Tao Upanishad #42

To drop intelligence and knowledge, humanity and justice, cleverness and utility — to drop all these is negative. Their dropping is necessary, but not sufficient; essential, but not enough. The constructive must also be revealed, the positive must also be brought to light.

Just as dropping diseases is not enough to be healthy — it is needed. If there are no diseases, becoming healthy is easy. If diseases are present, health is difficult. But the mere absence of disease is not health. Health has its own affirmative state. As there is a pain in disease, there is a bliss in health. So when diseases disappear, you do come out of misery, but you do not yet enter into bliss. And to be outside misery is not to be one with bliss. They are not synonyms. Bliss is the unveiling of an inner well-being, a benediction, an inner cheerfulness — a causeless cheerfulness.

What Lao Tzu has called the three things to be dropped are like diseases. All diseases come from outside; health arises from within. Disease is an invasion; health is your nature. In our own word for health, swasthya, this is exactly what is meant: to be established in oneself. In 'tandurusti' that sense is not there, nor is it in the English 'health'. Swasthya is also a spiritual word. It means: to rest in oneself.

Understand this a little, and entering this sutra will become very easy. When there is disease, you go out of yourself. A thorn pierces the foot and the whole consciousness circles around the thorn. There is a headache and consciousness hovers around the head. Where there is pain in the body, there consciousness circles around the body. Where there is suffering, where there is pain, there consciousness must immediately rush.

Hence it is very difficult for a sick person to understand that he is not the body. For a sick person it is very difficult to understand that he is Atman, not the body. And if you too cannot grasp this, know that you are sick. The more a person is diseased, the less he remains spiritual; he becomes bodily-oriented. Because in illness only the body is felt; of Atman there is no trace. In illness, the entire attention is stuck on the disease, on the pain. And the only desire of the diseased mind is somehow to be rid of pain. There is no longing to find bliss; even freedom from pain seems much.

But freedom from pain is not to become blissful. Just as pain takes you outward, bliss takes you inward. A man may not go out of his house, may not wander the roads, may not roam far upon the earth; but do not suppose from this that he has entered within. He can also stand at the threshold. One who stands at the door is neither outside nor inside. One who is not in sorrow stands at the doorway. He is neither in sorrow, nor in bliss. If he goes within, he will enter bliss; if he goes without, he will enter sorrow. If he stands between the two, he will become simply dull — neither the pull of sorrow will remain there, nor the dance of bliss; only a dreary neutrality will arise.

Lao Tzu says: if these three diseases are dropped — and they must be dropped — then an entry within becomes possible. But having dropped these three, let no one think the goal has arrived. This is only negation, denial. What was wrong we have left. But the right has not yet been attained. To drop the wrong is not to attain the right. Attaining the right is another dimension, another journey. Yet those who cling to the wrong will never attain the right; although there is no reason to suppose that those who have dropped the wrong have already attained the right. One who clutches the wrong will certainly never find the right — that must be dropped. But if, having dropped the wrong, someone simply stops there, he will still not find the right.

In this sutra Lao Tzu speaks of the constructive, the positivity of life — that inner health — and of bringing it to manifestation.

'But these three are all outward and insufficient; people also need some support.'

In fact, people hold these three precisely because people need a prop, a support. And when we take their supports away, they feel difficulty. How to remain without support? One person lives to accumulate knowledge. Knowledge piles up and he thinks, I am growing, I am evolving, I am getting something. That is his support. One person lives for humanity, morality, justice, religion, service; that is his support. One person lives for utility, wealth, fame, position; that is his support. All these people live leaning on some prop.

And Lao Tzu says: drop all three. To become support-less is a great hardship. Then it will feel: how to live now? What to do then? Having dropped the wrong, the hands become empty. So Lao Tzu says: these empty hands need a support too. But if that support is also outer, it will be of the same kind as these three. The support must be inner. It must be one’s own, intrinsic, intimate.

Therefore he says: 'For this, unveil your simple self, embrace your original nature, abandon self-centeredness, attenuate your vasanas.'

Let us understand each part of this: 'Unveil your simple self.'

When the hands are emptied of the outer, and there is no object outside for consciousness — no subject for it to cling to — then the entire stream of consciousness can be poured onto the Self. When the eyes do not look outward, their whole capacity for seeing can be turned within. And when the life-energy is no longer eager to obtain anything outside, all its dynamism, all its energy can be engaged in the inward journey.

The unveiling of the Self means: all your senses which until now were on an outward pilgrimage, your entire mind which until now was eager to attain some distant thing, your attention which until now left itself and ran after everything else — now employ it upon yourself. Let us understand it this way. Only if these three things have been dropped, will it be possible to understand and to do it.

You sit with eyes closed, yet things of the outside continue to appear. Eyes are closed, but it is the world that appears. With eyes shut, nothing is seen within; only the images and scenes of the outer keep appearing. Even if you close the ears, it is outer sound that you hear. Even if you pull attention away from the outside, it keeps running outward. Why? Because of those three! Those three outer props are not yet broken. By constant practice, through the habit of countless births, the mind keeps running to the same places.

Lao Tzu says: when these three are broken, then all the senses can be made to enter within.

Sit with eyes closed, and hold one thing in awareness: we will not look at anything outside. Images will come, by force of habit. Know they are outer images, and that I am not willing to look. I am not prepared to see. I have no interest, no attraction. If you can at least break the inner relish toward those outer images, very soon you will find they begin to come less. They come because you invite them.

No guest comes into the mind uninvited. No visitor enters the mind by force. There is your invitation. Perhaps you invited and then forgot. Perhaps you invited and then changed. Perhaps you have no conscious recollection of in what unalert moment the invitation was sent. But whatever comes into your mind is called by you. And not a single event occurs in your mind for which anyone other than you is responsible.

If at night, in a dream, you murder and you rape, then it is because you wanted to. You may have hidden it even from yourself, deceived yourself. And in the morning you say, 'It was only a dream. What of dreams?' But the dreams are yours. Dreams are not without cause. Dreams are invited; dreams are fabricated; you yourself have wrought them. Therefore never say, 'What of dreams?' Dreams are your reflection, your news — news from the layers of your own mind. This mind is with you. By day you suppress it; by night it resumes its work.

Psychologists say that if dreams do not come, you will go mad. And they are right. For in dreams the discharge occurs — the catharsis — of all that you have repressed during the day. Earlier we used to think that if a person is not allowed to sleep for many days, he will go mad. But now psychologists say: the real cause is not lack of sleep; it is that without sleep one cannot dream, and therefore goes mad. They have done many experiments, and now it is a verified truth.

At night you dream several times — there are about twelve cycles of dreams. You enter the dream twelve times. In between, short intervals, you are outside the dream and in sleep. Scientists have experimented for months and years on hundreds of people. From outside they can tell when you are dreaming and when you are not; the movement of the eyes reveals it. When you dream, your pupils move exactly as when you watch a film, because a dream is a film. When there is no film, there is no dream; the pupils become still. Thus the movement of the pupil tells when a person is dreaming and when not.

So they put people to sleep and kept instruments on the eyes. Whenever the person started dreaming, they would wake him; whenever he started dreaming at night, they would wake him. Within seven days that person comes close to madness. If they wake him only when he is not dreaming, when he is in dreamless sleep, for seven days — there is no effect; he remains perfectly healthy; no difference at all.

Hence the scientists say: the real trouble does not arise from lack of sleep; it arises from being unable to dream. Because the rubbish you have gathered during the day in the unconscious, if it cannot find an outlet and goes on accumulating, that very accumulation becomes your derangement.

Dreams are not without cause. They are yours — you are in your dreams. So if you close your eyes and images begin to arrive, it is because you have a taste for them.

Break the taste. The first task is to break the relish. Taste-breaking is the first work. For this unveiling of the Self, the first work is rasa-bhanga — the breaking of taste. Let images come; watch them; grow tasteless, inactive, passive. Keep watching: 'Alright.' As if a man is watching a film and just now a doctor has told him, 'From your tests it is evident you have cancer.' He will still keep watching the film, but the relish has gone. Still the pictures move on the screen, and the eyes still see, but inside everything is lost. Similarly, one who has broken with those three outer props loses the relish. By old habit the images will run, but the taste will not be there.

Become disenchanted with the images. And as this disenchantedness deepens, images will diminish; gaps and intervals will begin to appear. And when gaps appear, suddenly you will find that your attention is falling upon yourself, your flame is falling upon yourself, your lamp is unveiling you. This is the same lamp which until now unveiled others. When others are no longer present, the flame begins to fall upon itself.

Sit with ears closed; outer voices will be heard. Snatches of conversations with friends will float in the ear; the line of some song will resound. Keep listening, dispassionately; do not take relish. Let the line echo in the ear, but let there be no resonance within you; do not start humming it. Let it resound in the ear; do not hum; listen without taste. After a little while the ear will quieten; after a few days it will quieten. The day the ear becomes utterly silent — no outer sound — that day the inner silence will, for the first time, be heard by the ears.

Every sense can be turned inward. Fragrance! There is a fragrance within too; we have no inkling of it. Perhaps that is the real fragrance. But the fragrances from outside fill our nostrils. Then we do not even remember that there is a perfume of the soul too, a scent within. All the senses can have their experience within. For — understand the senses rightly — they are double-way roads, double-way traffic. The sense is connected with you within and with the world without. That is why it can bring you news of the world. If it were not connected to you, it could not bring news to you. But we have used the senses like one-way traffic only. We take only news of the world. We have never taken any news from them about the within.

Lao Tzu says: unveil the sahaj self.

As nature is unveiled outside — the sky appears, the moon and stars are seen, flowers blossom, faces are seen; this vast expanse without is experienced — just such a vast, profound expanse is within as well. Attention must be transformed. This attention which has gone out must be called back within — a homeward journey. At the last station of that return, there is the recognition of oneself, self-knowing, unveiling — call it what you will.

'For this, unveil your sahaj self.'

Lao Tzu never leaves 'sahaj' — the natural, the spontaneous. His grip on sahaj is as Kabir’s. Kabir says: 'Sadh, sahaj samadhi bhali' — O seeker, spontaneous Samadhi is best. In all Kabir’s songs there is the same grip on sahaj that Lao Tzu has. Let us take this word sahaj to heart too.

If anyone goes within with any notion of the Self, it will not be the sahaj self. Understand: I come to meet you having already formed a notion about you — having decided you are a good man, a saint, a noble person. Then I will see you through the screen of my notion. And whatever I see will not be your natural face. My notion will be mixed into it. It may be that you appear to me a great saint — whether you are or not is another matter; it may be the exaggeration of my notion. Because when I come with the decision that you are a saint, I will see in you only that which proves my notion. My selection starts. What is wrong in you will no longer be visible; what is right will be gathered. And my notion will grow strong, expand, and inflate. Within me you will appear as a great saint. Whether that is your naturalness or not is another question.

If I come decided that you are a bad man, I will choose the bad in you. Whenever we look through notions we choose. Truth then does not appear to us. We select out of truth what suits us. If even about Buddha someone convinces you that he is a bad man and your notion hardens, then when you go to Buddha, you will get no inkling of Buddha. You will return having proved your own bad-man Buddha. The greatest human difficulty is that what one believes becomes proved. What one has faith in begins to appear as fact. Our beliefs begin to seem truth to us. And we all carry notions even about ourselves.

Lao Tzu, Kabir, and all those whose notion is of sahaj say: the unveiling of the sahaj self means do not go in with any notion about this inner truth. Otherwise you will experience your own notion. One man thinks as he goes in: 'This will happen, this will happen.' He believes so and then it begins to happen. That happening is not truth; it is only the play of his notion. It is the trick of his own mind, his own lila, his own projection.

And we all sit with notions about the soul. One believes Atman will have such a form; another believes such a color; another believes such an experience; another believes such a recognition. If you go within carrying these beliefs, whatever experience you have will not be of Atman.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: regarding the Self, form no notion; carry no conception; go empty. Go with empty eyes. Do not go with any lens upon the eye. Else in the soul the very color of the lens will appear.

This is why, in the world, people of so many religions attain such different experiences. Those experiences are not real. They are the colors of their eyes, and they see those very colors within as well. And inside there is a further difficulty — you can only go alone. So you cannot check with another, you cannot compare. And you cannot ask anyone whether this is right or wrong. If you go to a market and something appears yellow to you but not to another, you may suspect you have jaundice. But in the inner world you are alone; there the notion is dangerous, because no comparison is possible. There no other can tell you what is seen and what is not. There you are utterly alone.

Because of that utter aloneness, it is essential to leave behind every grain of notion before going in. Otherwise there is no way to correct the illusion there. In the outer world we can weigh things against others.

Mulla Nasruddin took his son into a tavern. Both drank, and Mulla dispensed wisdom: 'One must always stop while drinking. I’ll tell you the limit. Never go beyond this limit. See, there at that table two men are sitting. When they begin to look like four, stop.' The son looked at the table and said, 'But there’s only one sitting there!'

Nasruddin himself had gone further; one had begun to look like two to him. And he was teaching the boy: when two begin to look like four.

But here there is a way — the boy could see there was only one man. In the outer world there is a way to measure, and hence science can lay down rules. Religion cannot fix rules because each individual enters alone. And such persons are very rare on this earth who enter without notions — sometimes a Buddha, sometimes a Lao Tzu, once in a while someone. Otherwise you go in as a Hindu, as a Mohammedan, as a Christian. You carry your bundle of beliefs and perspectives. And then within you see what your belief had already accepted. There are vast devices of illusion inside, because there is no second person there.

Therefore Lao Tzu emphasizes again and again: sahaj self. By sahaj he means: seen without notions, seen notionless. Lao Tzu would even say: do not go in with the belief that there is an Atman. Do not take even this belief.

Someone asked Buddha: 'Is there an Atman or not?' Buddha said, 'Go within and know. If I say there is not, that will be wrong; if I say there is, that too will be wrong.' The man said, 'How can both be wrong? One of the two must be right.' Buddha said, 'Both will be wrong, because in both cases I will hand you a notion before experience — a viewpoint. If you go in believing that there is an Atman, even if there is not, you will experience it. And if you go in believing there is no Atman, even if there is, you will get no news of it.'

Man gets imprisoned in his beliefs — sealed in the capsule of notions. Then there remains no way to get out. The greatest prison is the prison of beliefs. Lao Tzu and Buddha will tell you: do not even believe that there is an Atman. Do not believe anything. Just go in; whatever is, know it; whatever is found, see it. Do not make the unfamiliar familiar beforehand. Do not throw the cloak of knowledge over the unknown. Let the unknown remain unknown. Before you know, it is not appropriate to know anything about it. This is the meaning of the sahaj self.

Therefore Buddha spoke not of God or Atman. To many, Buddha seemed an atheist — naturally so. It seemed he was a great non-believer because he would not even accept Atman. If he does not accept God, that may pass; but at least he should accept Atman! Yet he would not. Buddha said: 'I accept only Shunya — emptiness.'

A great joy is here: you cannot form a notion of Shunya. Can you? If you can form a notion of Shunya, it is no longer Shunya. That of which a notion can be made is an object. Does Shunya have a form that you can imagine? You can form a notion of Paramatman — we have formed many; countless idols and forms created. You can form a notion of Atman.

We have made notions — amusing ones. Someone believes the Atman is the size of a thumb. Someone believes it is exactly the size of the body. Someone says the Atman is fluid; it takes the shape of whatever body it enters — like water takes the shape of a glass or a pot. The Atman is liquid: in a human body it becomes human; in an ant’s body, ant-like; in an elephant’s, elephantine.

But what notion of Shunya? Shunya means that of which no notion can be made.

So Buddha said: if you ask for my trust, my faith, my reverence — it is only in one thing: shunyata, emptiness. Why my faith in emptiness? Because you will be unable to form a notion of it. So I tell you: within you there is Atman or not — I do not know. There is certainly Shunya. Enter that Shunya. Do not ask me what kind of Shunya — for Shunya is not 'of a kind'. The meaning of Shunya is precisely that nothing can be said about it. It is not — so how can it be described? It has no color, no form, no shape.

Lao Tzu says: unveil the sahaj self.

Drop the chatter of the religious who said the soul is like this and like that. Drop the pundits who have described what the soul is and is not. Drop all notions. Whatever ideas you have about the Atman, drop them; then enter within, so that what is may be unveiled. And it is unveiled only when we go in without any preconceived thought regarding it.

'Unveil your simple self; embrace your original nature.'

Do not ask anyone what your nature is. If you go asking, you will stray. If you go asking, someone will create a notion for you. If you go asking, you will get entangled. Embrace it. Do not go to ask, do not go to think, do not go to seek — simply slip within it. Taste it.

Buddha said: wherever one tastes the ocean, it is salty. In any age, any time, any place — if one tastes the ocean, it is salty. Whenever someone tastes that inner Shunya, tastes it — its taste is one. But that taste is like jaggery to the dumb — it cannot be said. For man has no word to tell whether it is sweet or salty or what it is. The taste is so vast our words are too small. So do not go asking. Go down into yourself. Embrace that which is nearest. Dive into it.

But even for the soul we go seeking outside. Even to find the Atman we go out. Even to find ourselves we ask someone. We have to ask another even for our own address, our own news. What greater unconsciousness can there be?

But whenever we go asking another, our experience of our self becomes mixed. And whenever we accept another… and in ignorance there is a great desire to accept the other, for knowledge comes cheap — free. Someone gives, and we take. To find one’s own knowing requires labor and austerity and journey. What someone says is no trouble; we accept it for free.

All this we have learned about ourselves by asking others — it will not serve if truth is to be sought. It must be set aside. One must become unburdened of all notions. One must enter within as if suddenly your boat has sunk and you have reached an unknown island where you know nothing, and you have no map. You must explore step by step to discover what is there. Like Robinson Crusoe, fallen upon a strange island. Only by stepping step by step will you find out what is.

The sahaj self means: reach there with no map, with no scripture — arrive on the unknown island and walk step by step and explore; then as it is within, it will appear, its taste will be received. Otherwise there are great tricks; even tastes can be suggested. Even tastes can be false, fabricated from the outside.

If you have ever watched a hypnotist… If not, try at home on your children. Lay a child down and for five minutes keep saying he is sinking into deep unconsciousness. Children are simple: within five minutes he will accept he is sinking, sinking; he will sink. And not only children: thirty percent of people are easily hypnotized. If you take ten people and attempt hypnosis, you will succeed with three. Anyone can do it; no special art or power is needed. Three out of ten are ready to be hypnotized.

Lay a child down and tell him he is becoming unconscious. In five minutes he will be. Then bring an onion near his mouth and say, 'I am putting a slice of apple into your mouth. It is very delicious.' Put the onion in his mouth. The child will say, 'A very delicious apple.' He will not even smell the onion. He will taste only apple.

You may think that is only hypnosis. But remember your first cigarette — what taste did it have? But when so many are smoking, surely there must be a good taste! That is hypnosis. And your first coffee — what taste did it have?

Those who manufacture tastes say: 'Taste must be cultivated.' The first coffee will be bitter. It is not coffee’s fault; you are uncultured. Taste will be cultivated. Keep drinking! Within a month or two you will find it difficult to live without coffee. Coffee will seem delicious. What happened by drinking again and again? You hypnotized yourself. Advertisers hypnotized you. And those already hypnotized initiated you — helped you — and hypnotized you. Now coffee appears very delicious.

That taste is false. It is not true. The inner taste too can be false. Therefore Lao Tzu says: embrace the sahaj self. Even the inner taste can be false.

You may come under the influence of a Mahavira. And the influence of such persons is natural. It is not difficult to be influenced by them; what is difficult is not to be influenced. Then their bliss and their music and their fragrance — you drown in all that. Then their words — you grasp them. Carrying those words, you go within. You may taste the same taste. But that taste will not be true — it will be coffee’s taste. You have learned it. Those words have echoed in you. The image of Mahavira is now installed within you. The mood of Mahavira has seized you. You will live in that hypnosis. But that experience is not self-experience. Mahavira himself says so. He told his disciples: until you drop me, you will not find yourselves.

What does it mean to drop Mahavira? It means: let my words be an inspiration for you, but let them not become your vision. Let my words arouse your thirst, but let them not become your water. This distinction is essential. Let my words awaken your thirst, but not become your water. Otherwise you will quench yourself on the water of my words, and you will remain deprived of your own water.

In spiritual life there is value in being influenced, and there is value in remaining uninfluenced. To kindle the thirst, receptivity is needed; and also the alertness that words do not seize you, that words do not become a burden.

Lao Tzu says: 'Alertly, spontaneously embrace your own soul. Abandon self-centeredness, attenuate your vasanas.'

Here, what will self-centeredness mean? Not what we ordinarily call selfishness. Those things he has already asked you to drop. When he has told you to drop cleverness and utility, then 'selfishness' cannot have the common meaning. Here 'self-centeredness' has a deeper sense. Our selfishness already dropped with utility — that utilitarian eye which seeks use in everything. Here 'selfishness' means self-centeredness.

The pain of the ordinary man’s life is that he always lives from self-interest. Even if he loves someone, it has some meaning, some purpose — and that very purpose destroys his life. We are all calculating. And our calculations have very subtle ways.

Mulla Nasruddin one day knocked at the door of a rich man. The rich man came out. Mulla said, 'There is a man in great trouble, crushed under debt, dying — please help!' The man took out one rupee and gave it to Nasruddin: 'Noble thought, good intention — certainly help him.' As Mulla was going down the steps, the rich man asked, 'May I ask who is this man crushed by debt?' Mulla said, 'I am.'

Fifteen days later, Mulla knocked again at the same door. The rich man looked carefully and said ironically, 'Seems another man is being crushed by debt.' Mulla said, 'You understand correctly.' The man said, 'A very poor man, I suppose.' Mulla said, 'You understand correctly.' The man said, 'And I suppose the one crushed by debt is you.' Mulla said, 'You understand completely wrong. This time I am not the man.' The rich man said, 'I am pleased to hear that,' and gave two rupees. As Mulla descended, the rich man asked, 'Last time I could grasp the motive of your generosity. This time what is the reason for so much charity, pity, service?' Mulla said, 'This time I am the creditor. Some poor fellow owes me money and cannot pay; I am collecting for him.'

Do you see? The first time I was the debtor; I came to ask. This time I am the creditor; someone else is crushed and owes me; he cannot pay, so I am collecting for him.

Even in our service, if we look within, we will find self-interest. The way we live is from self-interest.

But suppose a person has left the market, the world, the household — gone to the forest under a tree. What is his self-interest? He has no ordinary selfishness. He has left the world. For him Lao Tzu utters this sutra: one who goes to seek the soul says, 'I want to find myself; I want to attain myself; may my liberation happen; may I obtain bliss; may sorrow disappear from my life.' This too is self-centeredness. This is also self-interest. It is otherworldly self-interest, but it is still self-interest. This man too is occupied with himself.

Lao Tzu says: drop this too, for it is also a hindrance in knowing oneself.

Why a hindrance? If I have any investment even in self-knowing — if I feel that by knowing myself I will get bliss — my eagerness is not for self-knowing, it is for obtaining bliss. If bliss could be had without self-knowing, I would never fall into this trouble. Or if someone told me: 'You will know yourself, but you will not attain bliss by self-knowing,' then…

It is told that Junoon, a Sufi fakir, came to his Master. The Master asked: 'Tell me in one question precisely why you have come. I do not like too much talk. In one question say all your inquiry.' Junoon pondered all night. In the morning he said, 'I want to know myself.' The Master asked, 'If knowing yourself were extremely painful, and knowing yourself you would fall into misery, would you still be firm in your decision?' Junoon said, 'I want to know myself for the sake of bliss.' The Master said, 'Go think again. Then say: I want bliss. Why say: I want to know myself? If your goal is bliss, and if bliss can be had without knowing yourself, what use is self-knowledge to you?'

Nietzsche goes so far as to say that people run after religions because they think religion will give bliss. No one really cares for God, nor for Atman, nor for Truth. If people came to know that God has nothing to do with bliss, then it would be difficult to find any difference between worldly and religious people. Wherever the worldly run, there the religious will run too. If now they appear to run in opposite directions, the directions differ, not the goal — bliss! The worldly thinks bliss will come from this; one person accumulates wealth, thinking wealth will give bliss. Another prays, thinking prayer will give bliss. However opposite they appear to stand, they are not opposite. Their intelligences are the same, and their journeys differ not at all.

Lao Tzu says: drop self-centeredness. If you want to know yourself and to experience the simple, sahaj self, then let there be no desire in this self-knowing that 'I will get this, I will get that.' Let there be no idea of getting. Let there be no private interest in it.

This is very difficult. It is not difficult to shift our greed from the world to liberation. It is not hard to shift our craving from wealth to religion. In fact, the greater the greedy, the sooner he becomes religious. For he can be easily convinced: what are you gathering these potsherds of gold and silver for? When you die, they will be of no use. If you want true wealth, donate; that wealth will be useful after death. If you are a small-time miser, you will say: 'It will do; till death we are content; after death we shall see.' If you are a great miser and your greed is tremendous, you will calculate: 'If these things are of no use after death, let us convert some into the coins that are useful after death. Donate.' The great miser becomes religious very quickly. The avaricious become religious quickly. There is no change in them; only their greed receives a new dimension, a further expanse.

But into the realm of religion only those enter who have no greed at all — not even the greed that bliss will be had, that Moksha will be had, that heaven will be had.

Lao Tzu says: drop self-centeredness.

Here self-centeredness is on the subtler plane, because it is spoken of alongside self-knowing. Do not even think that you will get bliss. Who knows — you may, you may not. Who can say what will be found? Nothing is certain. No one can give assurance, no security, no guarantee. Go to know only because you are — and not knowing yourself is absurd, grotesque. I am — and I do not know who I am! Go to know only because you do not know who you are, and you are. Do not add any other self-interest to it. Do not say: knowing, I will have bliss; knowing, I will attain immortality; knowing, no sorrow will remain; knowing, the supreme peace of liberation will be had; knowing, Nirvana will be attained.

No. Do not attach any getting to knowing. For one who is still desiring to get will not know. One whose longing is for obtaining will still revolve outside; he cannot come in. Only he comes in who has no desire left.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: 'Abandon self-centeredness, attenuate your vasanas.'

Assuredly these vasanas are those of the spiritual man. The worldly man’s vasanas ended with the earlier sutras. These are spiritual desires — 'spiritual vasanas'. The phrase may sound contradictory, for we never think of spiritual desire!

But there is spiritual desire. And as long as spiritual desire persists, spirituality does not take birth. Those whom we call sannyasis, most have dropped worldly desire and caught hold of spiritual desire. The true sannyasi is one who has no desire — neither worldly nor spiritual.

The hour of Jesus’ death drew near; that night he was to be arrested — the last moment; the disciples were taking leave. One asked: 'It is the last hour; as you go, at least tell us our places in the kingdom of God you assured us of. You will sit at God’s side as His son; where will we sit — we who are your saints?'

It seems hearing the phrase 'kingdom of God' they have gathered around Jesus out of greed. There will be supreme bliss there — that has become their longing. They have been able to leave the world as in a bargain.

And so-called religious people keep telling you all day long: what is there in the world! It is transient. Ask them: if it were not transient? Then is there everything? They say: in this body what is there! Bones, flesh, marrow. If there were gold and silver inside, then? 'What is in man; he will die tomorrow.' If he does not die, then? What are they awakening in you? They are only changing the object of your greed and desire. They say, there is nothing in this; they have no opposition to desire itself. Where you invest your desire is transient; move it to the eternal. But there is no attempt to dissolve desire.

People like Lao Tzu do not ask you to change the object; they ask you to dissolve desire itself.

Understand the difference well. I am running after wealth. Someone tells me: 'What madness! What is in wealth? Tomorrow you will die; death is a bigger thing than wealth. To get wealth or not — death is certain.' He frightens me. 'Tomorrow you will die; there is no guarantee of tomorrow. And you run after wealth. If you must run, then run after that which is true wealth. Run after God.' My greed wavers. I too see that even if I get wealth, what then? Death will come. If death could be bribed, wealth might be useful. But death has not yet been seen to accept bribes. If I cannot be saved from death, then what? Run for God. But the running will continue. The object will change; the desire will continue.

People like Lao Tzu say: do not run at all. They do not say, 'The world is futile, so do not run; God is meaningful, so run.' That is still self-interest. That is still self-centeredness. Which means only that the more cunning run to obtain God; the less cunning run to obtain wealth. Those skilled in calculation will not get involved in small matters. Children, immature ones, get into little things. Why build a house on sand? Build in Moksha, on the rock. It will endure there; here is only sand. Then the whole matter becomes one of the less clever and the more clever.

Therefore Lao Tzu insists: drop cleverness, drop self-centeredness, attenuate vasanas. In the spiritual sense, if any desire remains in any direction, wandering will continue. Stop; do not run at all.

What is desire? Desire means running, fleeing. Desire means: that which is to be attained is somewhere far. I am here; what I want is there; there is a gap between us. The effort to bridge the gap is desire. I am here, you are there; I want to have you; there is a distance between us; that distance must be covered. When it will be, who knows? But in the mind it is done now. The palace — when it will be, who knows; but now in the mind it is already built. When I will live in it, who knows; but now in the mind I begin living there. Desire is the device for removing the gap. Desire is building a bridge between me and the object of my wish — though it is only a rainbow bridge; it appears, but never becomes.

One filled with desire can never settle in himself. He will always be somewhere else — somewhere else, somewhere else — never here. Only where there is no desire can you stand, be in yourself, be healthy, be established in yourself. If you have nothing to attain — if even for a single moment there is such a state that there is nothing to attain — where will you run? You will have stopped. That very state is Samadhi. Desire is running out of oneself. Hence desirelessness is the indispensable ground of self-knowledge.

Lao Tzu says: 'Attenuate vasanas.'

We, however, will feel great anxiety. If someone says to change the object of desire, we agree. 'What is there in the women of earth? In heaven are apsaras!' The mind is delighted. But it is necessary to substitute apsaras for women. 'What are you drinking, this ordinary wine here? In paradise there are streams of wine — bathe, wash, drown, do what you will!' And remember: if you are to drink from those heavenly streams, you must leave off sipping here. This is a bargain. Those who are clever accept the bargain.

Often I see that the drunkard sometimes looks innocent, but the monk does not look so. Strange — it should not be so. But the drunkard has an innocence; he is naive, has no calculation about what he does. He is leaving the fountains of paradise and standing in line at the liquor shop here. The clever do not stand in line here. They turn beads on the rosary. They prepare to jump directly to the fountain. Why the small…

But it is a bargain. And bargaining has nothing to do with religion. The bargaining mind itself is self-interest. And in the bargain desire is hidden. For what do you worship? Why do you meditate? Why renounce? Why donate? If you have any answer — 'Because' — your desire remains.

If you say: 'There is no reason; no reason at all. Not as a bargain for some future gain. Prayer is in itself sufficient delight.' No future gain. Prayer itself is bliss. If you say, 'By giving I will get joy' — then desire is there. If 'In giving there is joy' — then religion is there. 'By giving I will get joy sometime' — that is a bargain. But 'Giving is joy' — there is no give-and-take ahead. We will keep no account of how much we have given. We will not organize any heaven out of it. And if tomorrow we are thrown into hell, even then there will be no complaint: 'I gave so much and hell for me?'

We received the joy of giving in the very act; the account is settled. We prayed; whatever can shower from prayer showers in that very moment. And for him in whom it does not shower in that moment, it will never shower. In this world, every act carries its cause with it. Put your hand in fire now — you burn now. If you did not burn now, you never will. If you prayed now, whatever joy was to rain rains in the praying. There is no attainment outside the act of prayer. If there is any notion of attainment, prayer is also a desire. This is a little hard to grasp. But if there is no notion of attainment, then every act becomes prayer. Each act is complete in its doing. We carry no account forward. With the moment that is past, our ties are finished; no bargain remains. There is nothing in this moment for which in the next we will make a demand.

The worldly man bargains. Therefore whoever bargains is in the world. Whether it is a bargain for heaven or for liberation makes no difference. The spiritual man does not bargain. He is living each moment in its totality.

So Lao Tzu says: attenuate vasanas. Because vasanas will never allow you to rise above the world of bargains. Then whatever you do, you will do with an eye to 'What will I get?'

Someone asks Omar Khayyam: 'Why did you sing so many songs — for what?' Omar says: 'Go ask the rose that has bloomed — for what? Ask the stars that arise at night — for what? Ask the winds that have blown for ages — for what?'

In nature there is no purpose anywhere — except in man’s desire. And even in man there are only two kinds of people who are purposeless: those we call mad, and those we call paramahansas. Those whose minds have gone astray — and those who have gone beyond mind. Therefore there is a slight similarity between the madman and the paramahansa; one common property — purposelessness.

Lao Tzu says: drop self-centeredness, drop purpose, drop bargaining, drop desire — then you will be able to embrace your own sahaj nature, you will be established in yourself. And beyond this establishment there is no other religion.

But we think of the greatest things too in the same language. People come and ask me: 'What will we get from meditation?' The first question: what will be got from meditation?

What shall I say? Only one answer is right: meditation will give you meditation. But this seems useless — tautological. What is clarified? They will ask again: 'From the meditation that meditation gives, what will we get?' They want an answer in cash: 'This will be got.'

Therefore Maharshi Mahesh Yogi’s words influenced many in the West; he gave very cash answers: 'You will get wealth, you will get health, you will get success. Whatever you do, you will succeed.' Then America was impressed; the bargain is clear. From meditation — money and success. Then it can be sold in the market.

People like Lao Tzu cannot be sold in the marketplace. Ask them: 'What will we get?' They will say: 'As yet you are not even worthy of being given an answer. What are you asking? You ask: what will we get from love? Then you are not qualified to be answered about love. Go pick up shells and collect them.' Should one answer the man who asks: what will we get from love? What answer could he understand? What meaning would any answer have? It would be futile.

People ask: 'What will we get from meditation? From prayer? From religion?' They do not know that only when one drops the language of 'getting' does one enter religion. As long as he asks, 'What will I get, what will I get, what will I get?' he runs in the world.

But if someone assures us that we will get — there too we will run. The mind wants running; it is afraid to stop. Therefore people like Lao Tzu frighten.

Confucius returned very frightened after meeting Lao Tzu. When his disciples asked, 'What sort of man is he?' Confucius said, 'He is no man. He is like a dangerous lion. If you go near him, every hair of your body trembles, sweat breaks out. He is no man — he is a lion. Do not go that way. He makes even the soul within quake. He looks in such a way. If for a single moment his eyes rest on you, every hair of your being begins to shake.'

You will shake, because what Lao Tzu says is ultimate — absolute. He is not willing to stop at petty matters. He will not even say that from meditation you will get peace. What is the value of mere quiet? If you want quiet, a tranquilizer will do. Why bother with meditation! If you want quiet, get drunk and lie down.

Even in the search for meditation people come with desires — one for quiet, one for health — all sorts. But they bring desire. We do not treat temples any differently than brothels — even there we go with desire. And wherever we go with desire becomes a brothel, because there too we are buying. There too we throw money loudly to purchase — loudly enough to resound. People do not place money softly in a temple — have you noticed? They fling it so the chink echoes on all the walls, and if there is a God, He too may know that a rupee has been thrown in cash. Even in the temple we go to buy.

Bodhidharma went beyond India. When he reached China, the emperor said, 'I have built thousands of monasteries, I give alms daily to hundreds of thousands of monks, I have had all Buddha’s scriptures translated into Chinese, distributed millions of copies free, I have propagated religion greatly. O Bodhidharma, what merit will I gain from all this? What reward shall I get?'

He asked the wrong man. He had multitudes of monks who lived on his charity — they told him: 'Great is God’s grace upon you. Your liberation is assured. Never has there been such an emperor on earth nor will there be. You will attain the supreme benediction of religion. Blessings are showering on you from the Buddhas. You do not see them; the gods shower flowers upon you.' He thought Bodhidharma was such a monk too. He erred — for men of Bodhidharma’s stature appear rarely; errors happen.

Bodhidharma said, 'Stop this nonsense! If something could have been got before, now nothing will be got. You asked for reward — you have lost.' The emperor was shaken. In front of thousands of monks, Bodhidharma said, 'Nothing at all will be got.' Still the emperor thought there was some misunderstanding. 'I did so much, and no fruit at all!' Bodhidharma said, 'The desire for fruit is sin. What was done — forget it. Do not carry this load; else you will drown under it. People do not drown only under the weight of sin; they drown under the weight of virtue too. The load drowns. From sin one wants to be freed; virtue one clutches tight. This is the stone round your neck; drop it.'

But Emperor Wu did not like this. Our desires will not like this. 'So much done — useless!' He did not like it. Bodhidharma said, 'I will not enter your kingdom. I return. I had thought you had understood religion, that you were rejoicing in its spread. I did not think you were making a bargain with religion. I go back.'

And Bodhidharma did not enter Wu’s empire; he stopped across the river. Wu became very restless. For many days he had longed for such a man. This was a man of Buddha’s or Lao Tzu’s stature. And he disappointed him so. He shredded his longings. If Bodhidharma had stamped it with a seal — 'Yes, Emperor Wu, your liberation is absolutely fixed; the seats are spread for you on Siddhashila; only your reaching remains; the gates are open; the bands are ready to welcome you' — Wu would have rejoiced.

If our desires themselves are our happiness, there is no entry into religion for us. If desirelessness is our happiness, only then is entry possible. Desirelessness is essential to ponder in religion. It is not a question of giving up petty desires; deep desires grip the mind.

A man came to Buddha and asked: 'If I meditate, practice, how long before I become like you?' Buddha said: 'So long as the thought remains — how long before I become like you — it will be difficult. That very thought is the obstacle. Drop it. Meditate — but not with this desire: how long before I become like Buddha.'

Someone asked Buddha: 'Among your ten thousand monks, how many have become like you?' Buddha said, 'Many.' The man said, 'But they are not visible.' Buddha said, 'They themselves are no longer there to be visible. I have a few sins of past lives to pay — to be a teacher. I am paying them. They did not have those. They have utterly disappeared into Shunya. There is not even anyone left in them to explain. All has dissolved.'

And when all has dissolved — no desire, no self-interest — the Shunya that arises is the very nature — that is Tao.

Enough for today. Tomorrow we will speak the remaining. Let us pause and chant for five minutes.