Tao Upanishad #44

Gurdjieff has divided man into two parts. One he calls personality; the other he calls the soul, the essence, the Atman. Personality is the part we learn. And the soul is that which is with us unlearned. One aspect of our life is what we have learned from others; and one depth of our life is that with which we are born. There is a me, hidden in the innermost. And there is my outer circumference, my garments, borrowed from others. Personality is a borrowed happening; essence is one’s own.

This sutra of Lao Tzu is about the relation between essence and personality.

Lao Tzu says: Drop erudition and troubles cease. Banish learning; what is learned, let it go; what is unlearned, attain it.

It will be very difficult though. For if we begin to consider ourselves, we will find that everything is learned. Whatever you know about yourself is learned. Someone has told you—and that is your knowledge. But what others have told, what others have taught, cannot be your nature.

To know oneself, no teaching from another is needed. Yes, if you want to cover yourself, to hide yourself, then the other’s teaching is necessary and inevitable. To be oneself is an inner, spiritual nakedness, a sky-cladness. Clothes exist to hide that. Our entire information serves to hide wisdom. But those who take information to be wisdom are deprived of wisdom forever.

A child is born; whatever essence is there, whatever is the core, the soul, he brings with him; but like a blank book. Then we begin to write on it—education, society, culture, civilization. Then we begin to write. In a few days the blank book will be filled with letters. Black blotches of ink will cover the whole book. And have you ever noticed? When you read a book you see only the black letters of ink; the white paper behind, the blankness—you do not see it.

A famous psychologist, Dr. Perls, worked on this. One day he came before his students, pinned a large white sheet upon the blackboard—large as the board itself. Then on that great white sheet he made a tiny black round, a dot, very small; only if you looked carefully would you notice it. And he asked his students, “What do you see?”

They said, “A black round dot.” Not one student in the class said, “We also see the white sheet hung upon the board.”

The white sheet was very large, yet no one saw it. They saw a black dot. There is a reason. Blankness is not seen; a stain is seen. The more pure and blank a thing is, the more it becomes invisible. Perhaps that is why Paramatman is not seen by us—He is the blankness of the world, the innocence. He is the world’s guilelessness. But stains we see. Our skill at seeing stains knows no end.

A child is born blank. Then we begin to write upon him. It is necessary we write something; for the struggle of life it is useful. Perhaps, as a blank sheet, he may not even be able to live. As a blank sheet he might not succeed for even a moment in life’s struggle. Writing is necessary—call it a necessary evil. Then we keep writing: give him a name, give him a form.

You will say name is fine, but form—doesn’t each person bring his own? That, too, is a mistake. The name we give, and the form we give—why? Because what is considered beautiful in one country is considered ugly in another. A type of face is called beautiful in China; the same type will not be called beautiful in India. A flat nose is not ugly in China; elsewhere in the world it may be. Large, pendulous lips are not ugly for Africans; elsewhere they may be called ugly. African girls will use every device to enlarge their lips—hanging stones to broaden them. In our lands, or wherever the Aryan influence is, in the West, thin lips are prized.

It is hard to say what beauty is; arguments can be offered both ways. Africans say, “The wider the lips, the more expansive the kiss.” No doubt it will be. But those who favor thin lips say, “The wider the lips, the kiss does become expansive, but it turns insipid; for whenever a thing spreads too far, its impact grows faint; intensity is lost.” But which is beautiful—thin lips or thick lips? Society will teach what is beautiful.

We give the form. The name we give, the form we give, the ideas we give; thus the layers of personality begin to form. In the end, when you find yourself, you no longer recall that you were born with a blankness that has slipped to the back—under many layers. So many clothes have been piled on that now it is difficult to find yourself. And you live by taking this heap of garments to be your soul. This is the mark of the irreligious man: he takes the clothes to be himself. He who seeks that which is within the clothes, which existed before all teaching, and which will remain even if every garment is stripped away—that nature—only that person is religious.

Lao Tzu says: Drop teaching. Whatever you have learned, drop it—and you will be able to know yourself.

But we are peculiar folk. To know oneself we even go to learn from others. To lose oneself, the other’s teaching is indispensable. To know oneself, it is necessary to drop all teachings of others. In the world, if anything is to be known apart from oneself, education is necessary. But to know oneself, the renunciation of all education is necessary. For to know the world one must go out; to know oneself one must come in. The journeys are opposite.

Religion is a kind of unlearning; not an education, but a letting-go of education, a relinquishment of the learned. Whatever has been learned must be dropped. This includes religion—the religion you have learned. The scriptures you have learned are included. The doctrines you have learned are included. Whatever has been learned is included. That is why religion is the supreme renunciation. To drop wealth is easy; to drop what you have learned is very difficult. Wealth is like outer garments; what we have learned has become our skin. To drop it is not easy. For we are the aggregate of our learning.

Ask a man, “Who are you?” He says, “I am a doctor.” Ask another, he says, “I am a teacher.” Ask another, he says, “I am A, I am B, I am C.” Look carefully—each is telling what he has learned. One learned medicine, so he is a doctor. One learned law, so he is a lawyer. One learned thieving, so he is a thief. And in our land some learn sainthood, they are sadhus.

But this is all teaching. This is the learned. The learned has nothing to do with religion. Religion is the search for the unlearned—for that which we have never learned and cannot learn; that which we already are; to which nothing can be added or subtracted by teaching; which is hidden within our very being—the search for that.

And Lao Tzu says: Drop erudition, and troubles cease. For all troubles are troubles of erudition. The troubles of the person and the society are troubles of information, troubles of scholarship. What we know becomes our trouble.

We must understand how what we know becomes our trouble. Because what we know has inevitable consequences. First: because of knowing we can never be spontaneous; every moment we are ill at ease. To be spontaneous becomes impossible.

A man sits beside you. You are sitting peacefully. You ask him, “Who are you?” He says, “I am a Muslim—or a Christian—or a Hindu.” Instantly you become uneasy. The man disappears; a Muslim sits beside you. And about the Muslim you have learned certain things. Now the two are no longer neighbors. Between them teaching has entered. If you are a Hindu, he too has learned certain things about Hindus. Now the two are separated by a thousand miles. A great distance has opened. Now, however far the hands extend, they cannot meet. A moment ago they were neighbors; there was no distance. Now their teachings have come between them; a mountain of knowledge stands in the middle. The man who a moment ago was simply a man is now not a man, but a Muslim; the one who was a man is now not a man, but a Hindu.

And the strange thing is: two Hindus are never alike, and two Muslims are never alike. Between Muslim A and Muslim B there is as much distance as between a Hindu and a Muslim. But in your head there is an image of what a Muslim is; you will apply that image to this neighbor. That image is false; it has nothing to do with this man. It has nothing to do even with those who made the image. This man is utterly innocent and helpless.

But now a web of countless notions has arisen in your mind. You will put this man into a slot, a category: “He is a Muslim.” “We know well what Muslims are like.” Your whole consciousness will contract. Whatever behavior you have now will not be with this man, it will be with your imagined Muslim. You are ill at ease. Spontaneity is lost. Spontaneity would have meant relating to this man as he is in this moment. Now even if you speak, your talk will be with your imagined Muslim—the assumption in your head.

Our information makes us ill at ease everywhere. The spontaneous means: responding to the truth of the moment. But information becomes interpretation; then our dealing is with our interpretation.

We live in words.

I was once a guest in a house. Next door was a church—very beautiful. Whenever I stayed there, I would go into the church at dawn. It would be silent; except on Sundays no one came. My host came to know of it, ran after me one day and said, “You should have told me—I would have taken you to the temple. What need to go to a church? The temple isn’t far.” I said nothing.

Ten years later I was guest in the same house. The church had been sold, and my host’s sect had purchased the property. The building was the same, the trees the same, the birds the same, the silence the same; only the signboard had changed. It was no longer a church. Early morning he said to me—he had forgotten that ten years earlier he had dragged me out from the same place—“You will be very pleased; we have bought the adjoining property. Only the installation of the idol remains. The temple is ready—please come inside.”

Everything is the same; only the signboard is changed. Then it was a church, and my going there seemed a sin to him. Now it is a temple; if I do not go, that will seem a sin.

Our conduct is not with reality, but with words, with information. In a single moment if the word changes, our behavior changes. Someone changes the label; the thing within remains the same. But if the signboard is changed, everything changes. This creates complexity; our life is the outcome of this complexity. And this complexity will not remain merely in outer matters; it will enter within as well—within! Then we cannot see the person, his feeling, his very life.

A man says to you, “I love you very much.” You no longer look into his eyes, nor peep into his face, nor descend into his soul. You catch the words: “I love you very much.” On the basis of these words you decide everything; and those decisions lead you into sorrow. A man is angry with you, abuses you; you catch only the words—you do not look into his eyes. Sometimes anger is love; sometimes what looks like love is only a deception. But words, information, become crucial. Then we build the entire house of our life around words. That house is a house of cards. Every day cracks will appear; every day accidents will happen; a slight gust will bring it down. And then we blame reality and say, “Reality is hard; life is misery.” Neither is life misery, nor is reality harsh. You do not know reality. You live in houses of words. You have never peeped into what is. You move only within your interpretations.

The person caught around these interpretations is, for Lao Tzu, entangled in information, in scholarship. Drop it, and calamities vanish, troubles cease.

What will happen by dropping? The encounter with reality. And it is a wondrous thing: knowing truth is never painful. However painful it may appear, knowing truth is never painful. And however pleasing untruth may appear, untruth is never pleasing. Truth may shock, it may jolt, yet its final results lead to an ever-deepening joy. Untruth may lull, console, deceive; it may pat you to sleep; it may seem convenient; but each convenience gives birth to endless inconveniences.

But we are seekers of immediate convenience. Our vision is not long. We see too near. And because we see so near, reality is not seen. Close at hand there is only the web of our words. We live within that. Troubles thicken.

We have been taught that in love there is no quarrel. One teaching says: in true love there is no conflict, no duality, no struggle. Those who enter love with such an expectation will fall into deep unhappiness. For reality is otherwise. If we understand reality: love is a quarrel, a conflict. Love is a struggle. The truth is: lovers will go on fighting; and when two lovers cease to fight, know that love too has ended. The fight may be sweet—that is another matter—but love is a quarrel. While our notions hold that love is a paradise where quarrels are not.

In this world everything is changing. In our mind many notions are fixed, eternal. We say, “Love is eternal.” In this world nothing is eternal. We ourselves are not eternal—how can our love be? We are mortal. Whatever arises from us will be mortal. The truth is: everything here is in flux. Our longing is that at least some deep things should not change; at least love should not change. Because of that longing, the joy that could have flowed from love’s changing nature becomes poison. Love cannot be made permanent; and those few momentary flowers that might have bloomed in transient love are also prevented. As if a man plants a garden and hopes the flowers will be eternal, never wither. Flowers will bloom in the morning and wither by evening—such is their destiny. But one who is filled with the expectation that flowers should never fade will not even be able to enjoy the blossom of the morning; the fear of withering will pour venom the moment the flower opens.

The moment the flower opens, withering begins—for blooming and withering are not two processes, but two phases of the same process. Withering is the final stage of blooming. Withering is complete blooming. When the fruit ripens, it falls. When anything is complete, death happens. In this world, completion and death are the same.

But the man who hopes for eternal flowers in his garden will be in trouble. Then there is only one way: make paper flowers, plastic flowers. They will be permanent—though not eternal—but permanent. But they will never bloom. One who is afraid of withering, who wants to escape withering, must give up blooming too. They will never bloom, never fade. But then nothing of the flower remains. The very meaning of a flower is to bloom and to wither.

Such are our mental notions; they do not allow us to relate with real life. We live by our notions. Whatever reality may be, we throw our veils over it; we drape it with our words, give it our forms. But reality accepts neither our forms nor our words nor our doctrines. Then, every moment, a conflict arises between reality and our knowledge. That conflict is our trouble. Every moment the harmony between us and reality is lost. That loss of harmony is our inner restlessness. Each moment your expectation is not fulfilled. Expectations are born of our information; we are already knowing beforehand.

Lao Tzu says: Live as if you know nothing. Approach reality in such a way that you carry no preconclusions, no conclusions, no outcomes. No conclusions, no expectations. Come to the flower and know what the flower is. Do not decide in advance that it must be eternal, must never change, must never wilt. Drop these notions, approach. Know the flower as it is, and live it as it is. Then the flower is a delight. Then its birth is a delight, and its death is a delight. Then its blooming is a song, and its closing is also a song. Then there is no opposition; they are two aspects of one process.

There is no sorrow in life; sorrow is born of expectations. Expectations are the outcome of teachings. None of us lives even a moment without expectations: rising, sitting, walking, a world of expectations moves around us. Lao Tzu says: these are the foundations of your troubles.

“What is the difference between Yes and No?”

If there are no expectations, there is no difference between yes and no. If there are expectations, where will there be a greater difference than between yes and no? I ask you for something; you say yes, or you say no. If my asking is full of expectation, the difference is great. Yes becomes my happiness; no becomes my sorrow. But if I have no expectation—if I have not decided in advance what the result must be—if I have formed no notion concerning the outcome—then whether you say yes or no, there is no difference. The difference between yes and no is not a difference between two words; it is a difference between two expectations. In a dictionary, yes and no will be opposite; but in the depth of life, where one walks without expectations, there is no difference between yes and no.

A fakir was passing through a village. He knocked at a door. It was midnight. He had lost his way; he had reached another village instead of the one intended. The door opened. The people of the house asked, “What do you want?” The fakir said, “If I could rest the night! I lost my way and have not reached where I had to go.” They asked, “What is your religion?”

For we do not host human beings; we host religions.

The fakir told his religion. The door closed. “Forgive us—we do not belong to that religion; not only do we not belong, we are its opponents. In this village you will find no place. This village is of one faith. Don’t trouble yourself.” The fakir thanked them and began to walk away. The master of the house asked, “But why thanks? We refused you—why thanks?” The fakir said, “You did something. We had no notion what you would do. The door would open—either yes or no. You clearly said no; even at midnight you took that trouble; for that, thank you.”

He went and slept outside the village. It was full-moon night. Beneath the tree where he slept, the flowers open with a sound on the full moon. Each time a flower sounded, he opened his eyes and looked up—the moon was running; flowers were blooming; fragrance was raining.

In the morning he returned and knocked again at the same door. The man opened. The fakir bowed and said thrice: “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” The man said, “What need of thanks now? You seem mad. At night I refused you—then you thanked. Now?”

The fakir said, “Had you not refused me at night, the delight of the full-moon night I tasted would have been impossible. If you had said yes, I would have slept under your roof. I slept beneath a tree. And such a moment of beauty I had never known. Let me say one thing—do not be offended: even if a fakir of your own faith comes, do not let him stay.”

Had you been turned back from that house, the full-moon night would have instantly become a new-moon night. Or would it not? The full moon could not have survived; it would have become new-moon at once. The flowers could not have bloomed. Their delicate sound could never be heard over the tumult within you. You would have slept in the night of new moon—if you could sleep; you would be worried, restless. Between yes and no there would be a vast difference. For this man there was no difference.

The difference between yes and no, the difference between happiness and sorrow, is the difference of notions, of expectations; it is not the difference of reality. But we thrust everything on reality. We say, “He said such a thing, therefore I am unhappy; he behaved thus, therefore I am happy.” No, happiness and unhappiness have no relation to the other. Whatever he did, you can be happy; whatever he did, you can be unhappy. What he did is not the real matter. What interpretation you gave to it—that is all. Your interpretation is your heaven and your hell.

I have heard: two friends were seeking a master. They reached the door of a Sufi fakir. Both petitioned: they are seekers of truth, of the Lord; show them a path. The fakir sat silent, as if he had not heard. One friend thought: “What can we get from such a man? Either he is deaf or very egoistic. We are seekers of truth, have come from afar, and he does not even pay attention—as if we were insects.” The other thought: “Perhaps there is some mistake in my question. Perhaps this way of asking is inappropriate. Perhaps the inquiry into truth is not made like this. Perhaps such haste, such impatience, is a vice.” Both departed.

Years later, the first was as he had been. But the second, who thought the mistake lay in his own questioning, in his impatience, began to change himself. Years later the first was still in his hell, had fallen into a pit. The second became utterly peaceful. He went to thank the master: “By your grace, you did not speak that day; I clearly understood my unworthiness and lack of preparedness. In making myself worthy, I attained the vision of truth. I have come to thank you.”

The master said, “There is no other means to attain truth. To become worthy is enough.”

It depends on us. The master had remained silent. One understood No; one understood Yes. The gap can be vast; the gap can be zero.

Lao Tzu says: all gaps are gaps of knowledge, gaps of scholarship. What is the difference between yes and no?

For Lao Tzu, yes and no are symbols of many things. Yes is the symbol of life; no of death. Yes of happiness; no of sorrow. Yes of success; no of failure. Yes is the positive, the constructive; no is the negative, the denying.

Lao Tzu is saying: what is the difference between affirmation and negation? What is the difference between birth and death?

There seems much difference. We desire life, we do not desire death; by desire the difference exists. In life and death themselves there is no difference. For one who has no desire, what difference is there between life and death? The same door by which we go out is the door by which we come in. The same stairs by which we ascend are those by which we descend. When you are going up, and when you are going down—do the stairs differ? When you go out, and when you come in—does the door differ? The same door, the same stairs. The same is birth; the same is death.

But our expectations create a great difference. Our information creates a great difference. We have all been taught that death is something bad. That is our teaching; for we do not know death. And we have been taught that life is auspicious. We have been taught: life is grace, death is misfortune. We do not know death—this is certain. We do not know life either—though that is less obvious; it seems we live, so we must know life.

It is not necessary that he who lives knows life. He who comes to know life will also know death—for it is one door, the difference only of going out and coming in. He who knows life will know death; for death is not opposite to life. Like the left and right leg—both are used if one is to walk—so the existence uses life and death as its two legs. Existence could not be; by those two legs the whole movement of existence is. He who knows one will know the other; for the other is not opposite, not separate. Two aspects of one process. But we have been taught.

Gurdjieff has written: he had a habit of provoking people; many were angry with him. At a banquet Gurdjieff was present, and a great bishop, a religious leader, was also invited. The bishop was seated next to Gurdjieff; both were important.

Gurdjieff asked the bishop, “What is your view regarding the soul? Is the soul immortal?” The bishop said, “Certainly—how can there be any doubt? The soul is eternal, immortal; it has no end, no death.” Gurdjieff asked, “And what is your thought regarding when you will die? And where will you go after death?”

Immediately the bishop’s face soured. “Is this a subject for conversation? Do civilized men ask such questions? It is indecent—‘When will you die? Where will you go after death?’” The bishop quickly said, “Where will I go? I shall enter the Kingdom of God! But civilized men do not ask such questions.”

Gurdjieff said, “If the soul is immortal, how is it indecent to ask about death? And if after death you are to enter God’s kingdom, why this darkness upon your face at my question? You should be filled with joy that soon you will die and enter the divine kingdom.”

No—the two are different. The immortality of the soul is information, a scriptural word. The fear within stands: “May I not die.” Perhaps because of that very fear he has clung to the belief that the soul is immortal. Those who believe that the soul is immortal are often people afraid of death—believing people! Not the knowers. Believers often hold beliefs opposite to their inner state. There is fear of death; to hold the doctrine that the soul is immortal brings relief, consolation. Our religion is little more than consolation. That is why religion is our upper layer too—a device for security. We know we must die; we want to forget this bitter truth. So, written in large letters, we keep: “The soul is immortal.” But if someone asks you about death—your death—it is a shock. Why? Because “the soul is immortal” is pasted on from outside; inside stands the fear of death.

We build cemeteries outside the village; cremation grounds are outside. If someone dies, mothers call their children inside: “Come in, a bier is passing”—as if we want to somehow forget death, to not see it. If someone dies at home, it is difficult to keep the body even for an hour. Perhaps only yesterday we had said to him, “Without you we will die; we cannot live even a moment.” Now he is dead; now it is difficult to keep him at home even for a moment. What is the trouble? Let him remain a little. For years the person was in that house; what harm if he stays ten days more?

Within ten days you will go mad if the corpse remains. Why? Because the corpse will remind you of death every moment; his being dead becomes a message of your own dying. Keep a dead body in a home, and no one in that home will be able to remain alive within.

So we hasten. And so that the family does not suffer, neighbors gather and hasten the rites. In each other’s homes when trouble comes, others handle it. This is a mutual agreement: if a man dies, remove him quickly; remove him from among the living. We treat death like an untouchable; it must remain outside the village; in the marketplace there should be no sign of it. We do not want to feel that something like death exists. It is a compulsion that men die; so we quickly dispose. Why?

Therefore, for us life and death cannot mean the same; yes and no cannot mean the same; how can we accept happiness and sorrow as one?

But have you noticed? If you do not name a thing, many times you will be in difficulty—whether to call it pleasure or pain. Naming makes it easy. If we name it pleasure, the mind instantly accepts it as pleasure. If we name it pain, it accepts it as pain. Have you ever noticed? We should observe: if we do not name, which things will be pleasure and which pain? If we do not hurry to name, and live only the experience—then an amazing thing becomes known: what we call pleasure can become pain any moment, and what we call pain can become pleasure.

I embrace you on the road. Do not name it pleasure or pain yet—give it no name. Only the fact: I am pressing you to my chest; my bones and skin touch you; your bones and skin touch me. Give this no name—“embrace,” “pleasure,” “pain”—no name. Only this fact, what is happening. Then you will find it difficult to say whether it is pleasure or pain.

If you say, “No, it is pleasure,” and I keep holding you to my chest—how long will it remain pleasure? A moment, two, five—and then a crowd will gather, people will peer, “What’s going on?” You will become restless, sweat on your brow; you will want to escape, be free. When did the pleasure turn into pain? Have you ever examined within? At what point did pleasure begin to become pain? And if I do not let go?

I have heard that Nadir Shah once played such a joke. He was in love with a young woman; but she did not care. He could have had her abducted into his harem; but a man’s joy is in winning—by force all joy is lost. He wanted her to come of her own accord.

One night he learned that the woman was in love with one of Nadir’s own guards, the gatekeeper. Nadir came by night, saw them in embrace with his own eyes, and had them bound there and brought to the palace. He stripped them naked and tied them together in embrace to a pillar.

A deep joke—and a hard punishment. The two had longed to be near each other. They met in secrecy at the risk of Nadir’s wrath. For a moment it seemed like paradise. Now, naked, bound in each other’s arms, they stood tied to a pillar.

After an hour or two the smell of each other’s bodies began to revolt them; they no longer wished to look at each other. When a man is bound with someone, the desire to look vanishes. Marriage has this outcome: two persons are bound together; soon panic begins. Marriage is Nadir’s joke. It is said that after fifteen hours—urine had flowed, excrement too, stench spread—every beauty vanished, the paradise was destroyed; it became hell. After fifteen hours Nadir freed them. The story says they never looked at each other again; having fled that pillar, they never met in life.

What happened? What was known as pleasure turned to pain. Stretch any pleasure a little too far, and it becomes pain. But if it can become pain, it means the pain was present there in seed; otherwise how could it arise? If by increase of quantity, quality changes; if by more or less, the nature changes, that means the quality was hidden already—only not apparent because the quantity was small. Increase the density, it becomes apparent. Change the quantity of any pain—it becomes pleasure. Change the quantity of pleasure—it becomes pain. Get used to pain—it becomes pleasure. Pleasures become pain; pains become pleasure. The gaps are perhaps of words; they are not gaps of reality.

Lao Tzu says: There is no difference between yes and no.

If you put your knowledge aside and enter into the fact of life, you will find that yes turns into no and no into yes. Life is a vast changing. What we call positive may turn negative at any time. What we call morning becomes evening. What we call happiness becomes sorrow.

This means that happiness and sorrow are words pulled out from outside reality. Between the two, reality is one. Our whole knowledge is the knowledge of naming. We say, “This is sorrow; this is happiness,” and we think we have known. Under the names, the recognition of what is—only those can have it who are ready to drop all teaching.

Lao Tzu says: “What is the distance between auspicious and inauspicious?”

Yes and no is one thing. But auspicious and inauspicious—what we call merit and sin—what is the distance there? What is merit? What is sin? It is a bit difficult; it creates anxiety. For Lao Tzu’s thinking is beyond morality; the deeper the thinking, the more it transcends morality.

We say: this act is auspicious, that is inauspicious; this is virtue, that is sin. Surely we live by dividing; it makes living convenient—otherwise life becomes very difficult. So we divide: charity is virtue, theft is sin; compassion is auspicious, cruelty inauspicious; truth-speaking is auspicious, lying inauspicious. We live by such divisions; necessary, useful.

But Lao Tzu raises deep questions: What is the difference? Which thing can you say is always auspicious? Which thing can you say is always inauspicious? The inauspicious becomes auspicious; the auspicious becomes inauspicious—just as happiness and sorrow change.

Consider: you keep helping your neighbor, showing kindness, giving money, serving in every way. But have you noticed—even if it did occur to you, you could not observe fully—that often good deeds are repaid with evil? We then think the man is bad: “I did good, he did bad—because he is a bad man.” This is not true. In truth, when you do good to someone, your goodness becomes such a burden on the other that he must settle the account. When a man does good to another, he wounds his ego and raises his own. “I am the benefactor!” The other is made small; I become superior. Outwardly he thanks me, “Your grace is great,” but inwardly my ego pricks him like a thorn. He too wants a chance to do good to me; a chance when I am below and he is above; when he can puff his chest and I fold my hands, “Great is your kindness!”

If you never give him that chance—if you keep doing good, never allow him to do good—he may do you evil. Because your goodness has become so heavy. Now he has two ways: either do some good to you and put you below; or, if no chance is available—since doing good is costly and not easy for everyone—do evil; that is cheap. Spread a rumor, slander me, do something to lower me. The day he manages to make me small, the balance is restored. Our accounts are settled.

Nietzsche has made a harsh satire on Jesus. Jesus said: “If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn the other also.” We may say, what can be higher than this? Nietzsche said: “Do not do such an unforgivable insult to anyone—that if one slaps you, you present the other cheek; for you become divine and he becomes a worm. This is unpardonable. Better that you give him a ringing slap too—at least both remain men. Give him the dignity of being a man.” No one else has criticized Jesus like this; and none else could—one needs a man of Nietzsche’s stature, equal to Jesus, to say it.

What does it mean? It means that auspicious can also be inauspicious. You slap me and I present the other cheek—what a pious act of mine! Yet it can be inauspicious, an insult. Perhaps it would have been respectful if I had slapped you once, and we would be equal; there would be your dignity in that.

What is auspicious? What is inauspicious?

Jesus has said, Confucius too, and in the Mahabharata the same sutra, and the religions of the world have taken it as a base: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” This is the definition of good. But Nietzsche says: Not necessary; tastes differ. Not necessary; inclinations are different. Not necessary that what you want others to do to you, you should do to them—he may not want it. It is a little subtle, a little complex.

Bernard Shaw put the same point humorously: “I want you to kiss me; therefore should I kiss you?” Then you will understand the principle. Jesus says: Do to others as you want others to do to you. Shaw says: “I want you to kiss me; so should I kiss you? It is not necessary the kiss be returned.” Then what?

Auspicious and inauspicious are not so easy to divide and keep. All categories made by man are childish—useful for work, but childish. Deep contemplation says: auspicious and inauspicious are one. Therefore, one who knows—not by learning from others, but from within—for him nothing is auspicious or inauspicious. He lives simply; whatever happens through him is auspicious.

Understand the difference. One person learns from others what is auspicious and what is inauspicious; rules are fixed: “Do this, don’t do that”—commandments. The scriptures say what is right, what is wrong. You memorize and arrange your life accordingly. You keep doing the auspicious; you avoid the inauspicious. Yet it is not necessary that your life is auspicious. Why? Because life is a fluid flow; nothing can be said in advance.

You heard Jesus; it seems there can be nothing truer. But Nietzsche is also right—the other side.

Hence often the so-called moral man becomes very insulting to others. Hence being near a moralist feels like a burden, not a lightness. The presence of the moral man declares you inauspicious; his eyes condemn you every moment—“You are wrong, he is right.” On small matters too his judgment is ready: what is right, what is wrong. Therefore the moral man creates a strain; no one likes his company. To be with a moralist is hard; because at every step, small or big, a label of right and wrong is fixed.

The religious person is of a very different kind. Being near a religious person is a joy; because he has nothing fixed about right and wrong. He has only a natural ease. In one situation something may be right; in another, the same may be wrong.

If Nietzsche slaps Jesus and Jesus does not respond, it will be inauspicious—for Nietzsche will feel insulted that he was deemed unworthy of a return slap. He will never forgive Jesus for this—it goes too far, an attempt to show oneself superhuman! Yet Nietzsche could also give thanks after being slapped—and say, “Right; I was treated as a man by a man.”

Dandamis stood in chains before Alexander. On his throne Alexander asked, “How shall I treat you?” Dandamis said, “As a king treats another king.” Then Alexander was in difficulty; he had to free Dandamis at once. “Treat me as one man treats another man.” In such a situation, keeping oneself above is inauspicious.

If your other cheek comes forward before you even know it—if you cannot even tell how it happened—if it is not your effort, not your thought, not your principle—if it just happens through you—then that is religious behavior. If you do it by effort, by principle, it is moral behavior. In moral behavior there is a gap between auspicious and inauspicious; in religious behavior there is no such gap.

The religious person lives in spontaneity. What is natural to him, flows. The moral person decides at every moment what to do and not to do. Remember: he who must decide what to do and not to do does not yet have a soul. He has a heap of teachings, a moral outlook; but no religious experience yet.

Lao Tzu says: “What is the distance between auspicious and inauspicious?” Your knowledge alone is the distance.

“What people fear, one should fear; yet alas, the dawn of awakening is still far—how far it is!”

Lao Tzu is not saying: do whatever whims arise. He says: What people fear, one should fear—because one has to live among people. What people call bad, call it bad; what they call good, call it good. But let it not be more than acting; let it not become your soul. What people fear, fear it—fine. But do not take it as the ultimate truth. For if you do what people say is right, avoid what they call wrong—if you become perfect in it—Lao Tzu says still, alas, how far is the dawn of awakening! Even if you meet all the standards of the people—do not steal, do not be violent, do not be adulterous; do compassion, charity, nonviolence—even if you fulfill all moral measures, Lao Tzu says: alas, how far is the dawn of awakening! Even if you become perfectly moral, the first ray of religion has not yet dawned.

This does not mean that Lao Tzu says: drop morality. He says: do not take morality as ultimate. He does not say morality is useless; he says it is insufficient. He does not say: abandon morality and be immoral. He says: remain moral, but know it is only a convenience—do not take it as truth. Do not think the matter is finished: “Because I do not steal, do not lie, do not insult, do not quarrel—therefore it is complete; I have reached the ultimate.”

Morality is social order—only order. Religion is the search for existential truth. Hence morality differs from society to society. What is moral here may not be moral two villages away. There are a thousand moralities in the world. In one tribe what is wholly moral is in another wholly immoral. Something we cannot even conceive anyone would do is moral somewhere else, a duty.

There is a tribe in Africa: if the father dies, it is moral for the eldest son to marry the mother; if he refuses, it is immoral. They too have arguments; all moralities have arguments. They say: Now the mother is growing old; if the son cannot sacrifice his youth for her, who will? It is duty. If we think carefully, a son willing to give up marriage with a young girl and to marry his mother—there is certainly sacrifice. Were we born in that tribe, knowing nothing of any other world, that would be duty. One who would not do it would be condemned by the entire tribe: “He could not be his mother’s in time.”

To us it will seem absurd, unthinkable, utterly immoral—for a son to marry his mother. We have our morality; they have theirs. Moralities are countless. Religion has nothing to do with them. They are conveniences, arrangements. Even if someone fulfills morality completely, the journey toward truth has not begun. Yes, an adjustment with society happens. The immoral man suffers with society; the whole society turns against him. Whether what he does is right or wrong matters less; the misadjustment brings discomfort. Society will punish him; one who goes against order is dangerous. If such people are allowed, the entire social fabric will be torn. So punishment is necessary. One who goes with society will be honored; rewarded. But this has nothing to do with religion.

Lao Tzu says: “What people fear, one should fear.”

To be moral is fine.

“But alas, the dawn of awakening is still far!”

And even if you become perfectly moral, the dawn is far.

To whom does the dawn of awakening come?

In another verse Lao Tzu says: “The people of the world are enjoying themselves, as if at a sacrificial feast; as if standing on an open terrace in spring. I alone am quiet and mild, as if I have no business. I am like a newborn babe that cannot yet smile; unattached, like a wanderer with no home.”

So it appears to a religious man. “The people of the world are enjoying”—this is deep satire. Lao Tzu can be caustic. He says, “People are enjoying; they are doing what they call enjoyment. Only I, wretched, am left out of their fun. They seem to be at a feast every moment. As if it were spring, and they stand on an open terrace rejoicing—spring raining upon them. I alone am quiet and mild, as if I have no work at all. In this great bazaar, this great festival, this vast world where everywhere there is fun and frolic, I alone seem unemployed.”

“I alone am mild like one unemployed, like a newborn babe that cannot yet smile; unattached like one without a home.” I alone am quiet and gentle. Neither does this fun seem fun to me, nor this festival a festival. If this alone is people’s business, I am unemployed. If enjoyment, frolic, festival is the only trade, then I am utterly without trade; I have no business.

What people call fun, enjoyment—Lao Tzu sees as the very foundation of their pains, their sorrows. He will see your happiness and your sorrow as linked together. You do not. You think happiness is one thing, sorrow another. You think: collect happiness, throw away sorrow. Lao Tzu sees that when you collect happiness you do not know you are collecting sorrow. When you enjoy, your sadness is thickening. It may even be that you enjoy only to forget your sadness.

And often it is so. Those who laugh loudly are those in whom inside there is nothing but weeping, nothing but tears. But they laugh uproariously. Not to deceive others—though that may also happen—but their own laughter deceives themselves. Have you seen? In a dark lane a man begins to whistle; his own whistling in the dark makes him feel he is not alone. He begins to sing; hearing his own voice, he gains courage, feels not alone.

Man is very skilled at deception. When you laugh, it is not necessary that you are deceiving someone else; you may be deceiving yourself. You hear your laughter and feel very happy. Look within people—there are heaps of sorrow; and seated on those heaps people go on laughing. This is a miracle. That is why a man fears being alone—how will he laugh alone? Then sorrow begins to show. If another is there one can forget; in conversation with the other, one drowns oneself; one laughs. Alone, sorrow appears; all inner pains come to the surface; tears become clear. Hence no one wants to be alone; no one is willing to remain with himself. Why? How will you laugh with yourself? How long will you laugh? What is within will appear. With another you get entangled and forget yourself. We all mutually help each other to forget; we cooperate mutually in forgetting. We make you forget your sorrow; you make us forget ours. That is what friends are for. We say: a friend is one who is of use in sorrow. Who knows whether he is of use in any other way; but he surely helps us to forget our sorrow.

Lao Tzu says: people are enjoying, as if at a sacrificial feast, or as if spring is raining on them. I alone stand silent. I alone seem mild. I see neither fun nor festival. I alone am left out, outside the crowd, a stranger. I seem unemployed. The whole world is engaged; all are headed somewhere, with some purpose, some goal. I alone am idle. I have nowhere to reach, no hurry; no goal to accomplish. My condition is like that of a newborn child who cannot yet smile.

This is to be understood. A child learns to smile only when he begins to deceive the mother—psychologists have worked on this. From that day the politician is born in the child—when he smiles. The child has nothing to give; everything he has to take. He has to take the mother’s milk, her love, her warmth. Everything to take. He has nothing to give—no coin to offer.

In a few days the child discovers that stretching his face, smiling, fills the mother with delight. He has found a coin; he can give. Now the exchange begins. He smiles at the mother and the mother is delighted. The politician is born; the child’s politics begins. The child’s smile has no other meaning; he is persuading the mother. He has understood that when he smiles the mother is pleased; when she is pleased, she gives. Therefore when he is angry, however much the mother tries, he will not smile; he will hold back his smile; he will take revenge. If he is angry he will not smile. His smile means he is agreeable, pleased, happy with the mother.

Lao Tzu says: “My condition is like that of a newborn who cannot yet smile; who has no experience of the politics of life; who has not learned even the first coin of worldly exchange.”

The child’s smile is the first worldly step; from there he begins to walk in the world. He will learn many things; but one he has learned: he can make another happy; and he can withhold another’s happiness. If he does not smile, he can sadden the mother; if he smiles, he can gladden her. The capacity to manipulate another has come. From there he will learn much in life.

And all life we learn only one thing: how to manipulate others. The man who can manipulate the most people becomes the greatest. If you manipulate millions, you are a great leader. The child learns the first lesson of politics—how to manipulate, how to influence. He knows: if guests have come, he can make the whole house happy by smiling a little. He can sadden them. Much depends on him; he too can do something.

Lao Tzu says: “My state is like that child who cannot yet smile. I have no coin for this world, no tendency to influence it, no power to manipulate it—no; none of this is with me. I am completely outside. I am utterly a stranger.

“Or a wanderer with no home.”

I walk, sit, rise; but I have nowhere to reach, no destination, no house. Homeless. This is the exact meaning of sannyas: homeless—one who has no home.

It does not mean one who has run away from the house. One who has a house may run away. One who has no house—where will he run from? Homelessness is an inner state. But we arrange even this to deceive ourselves. There is a house; I believe it is mine—this belief is false. Then I build another belief: “I renounce this house.” Then I go about proclaiming, “I have renounced my house.” That house—first of all—was never mine.

Lao Tzu says: “I am a wanderer with no home.” This needs to be understood, for Lao Tzu is not even a monk. He never took sannyas. He never announced renunciation, never dropped anything—because he says, “If something were mine I could drop it; if something were mine I could renounce it. I am such—a rover, a vagabond, a nomad—with no house, no address.”

If we understand this inwardly: such a person is not eager to reach anywhere; there is no urge, no longing, no desire to go anywhere. No destination to be reached. Wherever he is, that is his destination. Where he stands, there is his station. If he moves, the moving itself becomes his destination. Such a person is accomplished every moment; for such a person there is no question of being a seeker.

So Lao Tzu says: in this world full of fun—and this is a satire—for in this so-called fun-filled world, only a rare person like Lao Tzu attains fun; the rest are only in deception. He says: “It looks as if they were at a feast.” But the truth is, in this world all our feasts are deprivations. Only people like Lao Tzu partake of the feast of life. It seems as if spring were raining on them. The truth is opposite: only people like Lao Tzu live in spring. We live in the fall, and dream of spring. We live in sorrow, with a cover of fun; we feel we are enjoying greatly—and we only collect sorrow. We seem very busy with work, but in truth all our busyness is a way to escape ourselves—an escape.

Psychologists say: if work is taken away from you, you will be in great difficulty. Though every day you cry, “If only I could be free of this work—then I would breathe a sigh of relief.” Every day! But your crying is also your relish. In the evening you return from the office and say, “When will the day come when I am free? If man did not have a belly to fill, it would be all joy—this job, this business, this morning-to-evening misery!” But while you tell your tale, you do not notice how delighted you are to tell it, how much relish it gives you.

If tomorrow it happens that they say, “Fine, rest at home in peace—eat, drink, make merry; we take the work away,” psychologists say you will be hard pressed to find even a handful of people on this earth who can be happy without work. You will go mad; you will be utterly disturbed—“What now?” You will fall upon yourself; you will have to live with yourself. Work was an escape for you. From one work you ran to another; thus you got no opportunity to see yourself, to inquire: “What am I doing with this life? What am I doing with myself? What is happening? Where am I going?” There is no chance. Busy—from one race to another, then to a third.

In America they say: on Saturday-Sunday people celebrate holidays. But celebrating the holiday is such a big task that as much work is not done in the entire week. They run to distant seashores or mountains, traveling hundreds of miles—stuck among hundreds of cars. Those from whom they are running are running with them. The whole settlement reaches the beach; all the chaos gathers there. After a few hours in this crowd they run back home. Even on holidays a man cannot celebrate holiday. It is very difficult—to celebrate holiday is a big job. So even on holidays you find devices to kill time. You will find some work and get entangled.

In America they say: two days people celebrate holidays; then they become so tired from the holiday that for two days they rest. Then for two days they plan where next to celebrate the holiday. Then two more days they celebrate—and so on.

Leisure—you have it; today in America there is maximum leisure—but the least time. It seems inverted. For the first time mankind has reached a point where leisure could be; two-day weekends, five- or six-hour days—officially; who works five hours! One or two hours of work a day; conveniences, time. Yet in America people have the least time. Not a moment to stand and see—not even a moment to stand and look. They are running.

Psychologists say: when a man retires, his lifespan decreases. If he remained at work he would live ten years longer; after retirement he will live ten years less. What happened? All his life he thought, “When will that day come when all work is finished and I sit quietly?” And when he sits in his recliner, he finds, “What now?” For now there is no office, no shop, no juniors or seniors; no one greets him in the street; no one cares. People forget quickly—what relation do they have now? The children have grown and are entangled in their own world—in the same foolishness in which the father sits retired. They have no time, no convenience; this father sits retired—what is he to do now?

So in America they have set up big homes for the aged. Strange events happen there: old men and women fall in love again. Old-age homes! What else to do there?

In one way, perhaps better. In our country also there are old-age homes; I know one or two. Here it is impossible to keep even an aged man and woman together. I know one such home; a friend spent much money to build it. He tells me, “If only I could be free of this home!” Some seventy to seventy-five aged people; what an uproar they create! You can imagine it—one elderly person in a house and you know what can happen. It is not his fault; habit of work for a lifetime and now no work. He invents work: spins webs, plots schemes sitting idle; finds fault in everything; gives suggestions for everything; advises on everything; tries to run the minds of the whole house.

Seventy to seventy-five aged gathered in one place—“We are in such a misery as cannot be told.” You cannot even scold them; they are all experienced, knowledgeable; they will not listen. In America it is still better; they keep old men and old women together—some troubles lessen; the net begins again.

A man cannot live without work; he needs work till his last breath. Why? Work is our escape—our way of avoiding ourselves. Work is a drug, a wine, by which we forget ourselves. Take away the drug and we are in trouble.

Lao Tzu says: all are busy; the whole world is at work; I alone am unemployed; I have no work, no occupation—like a newborn who cannot yet smile; like a wanderer with no home.

A religious person is such a stranger—an outsider.

Enough for today. We will continue tomorrow. Let us pause five minutes; do kirtan; then go.