Tao Upanishad #47

An unusual phenomenon appears in the world. All want to be successful; and all end up failing. There is no one who does not desire happiness; and there is no one who, despite wanting and wanting, finds anything other than suffering. All want to live; and all die. Surely some deep law of life remains unfamiliar; its disastrous consequence is this.
If a single person fails, the responsibility could be his. But when in the world all who want success fail, the responsibility no longer rests on individuals. Somewhere a fundamental rule of life is being missed. If one person wants happiness and ends up in misery, we can assume it is his mistake. But where all who want happiness end up in misery, there the blame cannot be thrust upon persons. The same misunderstanding is befalling everyone in grasping life’s law. Lao Tzu’s sutra pertains to this foundational mistake.
Lao Tzu says: whoever tries to win will lose.
We do not lose because we are weak; we lose because we try to win. Let us understand this a little. For the basic, deluded logic of humankind hinges precisely on this point. I lose and I think: I was weak. If I increase my strength, I will win. So we go on increasing power. But no matter how much power a man gathers in his hands, in the end only defeat comes to hand; victory is never attained. Alexander dies defeated, Napoleon dies defeated; all die defeated. The weak indeed lose, but the powerful also die defeated. So the logic—that with more power we shall win—is false.
Lao Tzu says: if you want to win, you will lose. The cause of defeat lies hidden in the desire to win, not in the shortage of strength. In truth, let us understand the mind of the one who wants to win. First of all, the one who wants to win has already accepted that losing is also a possibility. The one who wants to win has accepted that winning is very difficult. He has also accepted that his victory will depend upon others. Because victory does not depend upon oneself alone; someone must lose for me to win. Thus another’s slavery is concealed in victory. All winners ought to be grateful to losers, for without them they could not win. And can we call that victory which depends on another? If my victory too depends on you, then you have become the master of even my victory. The key to me is then clutched in your fist. If you lose, I win. And this world is vast and immense. However great a power we may possess, it is always petty—when seen against the powers of this cosmos. However we may thrash about with our limbs, we can never be greater than the power of this universe. We are its parts, tiny parts. We shall lose.
And the very moment someone gives birth to the craving to win, another thing is also accepted: that as of now he is a loser. The psychiatrists say that those who suffer from inferiority complex are the ones eager to win, they become ambitious. Ambition is the sign of an inferior person. As a sick man goes towards medicine, so an inferior man goes towards ambition.
Therefore a strange phenomenon occurs. In the West, in this century, Adler worked most deeply on this matter. Adler says: those who suffer in life from some great lack find a complementary path to compensate for that lack. For example, when Lenin sat on a chair his feet did not touch the ground. His legs were very short, his upper body large. And Adler says this very fact drove Lenin to seek the highest of positions. Sitting upon the highest possible chair he demonstrated that even if his feet did not touch the earth, there was no chair upon which he could not sit. His difficulty was that he could not sit properly on any chair. Even in an ordinary chair at someone’s home he would grow restless. His legs were short and dangled. Adler says this deficiency became Lenin’s ambition. He said, “No worry—your chairs are large and my legs run short; but I shall show you, and the world, that there is no chair on which I cannot sit.” That inability to sit properly on any chair became a race.
Adler studied deeply those whom we call great men in the world. And in every great man—whom we call great—he unearthed the lack that was the cause of his ambition.
This is natural. Often it happens that a blind man enhances the power of his ears. He will. The work of the eyes he must take from his ears too. Hence the blind acquire fine hearing. And if blind men become musicians, there is no other reason: their ears become keen.
Have you ever noticed that an ugly person, to hide his ugliness, creates untold beautiful things. If you see the painters who have created the most beautiful works, you will be surprised—their own faces are not beautiful.
It so happened—I was a guest in a home in a village and an All-India Women Poets’ Conference was being held there. The friend in whose house I stayed said, “Will you also come? Some twenty women poets have gathered from all over India.” I said, “I shall not go; but do one thing—go and come back with a note in mind: among those twenty women, are any one or two beautiful?” He was a little surprised that I would ask such a thing. But when he returned he was more surprised. He said, “A wonder—when you asked I was a bit amazed; going there I was amazed still more—those twenty women were all ugly.”
When a woman is beautiful she does not get into poetry and such things. That is why beautiful women have done nothing in the world. There is no need for compensation. Beauty is enough; no thought arises to complete oneself with anything else.
Adler says that those in this world who are exactly healthy cannot reach any position of ambition. Only the diseased, the sick, the crippled can reach positions of ambition.
There is truth here. Deep truth. Whatever is lacking within us we want to fulfill, to overcompensate; so that all lack be covered, compensated. When someone fills with the aspiration to win, it means he knows deep within: I am a defeated man. This will look inverted. But what Adler has just discovered, Lao Tzu wrote in his sutra two and a half millennia ago.
Lao Tzu says: if you want to win, do not try to win. That is the beginning of defeat. If you want to win, then the very desire to win is your greatest enemy. It itself proves that you are not even worthy to win. It itself proves that you are filled with deep pits of inferiority. It itself proves you are sick, crippled; that somewhere there is paralysis in your Atman.
From another dimension too, let us understand and it will come to mind.
Some scientists now propose that Darwin thought man evolved beyond other animals because he is more intelligent, more rational; therefore in nature’s struggle man won and animals lost. Until now this seemed right. But the latest research raises doubt. It says that the developed—so-called developed—form of man is not because man is more powerful, more intelligent, more superior. Rather the fundamental reason is that on this earth the human infant is born the most helpless, the most help-less. If the human child is not reared by mother and father and cared for by society, humanity would not survive. The young of all animals are born more powerful than the human child.
Scientists say that if a human baby were to be born as powerful as an animal’s, he would need to stay in the mother’s womb at least twenty-one months. But then he could not be born; the mother would die. For he would become so large that there is no way for birth. So, if we understand rightly—considering all animals—every human birth is an abortion. Because the child is born incomplete; this is what abortion means. In nine months the child is born incomplete. Many things that should be in him are not yet there; they will yet develop.
And yet if we look carefully, a foal is born—and begins to walk, to run. For a human child it will take years to walk. The young of animals rise and set out in search of their life, their livelihood. For a human child it will take twenty-five years to seek a livelihood.
The human child is the weakest creature in the world. And because man is weak, he overcompensated; he left all animals behind. He compensated for everything. Compare human nails with animals’ nails—you will know. If you were to fight an animal barehanded, you would scarcely find an animal on earth weaker than man. His teeth, his nails—within a moment they will tear you apart. Scientists say that man’s compensation for nails went so far—knife, sword, atom bomb—that it is compensation for nails. He went on extending his nails. He went on extending his teeth. Have you ever seen the teeth of a tank when it goes to war? Those are man’s teeth, weaker than animals’. Overcompensation has happened. By creating larger teeth in machines we turned animals to dust.
Latest research says that what we call the evolution of man may be the outcome of his inferiority, weakness, helplessness.
Be that as it may, one thing is certain: the aspiration to rise upward is proof of having fallen below. The one who has not fallen does not wish to rise. One who is assured within does not go to assure another. One who trusts himself will not fall into the trouble of defeating another to obtain his own trust. We struggle to prove something; we fight to prove something—that I am something. This is the indication that I know well: I am nothing. That sense of nobody-ness, of being a nonentity, becomes our restlessness to prove in the world that I am something.
But however much we prove, that inner awareness of being a nonentity will only be pressed down, it cannot be destroyed. And however much we go on winning, the fear will remain that there will be someone more powerful who can defeat me. And I will have to go on increasing my power. In no situation can that original fear, that inner inferiority, be erased. It is a cycle, a vicious circle. In that vicious circle, the basic thing we accept—and then we begin to do something contrary to it.
There is a wound in my leg. I do not remove it; so that your eyes may not see the wound, I bandage and salve. That bandage is so that your eyes may not see the wound. There is no medicine in that bandage to heal my wound. I am not bandaging my wound; I am bandaging your eyes. I may deceive you; my wound will go on growing. Today or tomorrow, the pus of the wound will burst through the bandage. Then I will have to plaster more thickly. Slowly I will be surrounded by plasters and within there will be nothing but wounds; because my whole effort is that no one should know my wound.
People like Lao Tzu want to transform your wound from the root. They say inferiority must be erased; there is no need to attain victory. I should know that I am something; there is no need to prove it before others. And however much you prove—if within I do not know that I am, that I am something—then however much I persuade others, in the end I will find myself standing right where I was. Others may become pleased, but my inner trembling will remain. A man who stood on the street yesterday—today if he becomes president—even then his inner panic and inferiority remain the same. Today he will reveal it less, because he has an arrangement of power around him. So today he will not display it before you; before you his weakness will remain hidden. But before himself it will be obvious.
Therefore a very strange thing happens. When a man gathers great wealth, then for the first time he discovers how impoverished he is. And when all around him armies stand and immense power is amassed, then he discovers how weak he is. It is felt more intensely because a contrast is obtained. As if someone drew a white line with chalk on a black wall—the weakness appears even more pronounced.
But our logic is this: let us defeat more people, erase more people, finish more people—then I shall become powerful and triumphant. This is humanity’s basic mistake. This sutra is against this mistake.
‘To yield is to be preserved whole.’
To yield is safety. If you want to be saved, bend.
Have you ever seen—when a fierce storm comes—and the painters who follow Lao Tzu have painted this event many times—a fierce storm comes, a great tree remains standing stiff. Not only stiff—he fights the storm. Small seedlings, blades of grass, bow down. A moment later the storm will be past; many great trees will have fallen, roots uprooted; the short grasses will spring back to their places.
Lao Tzu says, ask the secret of life from small blades of grass, which even the greatest storm cannot uproot. What is their secret? They remain preserved whole. So weak that a little gust of wind could break them; yet a terrible tempest passes and even their roots do not shift. And how tiny their roots are! And the great trees, whose roots are deep in the soil, are leveled. Ask: what was the mistake of those great trees? The great trees wanted to fight; they wanted to win; they took on a war with the storm. The great trees said, “We are something.” The small blades of grass silently bent.
‘To yield is to be preserved whole.’
They bent. They took up no quarrel. They did not consider the storm an enemy. They embraced the storm with love. They took it as play, not as war. They said, “All right, flow on.” They gave way.
If we understand rightly, the great trees must have been filled within with inferiority. They could not give way. They felt this was a matter of honor. Their honor must have been very fragile. They must have felt that this storm has come to uproot us. Which storm comes to uproot whom? The storm flows in its own motion. Has the wind any purpose with the great or the small? The wind flows in its own Tao, in its own nature. There is no question of breaking, uprooting, destroying anyone. But the great trees remained inwardly inferior, fearful. It became a matter of honor, of respectability. What will people say? All around, what laughter will people make? They took it as a challenge. The nature of the storm—without cause—the great trees mistook as a challenge.
The storm was a challenge to none. Even if there were no trees, the storm would flow the same. The wind will blow even if this tree is not. The wind was blowing even when this tree was not. What does the wind have to do with trees? But the tree’s ego came in the way. And the tree thought: a challenge to me, who am so great; I will fight and show victory. The storm will break.
No storm ever breaks, only the tree breaks. Then the great tree collides. In the collision, the roots begin to shake. Remember, they shake by collision, not by the storm. The resistance of the tree, the opposition—that itself becomes suicide upon its roots. The tree falls not because of the storm. For if small plants do not fall, what reason had the tree to fall? The tree falls because of resistance, opposition, struggle, the tendency to fight. It falls by the aspiration for victory. Its roots are uprooted, the tree collapses into the earth.
And the one who falls by fighting loses the capacity to rise. The one who falls by fighting loses the capacity to rise; because it is the very roots that break, which could have raised him again. The small plants bend. The storm passes—great storms pass by. And the small plants stand again, smiling—alive as before, perhaps even more alive. The touch of the storm has given them more life. The storm that passed over them has removed their dust and dirt. They bathed in that storm. Fresh from the bath, they stood again. For them the storm was no enemy, it became a friend. The storm gave them a thrill of life, an experience of life. The storm passed over them as a friend. As if someone pulled up a blanket and slept a night—they pulled the storm over themselves and slept. The storm was not a challenge to them; it was no struggle.
The storm is gone; the small plants stand back in their places—more joyous, more filled with experience. And their roots have become even stronger. Because every experience strengthens the roots. They have become more assured, more delighted in their being. And they have forged a deep friendship with this world. Even the storm does them no harm; the storm too makes them, caresses them.
Lao Tzu says, ‘To yield is the sutra of safety; to yield is to be preserved whole.’
Let us look from other angles. You have seen: small children fall every day; they do not get hurt like we do. We too were once like small children and used to fall, and we did not get hurt. Make an adult fall like a child for twenty-four hours—you will come to know. Every bone will be broken; there will be fractures everywhere. It should be the reverse. A child’s bones are weak, soft; your bones are stronger, more powerful. The child falls, gets up, starts to play. You fall and you are carried straight into an ambulance. What—what is the difference? If strength is victory, if strength is safety, then a child’s bones should break, not yours.
Leave the child aside. Have you ever seen a drunkard fall on the road? You just try falling. Those who do not drink, the virtuous ones—try falling on the road like a drunk. Then you will discover what marvel even a drunkard is performing. He falls daily and reaches home every morning. Neither bones break nor anything happens. What is the secret in this drunkard? It is the same secret as the child’s. This is Lao Tzu’s sutra. The child does not know he is falling. He yields. He agrees to the fall; he does not resist. The drunkard’s secret is the same. When he falls he is unconscious—he has no awareness that he is falling. He falls with ease.
When you are falling, you are aware that “I am falling.” You resist: “I will not fall.” The earth’s force of gravity draws down like the storm. And you rise up against it: “I will not fall.” In this tussle the bones break. Resistance. The very resistance the great tree gives to the storm—you, in your so-called wisdom, give to the gravitation of the earth.
Lao Tzu says: fall. If you are falling anyway, yield; do not fight—then simply fall. Fall of your own accord. Cooperate. And the bones will not break.
That child, unknowingly—with no idea what is happening—yields. The child behaves like a small plant. The drunkard also behaves like a small plant—because he has no awareness. The same drunkard—if he falls at noon while sober—then he will be hurt. And the same drunk, at night after drinking, will lie in a gutter, will fall on the road, and will not be hurt.
Many times it happens: a car overturns, a vehicle topples—small children survive. People think, “God is very kind.” If God is kind, he should save the adults—more labor has already been done on them, greater expense incurred. This is not the business of kindness. Which is to be saved? The child, on whom fifty years must yet be spent, to make him worthy or unworthy? The one on whom fifty years have already been spent should be saved first. There is much investment there. But he dies. The small children survive. No—God has no hand in this. Small children survive because they yield; whatever is happening, they become companions to it, they do not stand in opposition. They do not take it as enmity, they take it as friendship. They accept it; because there is no awareness.
A saint does the same—but with awareness. What children do unknowingly, what a drunkard does in unconsciousness, the saint does consciously.
In China and Japan, on the basis of Lao Tzu, many arts and disciplines of war developed—jujutsu, judo. Their entire secret, their entire key, is this sutra—yield. When the enemy strikes, do not resist: bend. Try it someday. If someone punches you hard, do not defend against the punch; be ready to absorb it, to drink it. And you will find—the one who punched had his bone broken. The one who punched had his bone broken.
Jujutsu says that if you do not resist, you are always the victor. Hence if you wrestle with someone who knows jujutsu, you will lose. Not only lose—you will break your limbs. Because you will hit, and he will only drink the strike. His energy will not be diminished even a bit; after five or seven blows you will become inferior. Your strength is being spent. In fact, the deeper art of jujutsu is: when someone punches you, if you receive it in peace, all the energy of his punch becomes available to you. If you do not fight, then the energy he expended in the punch is transformed into your body. You drank it. Let him strike five or ten times—he will tire on his own, he will fall on his own.
And what I am saying—jujutsu is no spirituality. It is a plain art of combat. And the beauty of jujutsu is that a small child can fight a big wrestler. Because the question is not of strength; it is of yielding, of bending, of absorption. Learn two words: resistance and non-resistance. If you resist, you will lose. If you live in non-resistance, you cannot lose. Storms will pass; you will stand back again.
“To yield is safety.”
Lao Tzu says: no one could ever defeat me, because I am already defeated. How amusing! You go to fight Lao Tzu—he will immediately lie down flat on his back. He will say, “Sit on top.” “You have won—go beat the drum in the village.” You will seem a fool. You will look exactly like when a small child wrestles with his father and the father lies down underneath and the small child climbs on his chest. And the child screams with joy, “I have won!” And the father knows who is winning, and who is making him win.
Lao Tzu says: I could never be defeated, because I am already defeated. Come, we are ready. Lao Tzu says: I was never insulted, because I never set foot in a place where honor was expected. No assembly ever expelled me; for I sit only where there is no way to be expelled from.
Lao Tzu went to an assembly. Where people had left their shoes, he sat outside right there. Many people said, “Come inside, come onto the platform, sit within.” Lao Tzu said, “No—I have seen many being thrown out from there. I will sit here; you will not be able to do anything to me.”
A story comes to mind: Mulla Nasruddin went to a gathering. He always had the habit of being number one. He arrived a little late, as great men ought to arrive. Great men deliberately arrive late—for if the little people are not shown the way a bit, what is a great man’s greatness? He came a little late. But that day something went awry. A scholar had come from outside the village; he was seated on the dais; the discourse was ongoing. When Mulla arrived the audience was absorbed. He sat behind—there was no other way. Sitting, he began telling his stories to people. In a short while his stories were such that people began to turn. At last the chairman had to shout, “Nasruddin, this is not proper. You should keep in mind that I am chairman of this assembly.” Nasruddin said, “That notion is your delusion. My eternal belief is that wherever I sit, that is the chairman’s seat. Wherever I sit, that is the chairman’s place. The intelligent put me on the chairman’s seat in advance. The unintelligent create disorder in their assembly. In this village, I am the chairman.”
Our logic is the same as Nasruddin’s. We will not agree with Lao Tzu. Our mind will say: what kind of thing is this—that he sat where people had taken off their shoes? It should be such that wherever we sit, the chairman’s seat comes there. Our mind too says the same. It is the same logic of human foolishness.
The fundamental basis of Lao Tzu’s contemplation is this: do not be filled with the desire to win; in the end you will return defeated. Do not expect praise; otherwise you will receive condemnation. It is not that if you do not expect, people will not condemn you. But then their condemnation will not touch you. Even if you do not expect, people may still condemn; but then their condemnation will not touch you.
Why does condemnation touch? Where does it touch? Where there is the longing for praise, there condemnation touches; there is the wound. The desire was that you would bow to me, and you threw a stone. I thought you would bring flowers, and you brought a stone. The wound is not from the stone—remember this; because of the aspiration for flowers, a tenderness was produced within, and upon that tenderness the stone makes a wound. If there had been no aspiration for flowers, even if someone hurled a stone there would only be compassion: “Poor fellow, why is he laboring? His effort is in vain; his endeavor is needless.”
Someone spat upon Buddha. He wiped it off with his robe and said to the man, “Have you anything more to say, or is the matter complete?” Ananda, who was sitting nearby, flared up. He said, “This is beyond bounds; it is too much. This man spits! Give us the command; this man must be repaid.”
Buddha said, “Ananda, you do not understand. When a man wants to say something, sometimes language becomes very weak. This man is so angry that words and abuses are useless; he speaks by spitting. He is saying by doing. When someone is in great love he embraces. There is no point in saying, ‘I am in great love.’ When a man’s words weaken, act expresses him. Ananda, you are getting angry for nothing. Look at this poor fellow—his anger is boiling over.”
Ananda’s anger too was boiling. Buddha said to Ananda, “But this man can be forgiven, for he knows nothing of life’s mysteries. It will be difficult even to forgive you. And one more amusing thing, Ananda: if there is any error, it is his—if there is any error at all—but why are you punishing yourself? What relation has it? This man spat upon me. If there was an error, it was his. Why, by becoming enraged, are you burning yourself?”
Buddha has said: for others’ mistakes people inflict much punishment upon themselves. For others’ mistakes.
But it does not fit into our notion. Someone came to Mulla Nasruddin. He was the only literate man in the village—as literate as literate ones are. He writes, and behind that he himself cannot read properly. But he is the only one in the village. And being the only one, there is no competition. A man came and asked, “Give me some command, some religious ordinance, some rule by which I too may be fulfilled.” Nasruddin thought long and then said what was a hackneyed principle—what thinkers often say after much thought, the same thing that has been said a thousand times. Nasruddin, after much thinking, said, “Run your life by one sutra: Don’t get angry.”
Either the man was a fool, or deaf, or he did not understand, or he heard and did not hear. He said again, “That is fine; tell me something by which life is transformed.” Mulla said loudly, “I have told you once—remember well: Don’t get angry.”
But the man—foolish, or deaf, or what—did not understand and said, “Since I have come this far, tell me one such golden rule by which life is transformed.” Mulla lifted his stick and brought it down on his head and said, “I have told you a thousand times: Don’t get angry.”
Perhaps it did not even occur to Mulla what was happening. Our own principles do not serve us. Our counsel does not work for us. Giving advice is no great wisdom; anyone can do it. To fulfill one’s own advice is extremely difficult.
Buddha said to Ananda, “You have been with me so long and you have not yet understood this small thing!” Ananda was filled with fire. He said to Buddha, “I cannot hear what you say now. As long as this man is sitting here who spat upon you, I am not in my senses.” Buddha said, “Ananda, he too is not in his senses—otherwise why would he spit? You too are not in your senses; because I speak to you and you say you cannot hear. Between two madmen, what can I do—think about that too.”
Life rests upon some profound sutras. If we have no awareness of them, however much we accept them as doctrines, we go on behaving contrary to them. Lao Tzu’s sutra is a supreme sutra: safety means to yield. But it is extremely difficult. Very difficult. Not to be angry—that simple sutra itself proves very difficult. Yielding is safety—that seems very contrary, paradoxical. If you want to win, then lose; if you want honor, then do not desire honor. This is very inverted.
But the deeper we go into life, the more inverted sutras we will find. The reason is not that they are inverted; the reason is that we are standing on our heads; they appear inverted to us. We are standing upon our heads. All our thinking about life is inverted. We receive suffering because of it, yet still it does not occur to us that we are upside down. And the reason it does not occur is that those around us also stand on their heads. Suppose you come to a village of great yogis where all are doing headstands. If you have even a little intelligence, you too should stand on your head; otherwise you will appear inverted.
Someone came to Jesus and said, “Your words seem inverted.” Jesus said, “They will seem so; because you are standing on your head.”
But you will not even remember; because around you everyone stands as you do. The old generation, dying, teaches the new generation to stand on their heads. The disease is contagious; it catches from one to another. Then, among these inverted ones, if you are to be successful, it is necessary to stand inverted.
Hence Lao Tzu’s sutra seems inverted; otherwise, it is straight. If you desire praise, you will get condemnation. If you do not desire praise, you may still receive it; but it will not touch you. But why? If praise is desired, why does condemnation come? What is the reason? What is the harm in desiring praise? Why should condemnation come?
There are reasons; because the people around you have the same logic. Let us understand it a little. I desire praise; you desire praise; your neighbor desires praise; the whole world desires praise. Where all desire praise, whoever steps forward in the attempt to be praised—the others will begin to condemn him. Because those who want to raise themselves must keep the other down; it is inevitable, necessary. If I let everyone go up, I am losing my own possibilities.
And in this world, the higher you go, the less the space becomes. The higher you go, the less the space. The peak of the mountain—the world is like a pyramid. The higher you go, the less the space. And the higher you go, the more enemies increase. The one who reaches the very summit—the whole world becomes his enemy. And the whole world will want to bring you down to earth. The whole world will unite in bringing you down. Their mutual quarrels are another matter. But Machiavelli has written: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Right. The man to be brought down—those who bring down will unite. Though it is another matter that tomorrow, when this one falls, they will fight among themselves again; because the question will then arise: who will go up?
See what happened in the last great war. Those who were eternal enemies became friends. Could anyone imagine that Stalin and Churchill and Roosevelt could stand together? It was beyond imagination. But Hitler had gone beyond limits. He was striving to be solely on the summit. Then Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin—all stood together as if no difficulty existed. They became immediate friends. But it was obvious that the moment Hitler died this friendship would dissolve at once. It could not last long. This friendship was only because of Hitler. With Hitler’s death it ended. Those who were friends in the war became enemies after the war. Russia and America stood as enemies again.
China is communist; one could not imagine friendship with America. But it is entirely natural; according to the rule, it will be formed. It must be formed. Because: the enemy of my enemy. If even a slight quarrel arises between China and Russia, then friendship will arise between America and China.
So in this world, the one who aspires for praise—the whole world of praise-seekers will become his enemies. They will try to pull him down. They will condemn.
And remember—praising someone is very difficult, and condemning is very easy. Because when you praise someone, people ask, “What is the proof?” But if you condemn someone, no one asks for proof. Why? Because we already want the condemnation to be true.
We do not demand proof for our own praise; we do not demand proof for another’s condemnation. We demand proof for our own condemnation; we demand proof for another’s praise. What is the proof? Who is the witness?
If someone comes and tells you that a certain man is very honest, you say, “What is the proof? Perhaps he has not yet had the chance to be dishonest. Or what evidence do you have?” And if he does bring evidence, we will think: “Is this man who brought the proof himself honest? Surely there must be some conspiracy, some plot, some hand in it. Otherwise, why would someone praise someone else?”
If someone comes and says, “So-and-so is dishonest, a thief,” you say, “I already knew it would be so.” No proof is required for this.
So the person who desires praise will invite condemnation from the entire world. From his side he is calling it. The more he tries to prove, the more others will try to prove he is wrong. The title of this sutra is: the futility of contention. When you make a claim, the whole world will claim that you are wrong. And it is very difficult to save a claim. There is no way. They will prove you wrong. And one more delightful thing: once a claim is shown wrong—right or wrong—it can never be undone.
In our hearts we wish it were known that no one but I is right—we know this. In Arabia they say: God, after making each man, plays a joke—He whispers in his ear, “I have not made anyone better than you.” He says it to all; that is the mischief. And He says it in private, so no one else knows that it has been said to the others too. They all carry through life the notion that there is no one better than me. And all carry this notion.
So Lao Tzu’s sutra may come to our mind: “To yield is safety. Yielding is the way to be straight.”
If anyone wants a straight, simple, plain, upright personality, he should learn the art of yielding. We all learn the art of stiffness. We say, if we want to remain straight, to stand on the spine—do not bend, even if you break. All teachings explain: do not bend, even if you break. We call that man great who did not bend—even if he broke. The ego’s sutra is this: do not bend, break instead.
But this is not life’s sutra. Remember: all the limbs of children are soft, flexible. The old man’s limbs become hard; they do not bend. Scientists say the fundamental cause of the old man’s death is not age, but the hardening of the limbs. If the old man’s limbs could be kept as supple as the child’s, there would be no biological reason for death.
You will be surprised to know: scientists have yet not understood precisely why a man dies. As far as the body is concerned, no reason appears why a man could not live for a very long time. Only one thing is seen: gradually the limbs harden. The flexibility is lost. The loss of flexibility becomes the cause of death. The harder everything becomes within, the closer death comes. The more everything within remains flexible, fluid, the farther death is.
What is true of the body is even truer of the inner being of man. The more one is willing to bend, the more one attains the nectar. And the one who absolutely refuses to bend attains death instantly. It is another matter that we can live even while dead; the soul may remain dead and the body can be carried. Rigidity is death in the spiritual sense. Flexibility is life.
Lao Tzu says: “And to be bent is to become straight. To be bent is to become straight.”
Inverted sayings, are they not? If you bend, people will say, “If you bend again and again, it will become a habit; how will you ever stand straight?” Therefore, remain straight—do not bend. But keep this in mind—try it: do not bend; remain straight. For a full day do not bend the body at all—keep it straight; then you will find: that’s it, death comes now. No—by bending one does not become bent; every time one bends, one’s capacity to be straight is revived.
Understand this. You remain awake the whole day. It is fortunate that no one comes to teach you, “Do not sleep, otherwise how will you wake in the morning? If you go to sleep!” And there are people who fear sleep—thinking, how will we wake? Many go to psychologists with this fear. And when illness becomes severe, many fear sleep. It seems uncertain whether we will rise or not. “At least let me die while awake. If I die in sleep, I will not even know I have died. I never knew being alive; I will not even know dying. Both things missed.”
But no one says to you, “Do not sleep, otherwise how will you wake?” Though sleeping is an opposite process—entirely opposite to waking. But have you noticed: the one who sleeps deeper, wakes deeper—the more conscious his waking. The deeper the night’s sleep, the deeper the morning’s awakening.
You know one illness—insomnia. Many do not sleep at night. Even they do not notice that when they do not sleep at night, they do not wake by day either. That second fact does not occur to them. Whoever has insomnia also has a disease of non-awakening. They do not notice this. Because the depth of waking depends upon the depth of sleep. The deeper the sleep, the more seabed-touching it is—the deeper the morning’s awakening. If the night’s sleep is shallow, the morning’s awakening is shallow. If the night’s sleep does not come at all, then in the morning only your eyes have opened—you have not awakened.
At night a man closes his eyes; has closing the eyes anything to do with sleep? We all think, “If I close my eyes, I will sleep.” No—when sleep comes, eyes close. By closing your eyes, no one in the world can sleep. Keep your eyes closed the whole night. If sleep does not come, the name of closing eyes is not sleep. So keep the opposite in mind too: in the morning if you open your eyes, that is not called awakening. Because awakening’s proportion depends on the depth of sleep.
See it another way. One man labors the whole day. The greater the labor, the deeper the rest. Some think, “Let me rest during the day—then I will be well-practiced in resting, and at night a deep rest will come.” They are gone—such people will never rest. Rather, at night they will have to exercise on the bed. Because whatever exercise they avoided by day—who will do it? They will get up tired in the morning; because if you exercise the whole night, you will rise tired. Their life has become a vicious circle.
They think: “If I rest more, more rest will be available.” Life runs by the principle of the opposite pole; by polarity. If you want deep rest, deep effort is required. Enter deep effort and rest will come of its own accord. Enter deep sleep and awakening will come on its own. Wake rightly and sleep will come on its own. If sleep does not come at night, I will not tell you to bring sleep by a trick. I will tell you: run and circle the house a hundred or a hundred and fifty times. The meaning of “sleep does not come” is simply that you have not labored; you have not been awake. Run. Circle the house a hundred times. Then you will not have to bring sleep—sleep will come.
Lao Tzu says: “And to be bent is the way to become straight.”
Do not fall into the delusion that if you stand stiff you will be straight. You will be rigid; paralysis will set in. The name of paralysis is not straightness. The one who is artful at bending—there is that much vitality and health in his standing. At all planes of life, learn to bend—and you will stand.
But we—everywhere, everyone is stiff and guarding himself lest he be made to bend—lest he be made to bend. All are engaged in this attempt; all have become rigid, frozen. Now blood does not flow in them. All stand stiff. Therefore they cannot meet one another; friendship is not possible. Love has become impossible. Coming near is difficult. This is the plight of our stiffness today. Its cause is the sutra ingrained in our minds: never bend, even if you break. Perish—but do not bend.
But remember, even our perishing will be dead, and our breaking will be only destruction.
In this sutra, further Lao Tzu says: “To be hollow is to be filled.”
Rain falls—on mountains and in hollows alike. Mountains remain as empty as before; hollows become lakes. Hollows fill—because they were empty. Mountains remain empty; because they were already full. The rain falls equally upon mountains. The rain has no special favor upon hollows. In fact, the hollows draw even the water that fell upon the mountains and fill themselves. What is their power? Emptiness is their power.
Lao Tzu says: the more empty one is, the more the Prasad of Paramatma in this world will fill him. The arrogant ones, standing stiff like mountains, will remain standing. Those who are empty will be filled.
This means we should learn the art of emptying. Do not worry about filling. We all worry about filling. We fear being empty. We go on filling—trash, clutter, garbage; whatever comes our way. Bernard Shaw has said somewhere: “There are many things I could throw out of my house; but I do not throw them because someone else might pick them up.” That too is a concern. They are useless now, have no meaning; but if others collect them, their heap will become larger. So man keeps collecting.
Have you ever thought—what all you go on collecting? Why do you go on collecting? Some people—if nothing else—collect postage stamps. Ask them: what has happened?
But there is no difference. One man collects rupees; we will not call him mad. One man collects postage stamps; another collects something else. The collecting itself is worth considering—not what is collected. Collecting! We are filling ourselves. Lest we remain empty. Lest death come and find us utterly empty—with no furniture at all. So we collect junk; and at the time of death we say, “Look—I have collected so much.”
But you will remain empty. All this stuff will become the cause of your emptiness. The one who wishes to be filled must learn to empty himself. To empty means: there must be space within, room. Whatever vastness can descend—needs room. Even if Paramatma wants to come within us, where is the place? Is there any little space where we could say, “Kindly sit here?” There is no place for us to sit; we stand outside ourselves because inside there is no room. We roam outside ourselves because inside there is no room. Even if Paramatma were found and said, “Let me come to your home”—where is the place there?
The supreme secret of life is contained in the art of emptying oneself.
Understand it thus. If you ask a physiologist—and if you ask Lao Tzu—modern physiology says the same as Lao Tzu. Have you ever noticed whether you emphasize inhalation or exhalation when you breathe?
Lao Tzu says: emphasize the exhalation, the emptying breath. Do not worry about inhaling; it will come of itself. What concern have you with it? Simply pour the breath out. Do not take breath yourself; that work Paramatma will do, nature will do. You simply empty.
The supreme secret of health in life is resolved even by this much difference. If someone simply empties the breath and does not do the work of inhaling—lets it come by itself—he will attain extraordinary health. Climb stairs; you get tired. Next time do this: while climbing stairs, only exhale—do not inhale. And you will not tire. While climbing, only exhale, empty it out; and when the inhaling comes, do not worry—let the body take it. And you will find you can climb many more steps without tiring. What has happened? When you inhale, the dirty breath inside remains there—you bring in breath from above; it returns from above. The inner dirty breath remains within. That dirty breath—the carbon dioxide—is the cause of a thousand illnesses, weakness and all else.
But why is our emphasis on taking? Because of our tendency. We want to take everything; we do not want to let go of anything. There is a spiritual constipation. We do not want to let go of anything—not even excreta; that too we hold.
In the West there is a scientific thinker—F. M. Alexander. He spent his entire life working on people’s constipation. He says constipation is the result of mental stinginess; its cause is not physical. Those who do not wish to let go of anything, in the end do not wish to let go of their excrement either.
Freud found a very strange symbol—it seems difficult at first. He says: grasping gold and grasping excrement are parts of one and the same process. And the yellow of gold and the yellow of excrement—he says—it is significant. Freud worked a great deal with children. Because children—mothers and fathers try to make the child let go: “Go, clean your body, pass stool!” But the child comes to understand one thing: there is one thing in which he can rebel against parents from the very beginning. He will not go. He says, “No, I have no idea.” He holds—tells the parents, “What do you think? At least one thing I possess which only I can do and you cannot make me do!”
Freud says this event becomes traumatic. The child’s first power lies right here. He has no other power. Parents have everything; they can do anything. The child has one power: he can please them—if he goes to the toilet, he pleases them. If he does not go, he worries the whole house. If he holds for two days—becoming ascetic—he has made everyone restless. He has obtained a power. This child is learning to hold things back. Then throughout life it will connect deeper; the tendency to hold everything will arise.
A miser often suffers from constipation. The person who can give simple things, share, will not be a victim of constipation. There is an organic unity to our lives; everything is connected—not separate. A small thing is connected—even a very small thing is connected.
You are eating food. People go on stuffing themselves. Psychologists say: why do people not chew? Why do they keep stuffing? Chewing will take time. There is such a hurry to fill—must fill. If you chew properly, you must chew at least forty-two times for a single morsel. Only then is it properly chewed. But forty-two times—for a single morsel? If you think of it, it seems life will be spent only in chewing. Better to stuff. You do not know that beyond the mouth the stomach has no teeth. The stomach is only a kind of skin. And the stomach has no means for chewing. You stuff from above; below do not let anything come out. And when both these events go together, a man’s life becomes a heap of rubbish.
I am saying this to show that everything is connected. The one who does not chew properly will become violent. His behavior will become violent. Because the one who properly chews—the major portion of his violence is spent in chewing. Those who chew well will be sociable. Those who do not chew well will not be sociable. The one who chews well will have less anger; because our teeth are instruments of violence. The one who does not chew well will vomit his anger elsewhere—he will be ready to chew someone else.
And there is the hurry to fill—fill and fill. You will be surprised to know: in ancient Greece, when Greece was civilized, at its height—people kept a bird’s feather at the dining table. As we keep small sticks to clean the teeth, they kept for each diner a bird’s feather. It was: gobble—then with the feather induce a vomit—and then eat again. Emperor Nero ate eight or ten times a day. He kept two doctors. He would eat; the doctors would induce vomiting; he would again come to his table and sit to eat. Fill and fill. What is the reason for this madness to fill?
I go into homes—sometimes into the homes of the rich—and it does not seem where they live! Everything is filled. Everything is filled. There is not even a way to pass. How do they get out, how do they get in—no idea. But this is not only proof of the house; it is proof of the inner mind, because our houses are our minds. And our mind is our house—its outer spread.
Lao Tzu says: “To be hollow is to be filled.”
Think to empty yourself within; leave the filling to nature. It always fills. You just make the hollows, just empty, just empty.
“And to be broken, shattered, is to be renewed.”
Do not be afraid that you will break. Do not fear that you will be erased. Do not fear that you will die. Because dying is the beginning of new life. Birth is the beginning of death and death is again the beginning of birth. Do not fear breaking. Be ready to break. Because if you can break, you will become new. There is only one way to be new—that we also know how to scatter, how to break, how to end.
We want to hold ourselves, that nothing be erased, nothing break. We are moving against life’s process. The whole process of life is a circle. A river falls into the ocean. In the ocean the sun’s rays make vapor. The vapor comes and rains upon the mountains. Gangotri fills with water. Then the Ganga begins to flow. Then the Ganga falls again into the ocean. It is a circle. If the Ganga says, while falling into the ocean, “If I fall into the ocean and am scattered, I will be destroyed,” and holds herself back—if she does not go to fall into the ocean—on that day the Ganga will die. Because there will be no means for renewal. The Ganga must lose herself in the ocean; that is the way for her to become new again. Then she will become fresh.
And remember: in such a long journey the Ganga becomes dirty—naturally. The ocean makes her new and fresh again. She is scattered; all form is lost. Again she is immersed in the source. Again the sun—again clouds form. Upon these clouds no impurity can ascend. The clouds become supremely pure and rise in the sky. Then they rain upon the Himalaya. Again Gangotri is new and fresh. The journey begins again.
Lao Tzu says: life is a circular journey. Breaking is the means to re-becoming; erasure is the beginning of new life; death is a new conception. Therefore do not fear that you will break; that you will be in pieces; that if you bend, you will be erased; if you remain empty—who knows whether you will be filled or not; whom should you trust? “I must protect myself with my own hands!” The one who tries to save himself thus will rot. His movement will be obstructed. The formula of movement is: constant readiness to die. The great formula of life is: readiness to die each moment—dying each moment—dying each moment.
Bayazid, when he took leave of his disciples at night, would bow each evening and say, “Perhaps in the morning we meet, perhaps not—my last salutation!” This daily last salutation! In the morning he would rise and say, “Once more an opportunity for salutation!” Many times the disciples said to Bayazid, “What is this that you do every night?” Bayazid said, “Each night there should be preparation to go into death. And only then do I rise so fresh in the morning; because you only sleep—I also die. I descend so deeply—I leave everything.”
That is why attaining Bayazid’s freshness is very difficult. In the morning when Bayazid rose, it was as if a new child had been born. In his eyes was the same innocence. Because the one who can die at dusk is reborn in the morning. We too, even in sleep, hold ourselves so that we do not slip—watching so that no trouble arises. So we rise in the morning as we slept through the night.
“Lack is wealth. Possession is calamity and confusion.”
Lack is wealth—non-having is treasure. Having is calamity. Lao Tzu says: the more you have, the more you will be in hindrance and trouble. For you will not be able to enjoy—you will only be able to guard. And the more you have, the wider your anxiety will spread. One who has nothing lives weightless, unburdened at every moment.
Pompeii burned; the whole town fled. Whatever each could take—he took. A volcano burst at midnight. Someone carried his safe; someone his documents; someone his child; someone his wife. Whichever had convenience, he took and ran. And all are unhappy. All unhappy—because much was left behind. The fire was so sudden, there was no moment to pause, that each took what his hands found. All wept. There was only one man in Pompeii who did not weep—one man named Aristippus did not weep. It was three in the night; with his staff, in that same crowd—while the whole town’s people were running with their goods—he walked with his staff.
Many asked him, “Aristippus, could you save nothing?” Aristippus said, “I had nothing. I never got into the trouble of collecting; so I have no trouble of saving.” All ran; Aristippus strolled. People asked him, “You are not running?” Aristippus said, “At this time we go for our morning walk every day.” With his staff he walked. “Are you not anxious? Behind you—your house?” Aristippus said, “I have nothing besides myself.”
Nothing besides oneself—this is the meaning of lack. Nothing besides oneself. And therefore even death will not be able to snatch anything from Aristippus. This does not mean that you should have nothing. Nor does it mean that Aristippus had nothing—at least a staff he had. It means only this much: that the inner attitude of possession—“I have this, I have that”—that will be the cause of misery. What you have or not is not important. The inner tendency to grasp property—“it is mine”—that will be the cause of suffering. That is the birth of anxiety.
“Lack is wealth.”
When nothing is there, all anxieties dissolve along with it. This is an inner condition.
A little story—one I cherish greatly. An emperor fell in love with a sage. The sage was indeed wondrous. The emperor’s fascination grew. At last one day the emperor said, “Do not lie under this tree—come to my palace.” The sage immediately stood up. He said, “Let’s go.”
The emperor became very anxious. He had thought the sage would say, “Why entangle me in the world! The palace? I cannot go to the palace; I have renounced all.” The emperor too would have been pleased if the sage had said that. And he would have pressed him more, “No, Master—you must come,” catching his feet, joining hands—and thinking, “He is a great ascetic.”
The sage stood up. He picked up the begging bowl, the small bundle with two or four clothes hung upon his shoulder, and said, “Where is the way?”
The emperor’s heart sank. He thought, “What a fool! For what ordinary man have I wasted so many days? He was waiting ready—the moment came. He sat in wait only for me. I too turned out to be an idiot.”
But he had already spoken—was trapped—so he had to show the way, but very unwillingly. By the time they reached the palace, the sage had departed—for the emperor. The sage remained not—the very moment the sage stood to go. Now he was only an unwelcome guest. But having invited him, the emperor had to host him. He was lodged. For the sake of test, he lodged him in the most splendid residence. Arranged the best foods. The finest clothes! And the sage was astonishing—not a sage in the emperor’s eyes—whatever he was told, he agreed to do. “Leave those clothes.” He took them off immediately. “Wear these precious garments.” He put them on. “Sleep upon these luxurious beds.” He slept with ease. He placed the most beautiful women in service—he stretched his legs. The emperor said, “I am in great difficulty. If only once he would say no!”
In fifteen days the emperor was bored and frightened. One morning he came and said, “Master, it is too much. There is no difference between you and me.” The sage said, “Difference? Hard to know. But if you wish to know, come behind me.” The sage returned the emperor’s clothes, put on his own, picked up his staff and his pouch, his begging bowl, and came out of the palace. The emperor followed. A river came. The emperor said, “Now tell me.” The faqir said, “Just to the other bank.” He crossed to the other bank. The emperor said, “Now tell me the secret.” He said, “A little further.” The boundary of the kingdom came. The emperor said, “Now?” The faqir said, “Now I do not want to go back. Now you too come with me.” The emperor said, “How can that be possible? My palace lies behind; my kingdom!” The faqir said, “If you can understand the difference, then understand. I have no palace behind me; I have no kingdom behind me. I was in your palace, but your palace is not in me.”
The emperor clasped his feet and said, “Master, I have made a great mistake.” The sage said, “I can return; there is no harm to me. But you will fall again into trouble. Now you return—there is no problem for me to go back….” The moment he said “back,” perspiration broke out on the emperor. The sage said, “Then you will ask again: Master, what is the difference? Let me go—so that you may remember the difference. Otherwise there is no other reason for my going. I can return.”
What you possess is not the question; how much has gone within—that alone is the question. If it has not gone within, you are empty. Lack. In that lack alone there is rest, bliss, liberation.
“Therefore the sage embraces the One—and becomes the world’s ideal.”
He follows this one law, this one Tao—the formula of being empty, the art of yielding, the readiness to be erased—follows this one rule and becomes the ideal of the world.
Do not wish to become the world’s ideal—otherwise you will never become it. Those who wish to become it never do. The one who knows these arts of life becomes, unknowingly, the world’s ideal.
Enough for today. Let us sing kirtan, then disperse.