. The biggest lie does not shock so much, because people are accustomed; but truth shocks greatly.

Consider a few words under which our deepest untruths are hidden. Justice is one such word under whose cover we commit unknown amounts of sin. One point: we have considered all who go against the arrangement of property to be criminals—but the entire arrangement of property itself may be criminal. If we see this, then those we call criminals will no longer be criminals.

A small class in a primary school: one child takes the pen of his neighbor and puts it in his pocket. This is theft. From the primary school teacher up to the President of Delhi, all will be against him. But try to understand from the child’s side: every child has colored pens—he has none. Color attracts him—as it attracts all children. He too wants to keep a colored pen in his pocket as other children do. And if old people strut upon acquiring things, why should a small child not strut upon keeping a pen? When a new car in a new color comes to you, your gait changes; youth returns; ten years drop from your age. This small child wants to strut with a pen in his pocket—what objection can there be?

But this child is a criminal. Why do other children have pens and this child does not? Trace it back and you will find: the other children’s fathers proved more dishonest, more cunning, more clever than this child’s father. If we search out the full history of this pen, we will find unknown sins and crimes behind it. But we have no concern with that. This child took the pen, because he too likes color. He likes the pen that another has. He too wants to walk proudly with this pen. In this child’s feeling there is no sin. It should be so; it is natural; nothing unnatural appears. If it did not happen, that would be unnatural. But the child is a criminal.

And all our crimes are of this type. Then there is the machinery of justice. On one side society generates crime; on the other it erects justice. Crime cannot be ended by this justice, because justice itself is the arrangement for hiding and covering crime. Crime goes on increasing; the notion of justice keeps growing. People go on shouting slogans of justice; crime deepens.

Lao Tzu says: remove these empty words; see the simple, clear truth of life. Remove the notion of justice. If there is injustice, see injustice—plainly, directly. Do not hide it. Do not cover it with garments.

If injustice is revealed before all of us, perhaps it cannot survive. It survives because it is not seen. If disease remains hidden, it can survive; if exposed, it cannot. We will break it, remove it. Any injustice that is revealed plainly as injustice will not endure. Man will not tolerate it. But lay flowers upon injustice, cover it with colored paper, sprinkle perfume—and injustice will survive.

We have become skilled—skilled at pasting colorful things over society’s leprosy. Now slowly the inside is all leprous; only colored paper remains above. Sometimes it peels here, sometimes there; a slight stench arises; again we paste here, then close it there. Inside remains a decaying corpse.

Lao Tzu means only this: see what is, directly; do not erect the opposite doctrine. Our habit is: we neglect what is and immediately erect its opposite doctrine. The man with violence inside instantly erects the doctrine of non-violence. The violent man puts up the board ‘Ahimsa Paramo Dharmah’ upon his house. Within is violence; he says ‘non-violence is the principle.’ He says: I am not non-violent today; tomorrow I will be, the day after I will be; I am trying. I revere non-violence. I go to Mahavira’s feet; I honor the Buddha; I have great faith in non-violence. I am weak; there is still violence. But I have the doctrine; if not today, tomorrow I shall be non-violent.

Do you know what this man is doing? He is devising a way to avoid seeing the leprosy of his violence. Violence is heavy. If he were to see his violence, he could not remain in it for a single day. If your house is on fire, and you know it, you cannot remain for a moment. You will not even wait to ask which guru should show you the way out. Should I jump out the window or use the door? Should I leap, hang a rope, or fetch a ladder? You will ask nothing. There will be no time, no leisure. In truth, you will not even know when you came out; only after you are outside will you become aware. Only then you will breathe and begin to think.

If one becomes aware of the fire of his violence like this, he cannot say: I will come out tomorrow. When the house is burning, you cannot say: I will go out tomorrow or the day after; I need time to think; there is no hurry; I have life ahead. None of that. When there is fire, one goes out. But with the fire of life our deep device is: create the opposite doctrine. Do not look at the inner leprosy; look at the doctrine: ‘Non-violence is the supreme dharma.’ Keep thinking that if not today, tomorrow I will be non-violent. If not this birth, in the next. Keep trying, and slowly non-violence will come and violence will go.

This non-violence will never come. This is postponement, a device. Meanwhile violence continues. You become two-tiered: your real man remains violent; your pseudo-man becomes non-violent. And the pseudo-man arranges pseudo non-violence—does not eat at night; filters water by cloth.

I am not saying do not filter water—it is hygienic. But do not call it non-violence. Good, but not non-violence. If non-violence were that cheap—that you buy a piece of cloth and strain your water! And with what delight people think: the ticket to heaven is assured; now there is no obstacle to moksha. They will show the cloth: look, I filtered my water; I never ate at night.

I see it. Sometimes I stay in such homes. When it becomes dark inside, they sit outside. The sun is setting, or about to set, or has set. They sit outside trusting that it has not yet set. They eat quickly—because at night…

Even their eating is violence—they eat so fast it is not a loving, joyous act; that too is violence. But they eat hurriedly; night is coming; at night they will not eat.

Millions of animals and birds do not eat at night. If they are going to moksha, then you need not go. This is no virtue. If you do not eat at night—very good; it is healthy, beneficial to your body. The Atman has little to do with it.

The pseudo-man who is non-violent at the surface creates a false non-violence: he says, I will not eat green vegetables. How clever people are—and how dishonest! Lao Tzu calls such people: leave dishonesty, drop cleverness.

I stayed in a house. It was the Jain festival of Paryushan. They would not eat green vegetables, but they were eating bananas. I said: what is this? They said: bananas are not green in color. By ‘green’ they mean the color green. This is cleverness—a legal cleverness. ‘Green’ should mean moist. One can eat dried things. But they have taken ‘green’ to mean merely the color; then there is no problem. The banana is not green in color; so you may eat it happily.

Some think only dried food should be eaten. But Mahavira’s idea was: only that which ripens and falls by itself from the tree and dries—unplucked—should be eaten. But if only dried food is to be eaten in the days of vows, then people dry things in advance and store them. You are drying it yourself. Whether you dry it now and eat after eight days, or eat it moist today—what difference does it make? You dried it eight days ago and then eat it—because you are eating ‘dry’!

One day it happened: a monk of the Buddha went out for alms. A kite was flying in the sky with a piece of meat in its beak, and it fell into the monk’s begging bowl.

The monk was in trouble. The Buddha had said: whatever comes into the begging bowl should be accepted. Now meat has come into the bowl!

He returned and asked the Buddha: what should I do? You have said: accept whatever comes into the bowl. A kite has dropped a piece of meat into my bowl.

There are very few references that the Buddha thought before answering. But answering this monk, it is said, he closed his eyes and considered. Then he said: it is right—whatever has come into the bowl, you may take.

Ananda said: what are you saying—meat!

The Buddha said: kites will not drop meat into bowls every day. It is a coincidence. Perhaps this will never happen again in history. But for this coincidence, if I say: no, monk, you choose what to take and what not to take, then people will take only sweets and leave the rest. People are clever, Ananda, people are cunning. Kites are not so cunning as men. So I thought: should I make a rule for the cunning of kites or the cunning of men? Accordingly I made the rule.

But the Buddha did not know that whatever rule you make, man’s cunning is unchanged. Today China and Japan—all Buddhist lands eat meat. And on every Buddhist hotel it is written: ‘No meat of killed animals served here—only of animals who died by themselves.’ Because killing is violence; if an animal died by itself, no one did violence. What harm is there in eating its meat?

Not so many animals die by themselves. But the killing is done by someone else. The hotel receives the meat already dead. The manager has nothing to do with it. He himself is a Buddhist; a signboard hangs: ‘Meat from naturally dead animals only.’

Buddhists everywhere eat meat. And the cause was so small—this one incident. The Buddha had said: the monk did not kill anyone—had he killed, there would be violence. He neither killed, nor did he ask the kite for it. It is coincidence. So the Buddhist monk does not ask for meat; but if you put it in his bowl, he accepts it happily. Happily he accepts it.

If one makes a false opposite doctrine, man finds ways. Finding ways is not difficult. The real man underneath goes on; the false man above goes on. The false man is good; all his hopes are in the future. The real man is here-now; all his acts are in the present. Gradually the distance between the two becomes so great that your good man has no news of your real man. You forget that the real man is hidden beneath—and that real man is you.

Lao Tzu says: do not manufacture the opposite. Know whatever you are; live in that. This is a very deep sutra. If I live in my violence and do not manufacture the doctrine of non-violence, one day I will be non-violent. If I live in my anger and do not manufacture the doctrine of non-anger, anger itself will transform me. If I live in my lust and do not manufacture any ideas of brahmacharya, my lust itself will change me. That which is wrong, that which is painful—you cannot remain in it for long. It is fire; we will burn, be scorched, learn from experience, and one day be catapulted out of it.

But a man is standing in mud, among thorns, in filth. If his eyes remain lowered—he sees the filth, the mud, the flies, the mosquitoes, the stench—how long can he stand? But he can manage a device—lift his eyes toward the sky and contemplate the moon and stars. Forget the mud below; live in the moon and stars—and he can stand in the mud all his life. Because it is not the mud that is painful; it is the awareness of the mud that is painful. Not violence, but the awareness of violence; not anger, but the experience of anger—the heat of anger—that is painful.

Lao Tzu says: live in what is. It will disappear of itself—because if it is wrong, it will change; if it is right, there is no question of changing.

Hence Lao Tzu says: ‘Drop humanity, remove justice; and people will begin to love their own again. Drop cunning, remove utility; and thieves and bandits will disappear of themselves.’

Drop cunning, remove utility—these two points are to be understood.

It is amusing that when a man uses cunning in things we call bad, we call it cunning; and when he uses the same in things we call good, we don’t call it cunning—we call it cleverness or intelligence. But it is a part of the same cunning. Cunning means: whatever I do, I do it with the result in view.

What is the meaning of cunningness? If I meet you on the road, and even if I greet you with folded hands, I do it with the result in view: What will this greeting bring? Is this man related to some minister? Or related to one who is related? How far does his reach go? What work can be done through him? What will be the gain? Even a greeting is calculation, arithmetic.

If even a greeting is arithmetic, then it is cunning. And the day nothing can be obtained from a man, then the thing becomes meaningless.

Turgenev tells a story: in front of a hotel people are gathered. A man holds a dog by its forelegs to smash it to death—because the dog bit him. Two policemen arrive. One looks down and says: Fine, kill this dog—it bothers us policemen too; it barks at night. There is a natural antagonism between policemen and dogs. It bothers me too—kill it. The other policeman whispers: think before you speak—this looks like the chief’s dog. The first policeman instantly grabs the man’s neck and says: Don’t you know what you are doing? Is this some ordinary dog? Leave it! He rescues the dog, takes it in his arms, and says to his partner: put handcuffs on this fellow; he is creating a disturbance. Then the partner whispers: no, this does not seem to be the chief’s dog. He throws the dog down: kill this dog! Everything is spoiled; I will have to bathe. Then the partner says: no, no—it is the chief’s dog. He picks it up again…

The story continues—and this is the story of the life of cunning people. This goes on all the time. Cunning means: result is important—some calculation stands behind whatever we are doing. If this is true, then a man ringing the temple bell, doing worship—is cunning. He has a calculation. A man turning a rosary—is cunning. He asks: how many rounds must be done? If one hundred thousand rounds are done, this is the fruit; if I chant so many times the name of Ram, this fruit will be mine.

I went to a temple. Inside, millions of notebooks were stored—‘Ram Ram’ written again and again. Those who are getting these written take visitors around to display them: cupboards full. I asked: what is going on?

They said: I have taken a vow to get so many billion names written.

What will happen from this?

What will happen! If my vow is fulfilled, then freedom from birth and death.

You will spoil notebooks and become free from birth and death? And you are engaging so many fools to write them; you are wasting their time. But that man is getting freed from the cycle—because he is having ‘Ram Ram’ written in copy after copy.

I said: fool, now we have the press—there is no need for this. Get it printed however much you like, keep it, and sit upon it.

But there is calculation. If even the name of Ram is taken with calculation, then it has not been taken at all. Calculation is cunningness. Cunningness is in everything.

A son presses his father’s feet—watching: what will be gained? What in the will? It is said: the son of a rich father is never truly sad when the father dies. He cannot be—there is no reason. Inside, perhaps he is happy. Princes often become the cause of their father’s death. Calculation everywhere.

Lao Tzu says: as long as this cunningness is there—and it is not only in wrong things; it pervades everything—so long life cannot move beyond artificiality into spontaneity. Do not live in the result; live in the act. Moment to moment, live in the act—not in the consequence, not in the result. Live in the doing itself.

On the road you meet someone—saying ‘Ram-Ram’ to him is joy enough. Therefore if you go to a small village, you will be surprised—no one knows you, yet people greet you, ‘Ram-Ram.’ You will feel uneasy, for this does not happen elsewhere. Unless one knows you, has some purpose, some calculation—why say ‘Ram-Ram’? You will feel uneasy; you will want to ask: why are you greeting me? What is the meaning? It seems strange. In the small village, anyone says ‘Ram-Ram.’ No one knows you; no one knows your wealth or position; no one knows what you can do. The old villagers greet without calculation. There is no arithmetic—what will you do for them? No concern with you. Saying ‘Ram-Ram’ is delightful—they say it.

We are filled with calculation on all sides. Our love is arithmetic; our prayer arithmetic. Our shop is cunning—and our temple is an extension of our shop. There too we have spread our accounts far ahead.

This is what Lao Tzu calls cunningness—which will never allow you to be simple and natural. Drop cunning. Drop utility—utility is even deeper.

Because cunningness is there only because our gaze is fixed on utility. Utility of everything. If I make a bomb, the newspapers may carry my name; if I make a new bomb, I might get the Nobel Prize. But if I write a beautiful song, no news will be printed—what is the utility of a song? What can be done with it? How many can be killed by it? How many can get bread from it? How many can be clothed? Tell us its utility. What utility does a flower have? None. Useless.

Our utilitarian outlook is materialism. The atheist is not the one who does not believe in God; the atheist is the one who believes only in utility. The theist is the one who does not attend to utility—the utilitarian is not important. And the higher a thing is in life, the more non-utilitarian it is.

When Galileo wrote his book on the order of the universe, he did not use the word ‘God’ even once—not on a single page of thousands. His friends asked: you could have used the word God at least once; in such a great book, not even once? Galileo replied: in my hypothesis the word God has no utility. It is a non-utilitarian hypothesis. Gravity pulls things down; all useful laws do their work. God is completely non-utilitarian here. What is the point? What would I have Him do? God is a poem; He is not needed here.

If utility is our concern—what utility is there in love? None. What utility does love have in human life? It creates a few complications—no utility beyond that. Therefore those who are very clever and live by utility never enter into love; they avoid that mess. Money has utility; what utility can love have? A house has utility; will you sleep in a poem, sit in it, what will you do with it?

There is a perspective in which everything is a commodity to be used. Wife is a utility; husband is a utility; mother, father, son—utilities all. Not only among ordinary people—if Lao Tzu were to see our scriptures, he would be shocked. They say: a son must be born—otherwise who will perform the last rites? The son’s utility is to break the skull at the cremation. For this they are born. Those who have none will adopt—because a son is a utility; after death, who will break the head?

Enough! This is the intelligence of cunning people. Then if a son breaks the skull while the father is alive, a bit early—why be so angry? That is his function. Some do it a bit early; some a bit late. Some do it on time; some before time. But this utility! No one’s life has its own inherent worth. Life is not valuable in itself; it is valuable for someone else.

In Egypt are the mummies of pharaohs; their wives, their servants were buried with them—because their utility was only so long as the emperor lived. For thousands of years we forced millions of women to become sati; because a woman’s utility was for the husband—no other value. If there was any value, it was this—when the husband is gone, what value remains? A woman has no value of her own; she is a utility, a means for the husband. The husband will find thousands more.

To see life this way is materialism.

Each thing has value in itself—and not because of any utility. Being is value. A woman is—therefore she is valuable; not because she is someone’s mother, someone’s wife, someone’s daughter. She is valuable in her own right—intrinsically. Being is value—no utility needed. Your life too is valuable because you are—not for any reason. Whatever you do will not make you more valuable. The sum total of your acts is not your value. What you are is enough; what you have done is irrelevant.

The vision that frees life from utilitarianism is religion. The vision that binds life to utility turns life into a marketplace—where everything is bought and sold. Everything is on sale; everything is purchased—because everything has a utility, everything a price.

Emerson said somewhere: we do not know the value of things; we only know their price. We don’t know the value; we only know the price. Price means: it is so useful, hence the price. Value means: it is in itself—a particularity, a blooming of life, a flower of existence—this is its value.

If we were to set a price on the Buddha, it would be less than Einstein’s—price. If both were to be sold, who would buy the Buddha? Anyone would buy Einstein—because Einstein is useful; an atom bomb can be made. The Buddha—bind him and he will create trouble; even if he is made, he will obstruct its use. No one will buy him. Einstein has a price. The Buddha could be ‘bought’ only by those who understand value—not price. Then the blossoming of the Buddha—his bloom—is his value: a man in full bloom. Einstein is an ordinary man. Remove utility, and Einstein is as ordinary as anyone else—there is no other value. His value lies in what he can do; not in what he is. In being he is poor; in doing he can do something. The Buddha in being is immensely rich; in doing there is no question—he has come to rest in non-doing.

Lao Tzu says: since non-doing is the supreme state, decrease the value of doing and increase the value of being. Do not emphasize what you do—emphasize what you are. Do not worry about what a man has done—care about what a man is. And his being is valuable in itself—not for any other reason.

If we think about the Buddha in terms of any reason, any price—we find nothing. Yet we feel: let a thousand Einsteins not be, and let there be one Buddha. Why does it feel so? What is in this feeling? The Buddha’s being is intrinsic value. In the market it cannot be priced.

A strange event occurred. Fariduddin Attar, a Sufi fakir—there was an attack; Attar was captured by Taimur’s soldiers and shackled. A passerby recognized him: this is Fariduddin Attar. Attar—his name came thus because, as Sufi fakirs do, to hide themselves they take up some trade—he sold perfume. To hide himself, so no one would unnecessarily know what he is. Let them know only: he is an attar-seller. Those who knew, knew he was attar itself—the extract of flowers, the last essence of life.

The passerby recognized: this is Attar. He told the soldiers: I will give a thousand dinars, a thousand gold coins—release this man. They agreed—one thousand for a mere man! Attar said: wait. If you wait, a higher price may come. They thought: if one suddenly offers a thousand, higher bidders may appear. The man said: I give five thousand—release him. I give ten thousand…

But as the price rose, they understood: this is no ordinary man. Attar said: be patient; bigger buyers will come. Then they said: now, whatever you give, we will not release him. The man who offered ten thousand left.

Then another man came. Attar said: this man approaching—accept whatever price he gives. He came—a grass-cutter with a bundle of grass. The soldiers called him and asked: do you want to buy this man? He looked and said: alright—take this bundle of grass and give him to me. Attar said: accept it—this man has understood my utility correctly.

The soldiers beat their heads: are you mad?

Attar said: that man knew my value and was still speaking in terms of price, so I stopped you. He knew my value and was putting a price; therefore I stopped you. This man has no idea of value. He thinks I am a commodity—he looked at me and thought: he may be useful for cutting grass. He knows my utility; the other knew not utility but what I am beyond utility. So I stopped you—it was not right to take a price from him; he was underpricing me. This man is pricing me correctly—this is my correct price. My utility is none. Whether I can even cut grass is his guess. The other man was pricing me falsely—because he knew my value; however much he would offer, I would have refused: do not agree.

Life has both value and price. Lao Tzu says: value will be revealed when the market of prices, the noise, falls silent. Drop utility—and thieves and bandits will disappear of themselves.

Because we have turned life into a bazaar, a shop—everything is priced; each person has his price written on his forehead: buy him. Some are cheaper, some more expensive—but all are for sale. Where everything is sold, what else will be born if not thieves and bandits? What does thief mean? He too accepts utility—only he has no money to pay the price. So he takes things without paying. Where everything has a price—and some have money and some do not—there will be theft and robbery.

Lao Tzu says: let only value remain—remove price; then theft cannot be. Remove price; let value remain.

Understand it. If value remains and price is removed—what price would a diamond have? A diamond has no value. What value is there in a diamond beyond any other stone? Price is much. What is its value? None. In the forest, hungry, if someone offers you bread—you will give a diamond. In the desert, dying of thirst, if someone offers a glass of water—you will give a diamond. Value is nil. Price is man’s invention. We have put a price on everything. The valueless appears valuable; the valuable appears valueless—because of price.

Lao Tzu says: remove utility, drop cunning—and thieves and bandits will depart of themselves. If life becomes simple, and if life is grounded in value, Lao Tzu is absolutely right—thieves and bandits will not remain. They are born because we have bound life in the language of utility. Where life is a utility, theft is possible. Where there is value, theft is not possible. Only market-things can be stolen. And our whole life is in the market. Five, ten thousand years of continuous effort has resulted in this: everything is in the market; nothing remains outside. And if nothing remains outside the market, we can never come to know swabhava, truth, the Atman.

Lao Tzu says: remove calculation, remove price, remove cleverness, remove knowledge. This justice, this humanity, this morality, these doctrines—remove them. Become simple. And when he says: Know the Simple Self, he is not saying some Brahman sits within you—know that. He says: do not get into such talk. Whatever small ray of effortless consciousness there is within you—do not give it grand names—search for that, find that. The day you find your innate spring of life, be absorbed in its music. The day you find your spring within, flow with it. The day you open the inner door, that is your temple.

This small hidden secret within—this secret—when it comes into your hands, you attain the dignity of a sovereign. And this can be attained only when you succeed in tearing the net you have woven around yourself.

The net is big—and we enlarge it every day. Slowly the natural tone of life is completely lost; we have no trace of it.

Enough for today. We shall speak again tomorrow. Stay for five minutes, sing kirtan, and go.