Tao Upanishad #46

The maxims of supreme conduct arise only from the Tao. And that element we call Tao is beyond grasp, elusive. Elusive and beyond grasp, yet all forms lie hidden in it. Elusive and beyond grasp, yet within it all objects are contained. Dark and nebulous—still, the life-energy is veiled there. That life-energy is utterly true; its proofs too are concealed within it. From ancient times to today, its name-and-form expressions have known no end; in them we can behold the parent of all things. But how do I know the shape of the parent of all things? By these—by these very expressions.

Bernard Shaw has said, with a certain irony, that until the whole world becomes honest, how can I tell my children that honesty is the most useful and profitable? “Honesty is the best policy”—how can I say this to my children until the whole world becomes honest? Only if the whole world were honest could honesty be useful.

The morality, the conduct Bernard Shaw speaks of—Lao Tzu would call it petty policy, petty conduct. Petty conduct is forever concerned that conduct be useful and profitable. Petty conduct is a bargain, a bartering. Everything depends on what its return will be. If the result of living with honesty, truth, and virtue is heaven, then I can conduct myself accordingly. If punya brings prestige, and if respectable standing and honor come from moral conduct, then it will seem meaningful to me. This is the arrangement of petty conduct. Between petty conduct and misconduct there is not much difference.

Let us understand this well. Between petty conduct and misconduct there is not much difference. Between petty morality and immorality there is not much distance. If I find honesty useful because it brings me benefit, then any moment I may also find dishonesty useful if it brings me benefit. If my gaze is on gain, then honesty and dishonesty are not goals, they are means. When gain comes through honesty, I will be honest; when gain comes through dishonesty, I will be dishonest. If gain itself is the goal, then there will be little hindrance in converting dishonesty into honesty and honesty into dishonesty.

Hence everyone’s morality has a price. If I ask you, “Can you steal?”—such a question has no meaning. It is nonsense. I should ask: “Can you steal ten rupees?” Perhaps you will say—no. I should ask: “Can you steal ten thousand?” Perhaps your ‘no’ will start to falter. I should ask: “Can you steal a million?” Perhaps a ‘yes’ will begin rising from within you.

Someone says, “I do not take bribes.” We should ask, “Up to how much?” Because speaking of taking or not taking bribes in the abstract has no meaning. Everyone has limits. And everyone can be bought at his own limit. For our morality is not an ultimate value; it is not an ultimate end. Our morality too is a means for obtaining something. When ‘that’ is obtained by morality, we are moral; when it is obtained by immorality, we are immoral.

Petty morality means: morality too is merely a means for some benefit. Then there is not much difference between ‘moral’ and ‘immoral.’ The differences are of degree, of quantity—not of quality. Then you can make any immoral person moral, and any moral person immoral. Between the two there is no qualitative distinction; only quantitative differences. Change the scale of quantity, and their morality becomes immorality, and their immorality becomes morality.

Lao Tzu’s sutra begins, “The marks of great character follow alone from the Tao—the maxims of supreme conduct arise only from the Tao.”

Petty conduct means: conduct is not valuable in itself; what comes from it is valuable. Supreme conduct means: conduct is valuable in itself. Conduct itself is the goal—an end in itself; it is not a means to something else. If we ask you, “Why do you speak the truth?” If you say, “By speaking truth, I earn punya; by punya, I will attain heaven; by speaking truth, I gain prestige, fame”—if you give any reason at all for speaking truth, then your truth will be petty conduct. If you say, “Speaking truth is sufficient in itself; no other reason; there is no other why—we speak truth because truth is joy in itself”—then even if by speaking truth one had to go to hell, still we would speak the truth. Even if speaking truth were to become a sin, still we would speak the truth. Even if for speaking truth the cross were to be our lot, still we would speak the truth.

But then a great difficulty arises for our petty conduct. We speak truth to go to heaven. And since heaven has become doubtful, the number of truth-speakers in the world has dwindled. Heaven is now in doubt. A thousand years ago it was not in doubt. The immorality visible today, and the morality visible one or two thousand years ago—this is not because people have become more immoral today, nor because earlier people were more moral; the sole reason is that the very foundations upon which earlier morality stood have become doubtful. The benefits that seemed certain two thousand years ago are no longer certain. When one is moral only for gain, and gain itself becomes uncertain, then to be moral would be madness.

Two thousand years ago heaven was as certain as this earth—perhaps more certain. Earth was maya, false, a dream; heaven was true, hell was true. They possessed more reality than earthly life. To tell lies meant hell—terrible consequences. To speak truth meant heaven—great rewards and benefits. There were apsaras, heavenly pleasures, the wish-fulfilling tree. All this was assured. In those days the clever man—the “cunning,” as the Tao calls him—the shrewd one, spoke the truth, not falsehood. For when truth brings heaven and falsehood brings hell, and heaven and hell are realities, the shrewd will choose truth. It may seem odd: two thousand years ago the shrewd person spoke truth and was honest; today the shrewd person is dishonest and speaks lies. But both are shrewd. Today he lies because he finds heaven and hell illusory; the cash in hand is more real. The same man—earlier the coins of heaven were real to him; now they are not. He had adopted morality for those coins. When they vanished, morality vanished. Yesterday’s moral man is today’s immoral man.

This is a little difficult to understand. All the possibilities have shifted. Man has not become immoral; the man who was immoral remains immoral. He was petty-moral until yesterday. Petty morality cannot endure; it is washed away. Its whole scaffolding collapses. The ground beneath it has shifted. That same petty moral man today is thoroughly immoral. Nothing has changed within him. Yesterday benefit came through morality; today benefit comes through immorality. Yesterday heaven came by speaking truth; today there seems to be no way to heaven without speaking untruth. Yesterday respect came by being honest; today the honest are unrespected; the dishonest are honored. Yesterday cheating was shameful; it produced guilt. Today the more skillful one is at cheating, the higher one’s respectful position. So what came by honesty yesterday now comes by dishonesty; those whose eyes are set on gain will slide from morality to immorality.

Lao Tzu calls this morality “petty conduct.” We know only two words: conduct and misconduct; morality and immorality. Lao Tzu introduces a new word. He says: what you call conduct, what you call misconduct—between them there is no qualitative difference. He coins two new terms: supreme conduct and petty conduct. He does not even bother with misconduct, because petty conduct is but a form of misconduct. He divides conduct into two: supreme and petty. To call petty conduct “conduct” is only nominal. Where morality itself is the goal—where truth is joy unto itself, where honesty is valuable in itself—there it does not matter what comes of it: whether something is gained or lost, these are irrelevant.

I know hundreds of people. Many have come to me and said, “We live morally, but what’s the fruit? Those who live immorally obtain everything; everything is theirs.”

Such a person is one of petty conduct. Otherwise, this question would not arise at all: “If we live ethically, what do we get?” What he wants to get is exactly what immoral people get—but he wants it through morality. He is only behind the times. He does not know the times have changed. What once came through morality now comes through immorality. His understanding is a little dull; he is not moral—just backward. The whole world has understood that heaven is not obtained through honesty now; he has not yet received the news. He thinks…

His way of thinking, his language, his measure, are the same as those of the immoral. The immoral has built a mansion; he also wants a mansion through morality. Hence he suffers: “I remain in a hut, and the dishonest build great houses. I languish in a village; the dishonest reside in the capital.” The pain that arises in him is proof of his petty conduct. It says, “We too wanted the same; but we lack courage to be dishonest, we lack courage to lie, so we cling to the old morality. Yet what the immoral receive, we should also receive.” Such a moral man constantly blames God: “What kind of world is Yours? No justice is visible!” God has nothing to do with it; justice has nothing to do with it. It is petty conduct.

Supreme conduct means: even if Lao Tzu were dying of hunger and the dishonest were conquering the whole world, still the question would not arise in Lao Tzu’s heart—no comparison: “You have the whole world; I have nothing.” No, Lao Tzu would still say, “You are to be pitied; I have everything, and you have nothing.” In Lao Tzu’s heart, those who succeed by immoral means evoke compassion, not comparison. Envy will not arise in Lao Tzu.

Alexander came to India and met Diogenes. Diogenes lay naked on the sand. Alexander said to him, “I wish to do something for you.” Diogenes burst into laughter: “Do something for yourself—that will be quite enough. And what will you do for me? I have no need left. I have no need—what could you do for me?”

That day, for the first time, Alexander felt he stood before a greater emperor. He was accustomed to meeting emperors. This was a naked fakir, Diogenes, stretched on the sand. For the first time Alexander felt pale in the presence of a man to whom he had said, “Tell me what I can do for you!”—and in our language he could have done anything. If Diogenes had asked for a palace, a palace would have been built. Whatever he asked would have been done. Alexander could do everything. There was no wish Diogenes could express that Alexander could not fulfill. Yet Diogenes’ reply put him in a great quandary: “What could you do for me? Do something for yourself—that is much. And I have no need; so there is no question of doing.”

Alexander stood silent. He said, “If I get another birth, I will say to God: my first choice is—make me a Diogenes.” Diogenes said, “And if I am given that chance, I will say, make me anything—but do not make me an Alexander.”

This man is a man of supreme conduct. With Alexander there is no question of comparison; there is question of compassion. Understand this distinction of Lao Tzu and the sutra becomes easy.

Petty conduct means conduct done for some purpose. Supreme conduct means purposeless conduct. This purposeless conduct arises from the Tao; it is obtained by the experience of svabhava, one’s own nature.

This brings a second point to mind. Petty conduct arises from social approvals—from teaching, education, conditioning. Whatever conduct you are doing has come to you by conditioning. Whatever misconduct you do has also come that way; you have learned it. Our predicament is that we have to learn double standards. Our entire education is a double-bind.

A father says to his son, “Always speak truth!” And the son knows a thousand times that the father lies. The same father, a little later, when there is a knock at the door, says to the boy, “Go say Father is not at home.” This is beyond the boy’s comprehension. Slowly he will understand that in life two faces are necessary: one face only for discussion, for ideals, for boasting—ideal, beautiful, of imagination, of dreams; it is not to be lived. And there is a second face which is to be lived; that is the real one. That ideal face is a mask to cover the real. Because the real is ugly, cover it with the beautiful and go on believing in your mind that you are beautiful. But living with the beautiful is difficult; to live, an ugly face is needed.

Hence everyone keeps many faces ready. All twenty-four hours we keep changing faces—whichever is needed we put on. This is the sign of the clever, successful person.

This double situation—learning conduct and misconduct together—divides each person, splits him into fragments. He has to live on two levels at once; to ride two boats at once; to exit through two doors at once. The tension that fills the whole of life has one cause: we are riding two boats at once; tension is inevitable. And the boats are such that one sails east, one west.

Then Bernard Shaw is right: “I will tell my children that honesty is useful only when the whole world becomes honest; not before.” In my view he is honest. It is proper to teach the child: “Dishonesty is the best policy.” An honest father will teach this. A dishonest father will teach, “Honesty is the best policy,” and by his conduct also teach, “You too teach this sentence to your children, but never practice it.”

Mulla Nasruddin, on his deathbed, said to his son, “Let me give you my last instruction. You will now carry on my business. Remember two sutras. First: always keep your word.” The son asked, “And the second?” Nasruddin said, “Never give your word to anyone.” If you remember these two, success is yours.

These two sutras are attached to all our codes of conduct: do one thing, say another; be something, show something else. Do not let what is real be revealed; hide it in darkness. Reveal what is unreal. When two people meet, two do not meet—at least six meet. For every person keeps at least, minimum, three faces. One—as he is in truth—of which even he no longer knows, so long unused that he has lost acquaintance. One—as he thinks himself to be, which he is not. And third—as he always wants to show himself to be. When two people enter a room, six meet. Conversation usually occurs among the faces; the real men stand silent. The real meeting never happens.

This moral structure of a fragmented personality we learn from society, from others; it is borrowed. Lao Tzu says: the maxims of supreme conduct arise only from the Tao. Tao means, for Lao Tzu, from svabhava—not from society; from within, not from without; from oneself, not from others.

Buddha also speaks truth. Mahavira also speaks truth. We too speak truth. But there is a difference between our truth and Buddha’s. Our truth is learned truth; Buddha’s is not. When we speak truth, falsehood exists within us. Understand this well: when we speak truth, falsehood is present within. We weigh—what should we say? Which will be more advantageous? What will be expedient now? We always speak by choosing. Options stand before us. When Buddha speaks truth, no option stands before him. He does not choose to speak. Falsehood is not present. What is within, comes out. Hence our truth is mixed with falsehood—it must be. And we speak truth in such a way as to extract the work of falsehood from it. We speak truth in such a way that we can use it to commit violence. We speak truth in such a way as to stab a knife into someone’s chest. Many times it would seem better had we spoken a lie—for our lie sometimes contains balm, and our truth only the knife. Our gaze is less on speaking truth, more on wounding. Because truth wounds well, we speak truth.

Bernard Shaw wrote in a letter: if you want to hurt someone, no weapon is more effective than the truth. If you want to cut someone’s roots, no instrument is more convenient than truth.

We use truth as we use lies. What does lie mean? We use it for violence, to harm another and benefit ourselves. It is part of our business. When Buddha speaks truth there is no choice; what is within flows without. There is no option.

The maxims of supreme conduct mean: may the inner heart be so transformed that whatever comes out of it is truth; whatever comes out is honesty; whatever comes out is love; whatever comes out is compassion. Compassion should not have to be produced; love should not have to be manufactured; truth should not have to be dragged out. Dragged truth ceases to be truth. Love done with effort remains love in name only—not love.

Try a little experiment and you will see. With truth it is difficult because the habit is dense. Try with love: make an effort to love someone. Try to love. You will find your effort falsifies your love. The more you try, the more false it becomes. You may be able to deceive the other; you will not deceive yourself. The other may believe that love has been given; you will know it was only acting. Yes, with continuous effort you may gain skill in acting, so much so that perhaps you too will forget it is acting, not love. There is no way to bring love by effort.

There are certain things that do not come by effort; they come of themselves. Like sleep at night—if sleep does not come, try to bring it by effort. You will see: the more you try, the more difficult it becomes. In truth few suffer from insomnia; many suffer from the disease of effort. In fact, fewer are troubled by sleeplessness; many are troubled because they try to bring sleep by effort. Sleep means: only when there is no effort will sleep come. If you exert, even if sleep arrives, it will break. Effort will break sleep.

People give tricks: count to a thousand in the night and sleep will come. For one who counts to a thousand, sleep will be difficult; if it is coming a little, that too will break—for the tension needed to count to a thousand will break it. Sleep cannot come by effort. When you drop all effort, sleep comes. Yes, sometimes while counting to a thousand you may become so bored, so tired, that you drop effort—“let it come or not”—and then it comes. That is different. It does not come from counting; it comes from fatigue. Tired, you drop effort, and sleep arrives. Sleep is natural; when you are tired, it comes by itself.

Like sleep, there are many elements in life. Lao Tzu holds that the supreme conduct of life is like sleep, not like effort. It arises from svabhava. Then what is man to do?

Our endeavor is to not lie, to by effort stop untruth, to by effort speak truth. If there is a desire for dishonesty, suppress it and behave honestly—this is our education. From this, petty conduct is born; petty men are born. Whether their conduct or misconduct, the pettiness remains the same. Between our saints and our criminals there is no difference in pettiness.

Harsh as it sounds: between our saint and our criminal, pettiness is the same. The saint is trying to obtain by honesty what the criminal tried to obtain by dishonesty. The pettiness is equal. The saint’s pettiness we fail to recognize; the criminal’s pettiness we see at once. But pettiness is a deep matter. It has no relation to what you do; it has relation to what you are. You may be a criminal, you may be a saint—that belongs to the world of doing. But what is hidden within? What is your being? What is your Atman?

Ordinary morality’s formula is clear: abandon what is wrong by effort, and grasp what is right by effort. What will Lao Tzu say? Lao Tzu says: in the realm of karma no transformation is efficacious. The question is not what you do; the question is what you are. Drop concern with making sure that the bad does not happen through you and the good does. Concern yourself—ponder this, enter this sadhana—what are you? Let this come first, let this come first.

Someone asked Jesus, “What shall I do? How shall I attain the supreme bliss of life? How will truth come? How will religion come? What is the way?” Jesus’ famous saying: “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all else shall follow.” First discover the kingdom of God, and then all will come of itself, following like a shadow.

For Jesus, “the kingdom of God” is what the Tao is for Lao Tzu.

Moggaliputta, a young man, came to Buddha and asked, “I too want to be good; I too want to do the right. What shall I do?” Buddha said, “Do not worry about doing. First find out who is hidden within you, Moggaliputta. The day you know him, evil will stop happening through you. That evil happens through you is only a symptom, not the disease.”

Understand this well. Dishonesty happens through you; theft happens, violence happens, harshness happens—these are not the disease, only the symptoms. They are information that you have not yet related to yourself.

A man has a fever. Fever is not a disease. The body grows heated. Heating is not the disease; it is a sign. Something is happening in the body—some deeper ailment, some conflict, some upheaval. Because of that upheaval the body has heated up.

This heating is only the body’s information of disease. So do not commit the folly: if someone’s body is hot, do not pour cold water to cool it and think all is well. The disease will hardly be eliminated; the patient may be. Because you took the symptom to be the disease. It is good that the body shows fever; that is a sign of a healthy body.

When I say “a sign of a healthy body,” understand: when something goes wrong within, a healthy body immediately gives the news; an unhealthy body gives the news late. To give the news one must be healthy. If the body is a little disturbed, the healthier it is the sooner the symptoms appear. The more unhealthy, the more obstruction in transmission. The healthier, the more transparent. Any little disturbance and every pore gives the news. This news-giving is necessary; it is against disease. Fever is not the disease; it is your body’s communication that there is disease within. To set about eliminating fever is madness. Eliminate the disease, and the fever will depart of itself.

But in the deep inner world of man we do exactly this. If a man is dishonest, we set about eliminating his dishonesty. If he steals, we set about eliminating his stealing. If he lies, we set about eliminating his lying—without asking why he lies, why he steals, why he is dishonest.

Lao Tzu says, Buddha says: only that person is immoral who has no relationship with himself. In their language: the immoral is the irreligious. Religious means: one who is related to himself. Immorality is only information of our irreligiousness—symptom. By changing symptoms nothing happens. When one sets about changing a symptom, complications arise. If a symptom of one disease is suppressed, it appears as another disease; suppress it there, it begins at a third point. And remember: each time the suppressed disease goes deeper and spreads to more nerves. Slowly one disease may become a thousand.

When disease gives news, seek the cause. A man is dishonest—it is clear he has no experience of the joy of being honest. That is why he is able to sell honesty for two coins.

They say Judas sold Jesus for thirty coins. Judas was Jesus’ disciple, and he sold him to the Jews for thirty, where he was crucified.

One thing is certain: Judas did not know Jesus’ worth—or thought it only thirty. Judas had no idea who Jesus was. That is why he sold him for thirty.

But after Jesus’ death, for the first time understanding dawned. Judas stood hidden in that crowd where Jesus was crucified. Seeing Jesus on the cross, for the first time he saw who this man is. And when Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” a revolution happened in Judas. The ground must have slipped from under his feet. The man he sold for thirty—hanging on the cross, on the brink of death, nails driven through his hands—dying, praying for those who were killing him, throwing stones, abusing him: “O Lord, forgive them; they do not know what they are doing. Only one is guilty—the one who knows and does. These know nothing of what they do; forgive them.”

People do not know Judas’ whole story because Jesus’ death was such a great event everything else faded. The next day Judas committed suicide. This second fact is little known. It is rarely discussed. Jesus’ crucifixion eclipsed all else. But Judas killed himself in repentance. The man who sold for thirty was filled with such pain! He realized, for the first time, he had sold a diamond for thirty—one beyond price. If the wealth of the whole world were put on one side of the scale, it would not lift this one; he would be heavier still. “What have I done? And this man, even while dying, said, forgive them!”

When we are dishonest—for two coins we are dishonest—we do not know we are selling our inner soul for pennies. This is no less than selling Jesus. Then you are Judas, selling Jesus. Then you will see Judas did not err; thirty coins are enough—silver coins, and pure silver. If you too get thirty silver coins, you will be ready to sell.

This selling of Jesus is not a single historical incident; it recurs in every life daily. It is not an event that happened and ended. We sell Jesus every day. The innocent Atman within—we sell it for trifles daily. But the very fact we sell it shows we do not know what is within. If one knew, such selling would be impossible.

Therefore Lao Tzu will say: the maxims of supreme conduct arise only from the Tao. Until one knows oneself—one’s ownness, one’s svabhava—his morality has no—no—value.

“The maxims of supreme conduct arise only from the Tao. And that which we call Tao is beyond grasp, elusive.”

And that which we call svabhava—there is great difficulty in attaining it. The first difficulty: we cannot grasp it. Some things—as I said—do not come by effort. Some things slip away by grasping. Some things are obtained by grasping; some are lost by grasping.

My palm is open; air fills it. If I close my fist, the air goes out. When the fist is open it is full; when closed, it is empty. Just opposite to what we imagine. I try to clench my fist to hold the air; the tighter I clench, the more the air escapes. Air is elusive, beyond grasp. That does not mean air is not. Air is here-now. The man obsessed with catching air will be in trouble. One who understands the secret—that an open palm holds air; that by leaving hold, it comes into hold—for him it is not elusive.

Lao Tzu says: Tao is elusive, beyond grasp. Do not take this to mean it cannot be held. This is the very formula for holding it. If you want to hold it, do not hold it. Do not try to hold it—and it will be in your hold. If you try, if you chase, it will slip out of your hand. So: non-clinging is its key.

We clutch at everything. In the world there is no way without holding. Whatever is to be obtained outwardly must be grasped. To get wealth—grasp wealth. To get fame—grasp fame. And grasp hard. If you sit on a chair you must grasp it mightily—many will be pulling your leg from below; they too want that chair.

Thus one who sits on a chair spends most of his time grasping it. And it is not a single task; it is double: if you are to keep your chair, you must keep pulling the legs of the chair above. You must defend yourself against those below who pull your legs, and you must grab the legs of those above who are trying to escape your pull—then you can remain on your chair. It is a great dynamic process—never stationary—on all day and night, waking and sleeping.

If you are a minister, the deputy minister will dangle from your leg; and you will hold the chief minister’s leg. In this tussle you may save your chair, and with much noise and commotion you may even move to the next chair. If you slacken and lose grip, you may fall flat.

Look in the world: we all cling. And not subtly—

We sit here together. It may not occur to you that everyone’s hand is in someone else’s pocket. But it is. If you look at the inner economics of the world you will find every hand in another’s pocket. Those very skillful make a thousand hands instead of one, and put them into a thousand pockets. The more hands one has, the more pockets one can grasp, the more wealth he will have.

Chesterton, a playwright, was walking in a garden with a friend. He had the habit of walking with his hands in his own pockets. The friend asked, “Could it be that a man spends his whole life with his hands in his pockets?” Chesterton said, “It could be—if the hands are one’s own and the pockets belong to others. To spend life with hands in one’s own pockets is difficult.”

Our hands are stretched toward others’ pockets. That is our economic structure. Whoever loosens his grasp, loses everything. Naturally, in life, outwardly everything is obtained by holding. So we think God too will be obtained by holding; the Atman too will be obtained by grasping; the Tao too by clinging. There the mistake begins. Outside, whatever is to be obtained comes by grasping, because nothing there is yours. What belongs to another must be snatched and held. Even then, no matter how tightly you hold, today or tomorrow it slips. It is obtained by grasping, for it is not yours—yet it slips. At least death will open your fist. Outwardly, by grasping you get.

Inwardly the key is upside down. There, what is—is already ours. Whether you hold it or not, it is yours. Not holding, it will not slip. Svabhava means: that which has no way of being separate from us. Svabhava means: even death cannot separate it from us. That which cannot be separated from us is what we are. There is no need to grasp it. Take the habit of grasping inward and try to catch the soul—you fall into difficulty.

The English thinker Hume said: hearing again and again, reading so many times, “Know thyself,” one day I too thought I should see what the soul is. I went within and tried to catch it; I ran hard; tried all exercises within, but the soul never came into my grasp. Other things came: a thought here, an emotion there, a passion, a desire—but not the soul. Therefore, Hume wrote in his diary: “That which cannot be grasped is not. The proof of being is being graspable.”

Had Hume met Lao Tzu, Lao Tzu would have said, “You went to grasp it, and you are that! How could you grasp it? Whatever you grasp will be something else, not the soul. The grasper itself is the soul; there is nothing to grasp.”

With this hand I can grasp all things—except this very hand. With this hand I cannot grasp this hand, yet all else I can. With my eye I can see everything—except this eye. The Atman can grasp everything—except itself.

Hence Lao Tzu says: beyond grasp, elusive.

But do not be disheartened. Only understand: do not carry the wrong habit of grasping within—or you will end up like Hume. Within, the habit that works is letting go. Hence Mahavira, Buddha, Mohammed emphasize renunciation. But note: their renunciation does not mean what you mean. They emphasize letting go. If you understand this key you will see: by grasping the soul is not obtained; by letting go it is. But our habit is to grasp. If we carry this habit within, trouble arises. Do not take this habit within. Therefore Mahavira said: renunciation is the first sutra—if you would know that which is within.

But what do we mean by renunciation? We mean: someone gives up some money. Ask him, “Why?” He says, “We have come into this world—let us make some arrangement for later.” He says, “Life is passing; sooner or later death will come—some provision for after is necessary.” Whatever he says, you will see he has not given up money; he has invested it. Investment is not renunciation. It is management of capital for greater expansion. It will bring interest and profit. And the plan is long—governments plan for five years; people plan for many births. They extend it up to heaven, even up to moksha. Sitting here on the earth they do business even in liberation. If we call this renunciation, it is a mistake. It has nothing to do with renunciation.

Renunciation means a disposition to let go, an understanding of letting go. And whenever one lets go for some purpose, he has not let go. Renunciation “for” is not renunciation. Renunciation means only the art of dropping—purposeless. We have grasped much; much does not come by grasping. Let us try dropping—what comes by dropping? We have run much; let us stop—what comes by stopping? We have tied down much; let us release—what comes by releasing? Renunciation is the antidote to the habit of grasping; it is the method of dissolving that habit. Renunciation has no result; no profit. Renunciation is only the dissolution of the wrong habit of grasping. But the moment renunciation is experienced, that which could not be held is instantly in hand. The fist was closed; we did not know—open it, and the whole sky comes into the palm.

So Lao Tzu says: “That which we call Tao is beyond grasp and elusive. Elusive and beyond grasp—yet within it all forms lie hidden.”

Far—yet very near. Not come into grip—yet all forms are concealed in it. Whatever is seen is its transformation. All shapes are its play.

“Elusive and beyond grasp—and yet within it all objects are contained. Dark and nebulous—yet the life-energy is hidden there.”

Dark and nebulous! Those who have acquired a deep habit of looking outside—when they first go within they will see darkness. This symbol has many meanings; let us take them to heart.

One: if you have stayed outside your house in the bright noon, entering you will find darkness. There is no darkness there; your eyes will need time to adjust. If your eye’s focus has become fixed entirely for the outside, then inside there will remain only darkness. The eye is a mobile arrangement, constantly adjusting to the world: when there is more light, the pupil contracts; when less light, it dilates. If you have stared long at the sun, the pupil becomes so small that entering a room will feel utterly dark. Stare long at the sun and you may become blind. Blind means: if the eye’s focus becomes fixed—the tissues are delicate; the sun is harsh. Over-exercise on the sun can shrink or burn them. Then inside the house there will be only darkness.

Darkness, rightly understood, depends on the eye’s mobility. Creatures exist that see in what we call darkness; their eyes are more mobile than ours, more fluid. They can see in darkness. Darkness and light depend on the eye.

Lao Tzu says: dark and nebulous—because those who have wandered outward for lifetimes, whose eye’s focus has grown fixed outward, who have never peeped within—when they first peep, they will find pitch dark.

Hence those who go deep in meditation often get frightened and return. Such dense darkness is encountered that fear arises. And the books say something else: the books say great light is within. This we have read: great light is within. And when we go within, we find darkness. We fear we will be lost—let us get out. The darkness within will seem darker than the darkness without. It is a totally unfamiliar realm; the eye has no capacity there. Outside, no matter how dark, we know there are others—someone is there. In the inner darkness you are utterly alone. No one is there. The fear of aloneness catches you; the darkness frightens you; in fear you return.

Lao Tzu says: within is darkness, nebulousness. This darkness is not opposed to those sutras that speak of the supreme light within. The supreme light is within. But the eye to see it develops slowly, slowly—develops by going within. Tired from the noon outside, you sit quietly for a few moments—the darkness lessens; the house begins to appear lit.

Wake in the night and look quietly into the darkness; a miracle will appear: the more quietly you look, the less the darkness becomes. If you keep looking, a thief’s eyes will be available to you. Thieves, by slowly peering into darkness, see better than we do. The eye gets trained. In your house, you may not see; he will.

I have heard: one night thieves entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house. His wife woke him: “Nasruddin, get up—there seem to be thieves.” Nasruddin said, “Keep quiet. We have searched this house our whole life; we never found anything. Perhaps they will find something. I have heard thieves’ eyes see in the dark. Be quiet; lest they run away. And if they do not find anything, perhaps in their panic they may drop something they have—be quiet.”

Another incident: one night Nasruddin was alone; even his wife was not home, and thieves came. With the wife present, it is easier to parade bravery. Wives are very useful for husbands to exhibit bravery to. They cannot show it anywhere else; they come home and become heroes before the wife—though no matter how great a hero you are, a wife never considers her husband brave. Even if you are an Alexander, in front of the wife you are nothing. It is a compromise: battered by life, one can swagger before the wife—a world is created in which we too are something.

That day even the wife was not there. Mulla was frightened; he hid in a cupboard and stood with his back to the door. The thieves searched everywhere and finally reached the cupboard. They opened it and saw Mulla’s back. They said, “Nasruddin, what are you doing?” Nasruddin said, “Out of shame I am hiding here—there is nothing at home. I feel so ashamed. You have come from who knows how far; there is nothing here. If you find something, please let me know. We too have searched a long time.”

The thief can see in darkness; better than we can. Practice enables vision.

The inner darkness challenges your eye to be remade. If you run out, you miss. Christian mystics have called it the “dark night of the soul,” and devised disciplines to pass through it. Light will come—but after passing the dark night. Morning never arrives without passing the night. Has any sun ever risen without night? So within too the experience of light comes after the night is crossed. One meaning.

A second meaning, proper to Lao Tzu: he values darkness more than light. He says: light is a stimulation; darkness is supreme peace. Light has limits; darkness is limitless. Have you noticed? Light has boundaries; darkness is infinite. And light excites—hence in light you cannot sleep well. The deeper the darkness, the more you rest. Light strikes the eyes; there is a little violence in light; darkness is utterly non-violent.

Lao Tzu says: light has to be produced, and still it flickers out; darkness is eternal. It is not produced; it is. Light must be lit—be it a lamp or mighty suns. Suns too are exhausted; their fuel is consumed. Scientists say our sun will not last more than forty hundred thousand years more; its fuel is running out. It throws its fire daily; in four hundred thousand years its fire will be over; it will grow cold. It has burned for billions of years—but what does it matter? In the stream of endless time, a lamp burns one night; a sun burns for billions of years—but both are extinguished. Light goes out; darkness never goes out.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: the supreme nature is less like light and more like darkness—in the sense that it is eternal, infinite, immortal, formless, nondual. Light creates distinctions. We sit here in many; in light we appear separate. Let darkness fall: all distinctions vanish. All distinctions appear in light; in darkness all is undifferentiated.

So Lao Tzu adds another meaning: in the Tao, things are not clear-cut; boundaries are not drawn. They interpenetrate each other. Boundaries are not fixed, not solid—they are fluid, airy, wave-like. No boundary is fixed. One form transforms into another. It is a nondual ocean.

“Yet the life-energy is hidden there.”

In that supremely silent, still darkness, all the energy of life lies concealed. All the power of life—the élan vital, as Bergson called it—lies hidden in that deep layer of darkness.

Let us understand this from two or three sides. In life, whenever birth happens, it happens in darkness: whether a seed sprouts in the womb of the earth, or a child is formed in the mother’s womb. Birth is not in light; all births are in darkness. If you want to birth a seed—hide it in dark; it will sprout. To birth a child—hide the seed in the mother’s darkness; there not even a ray reaches. There it will grow, be formed, develop. It comes into light only when the foundations have been made.

Roots remain hidden in darkness; bring them into light—the tree will wither and die. Roots are to remain in darkness, for the deepest energy of life is hidden in supreme darkness. Supreme darkness means supreme mystery—absolute mystery. Darkness is very mysterious. In light all mystery is lost. Whatever light falls upon loses its mystery. The people of the East were very wise; they veiled all the juicy things of life. Woman was beautiful—not as beautiful as she seemed; she cannot be that beautiful—she was beautiful because of the veil. Unveiled, woman in the West has grown ugly. Although the irony is that in the West one finds the most beautiful women to have ever lived on earth—but still something is lost: the rasa, the mystery. The veil, the ghunghat, that hid something—made it mysterious. When all is exposed, the rasa is lost.

Science is a great enemy of rasa—it is forever exposing. Religion loves rasa—it forever covers. So understand Lao Tzu’s darkness.

The deepest energy of life is hidden in darkness. From there it comes into light; but the roots remain in darkness. We spread outward—our branches, leaves, flowers—but our roots remain in darkness.

Darkness, for Lao Tzu, is not what we think. Commonly we take darkness as the symbol of death and light as life. Hence when someone dies, we wear black in grief. Ask Lao Tzu—he will say, “What madness! Darkness hides the energy of life, and you link black and darkness with death?”

We value light highly—not because we know its worth. For reasons: in light we feel less fear. We are fearful folk. In light, less fear; things are clear—who is where, who approaches, whether he holds a dagger or not, friend or enemy; face, eyes, behavior—all are clear. We feel secure. In light we feel secure; in darkness insecure. In darkness we feel, who knows what is happening? In darkness only one can sleep peacefully—who has no fear of insecurity, who is free of the attachment to security. One attached to security will not be able to sleep in darkness.

Hitler would not allow even his mistress to sleep in his room—for one cannot trust anyone when one is afraid. Hence he did not marry her until death—for after marriage she would demand at least to sleep in that room. Hitler married—a remarkable event—half an hour before he died. When bombs began to fall on Berlin, and war reached the door of his bunker, Hitler said to his companions, “Immediately—though it is midnight—fetch a priest; any priest; I must marry now. There is no way to live. I am near death. In half an hour I must commit suicide.” A sleeping priest was dragged in; the marriage was performed. For the first time Hitler allowed his mistress into his sleeping room—to die. Both committed suicide.

Fear is the cause: we like light. Darkness gives panic. Who knows who hides in darkness? Night frightens us; day makes us fearless. Thus we honor light.

Lao Tzu says: but the deepest roots of life are in darkness. Until you are ready to go into darkness, you will not meet yourself. Until you gather courage to enter the dark, there will be no meeting with yourself. The courage to leap into darkness is the first step of the religious man. Courage to leap into the unknown, the unfamiliar, the uncharted.

“The life-energy is utterly true; its proofs too are concealed within it.”

But do not ask me, Lao Tzu says, for proofs of this life-energy, of this Tao, of this mystery of which I speak and by which I entice you, making you feel like entering the dark—what proofs? Lao Tzu says: its proof is hidden in itself. Only by going will you know. If you want to know before going, there is no way.

Few religious men have spoken with such courage as Lao Tzu. Go to ordinary saints and ask: “What proof is there of God?” They will give you ten proofs. Yet all are useless; none are theirs. A little intelligence suffices to refute their proofs. Till now the religious have not given a single proof which atheists have not properly refuted. Not one. If truth were to be known by proofs, the atheists would appear victorious—for the theists’ arguments are childish. The atheist swipes them away with a wave of the hand.

But the true theist never gives proofs. He says: experience is the only proof. Know—and that is the proof. Before that there is no way. Before that, only he accepts proof who is already eager to accept; that is different. One who does not want to accept will immediately deny.

Whenever you convert someone, do not think you have won. He wanted to be converted. Otherwise there is no way to convert anyone in this world. He wanted it; you were only an excuse. He was ready; you spoke his inner longing.

Lao Tzu says: there is no other proof. It is utterly true; but its proof is latent within itself. Enter it—you will find proofs. I can show you the path; I will not give proofs. If a blind man asks: “What proof is there of light?”—Lao Tzu will say, “I can give you a cure for your eyes; what proof can I give? When your eyes are healed, see for yourself!” There is abundant light of truth; what is needed is an eye. Without eyes, no proof can become eyes. With eyes, no matter how much refutation others present, refutation is not refutation—you can laugh.

People went to Ramakrishna and argued; Ramakrishna would only laugh. Once Keshavchandra came. In the last hundred, hundred and fifty years, if India has produced a great logician, it was Keshavchandra. Such a talent for logic is rare. He came to defeat Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna was a rustic, illiterate—he had not even passed second class. In knowing, he knew nothing; in being, he was much. Keshavchandra knew much; in being, he was poor. But his brilliance of logic was immense.

A great crowd gathered that day. People thought poor Ramakrishna would be badly thrashed—there was no way out. What worth did Ramakrishna have? To argue with Keshavchandra—that was a matter of courage for a handful in human history. Ramakrishna was nowhere in the count. Many did not even bother to come from Calcutta—“What use? The result is obvious.”

But that day the opposite happened: Keshavchandra was badly beaten—though rarely does such a thing occur. He began to argue against God. At each argument Ramakrishna would stand, dance, and say, “What a beautiful argument!” Keshavchandra had come prepared that Ramakrishna would say “wrong,” and a debate would begin. Ramakrishna never said “wrong,” so there was no way to debate. Soon Keshavchandra grew restless; the crowd too felt uneasy: “What is happening? The expected thing is not happening.” Keshavchandra began to fade; Ramakrishna would encourage him, “Wonderful! Why tire? Speak further! It is delightful, perfectly right!”

All arguments were exhausted—quickly, because if a debate had continued, they would not be exhausted. Keshavchandra said, “Then all this is right? You accept there is no God?” Ramakrishna said, “Had I not seen you, I too might have accepted. But seeing a talent like yours—how could such a thing be without God? Seeing you, there is proof enough. I have only a small mind; I used to think by it that God is. But seeing you, it is certain.”

Such men do not give proofs. Keshavchandra left in the crowd that day; but in the night he returned and asked Ramakrishna, “Is there any way for me to become what you have become?” Had Ramakrishna debated, Keshavchandra would never have returned. What drew him back at night? This man’s being, his existence, his joy. He knows something that cannot be broken by proofs. He has seen and lived and found.

Lao Tzu says: “Its proofs are latent within itself. From ancient times to today, its name-and-form expressions have not ended.”

That nature, that Tao, that svabhava, that ocean of existence has manifested in endless forms since endless time. There is no end to its expressions—a continuous stream.

“And in it we can see the parent of all things.”

All are born of it; all merge into it.

“But how do I know the shape of the parent of all things?”

How can I tell its shape? What can I say? What is the way? If you ask me how I know its shape—great difficulty.

Lao Tzu says: “By these—by these countless expressions I know.”

By what is visible, I know that which is hidden behind and invisible. How do you recognize a poet? By his poetry. How a painter? By his painting. If the painter is lost in darkness and only the paintings remain, we still know. From what is seen we know the unseen. Though all these forms are his, still he himself has no form.

Take this last point to heart. He who manifests in all forms cannot have a form of his own. One with a fixed form cannot manifest in all forms. Only that which is formless, a pure possibility, an infinite potentiality, can appear in all forms.

Lao Tzu says: but for this I will not give proof. If you want to see proofs, they are all around. If you want to see his signatures, they are engraved everywhere. You too are his signature. Trees, stones, stars, flowers, birds—each is his signature. In infinite forms he is present. But you will see him only when, at least within your own form, you experience him. Then you will see him in all forms. No intellectual proof can be given; experiential proof there is.

And the day someone, diving within his own form, knows that formless—on that day a revolution happens in his life. The name of that revolution is supreme conduct. The day one experiences that truth hidden within—call it Paramatma, Atman, call it what you will—Lao Tzu does not even give it a name; he says “Tao,” meaning rit, law. He says: that ultimate law of life—when one knows it, after that his conduct is right conduct. After that, there is no effort in his conduct. After that, whatever happens through him is not premeditated, not arranged, not predetermined. After that, whatever happens through him—that is religion.

We think religious conduct produces a religious man. Lao Tzu says the reverse: a religious man produces religious conduct. We think if we change conduct we will become religious. Lao Tzu says: become religious and conduct will change. This is not a mere difference of language; the whole vision of life is radically different. One who begins with conduct begins from the circumference and keeps on the surface. One who begins from the within begins from the center.

Remember: if the center changes, the circumference changes; but by changing the circumference, the center does not change. If the center changes, the circumference unavoidably changes—for the circumference is the spread of the center. Change the circumference entirely, still the center does not change; the circumference is lifeless, the center is life. The center is the base; the circumference is only outward arrangement. If we cut a tree’s leaves, the tree does not change; rather, four leaves sprout in place of one. What we do with conduct is just leaf-pruning. Prune dishonesty—two new leaves of dishonesty appear. Prune theft—thieving begins by a new route. Prune lies—twenty-five new lies are born.

Lao Tzu says: cut the root. Then no pruning is needed. Then there is no worry—leave the leaves; they fall of themselves and do not grow again. Changing the center is changing the root.

So let me repeat: petty is that conduct which is born of change in behavior; supreme is that conduct which is born of revolution in the within. Petty conduct depends on utility; supreme conduct depends on joy. Supreme conduct is spontaneous; petty conduct is forced, calculated, intentional—effort, exertion, exercise. Between petty conduct and misconduct there is no basic difference. Supreme conduct belongs to another realm—like one who, walking on earth, suddenly begins to fly in the sky; such is the difference. Wings arise and the whole terrain of travel changes!

Enough for today. Let us pause five minutes; sing kirtan; then depart.