Tao Upanishad #48

Man has an intense longing that others should know him, that others should recognize him.
What is the fundamental cause of this longing?
The fundamental cause is that man does not know himself, nor does he recognize himself. It is a deep lack. And he wants to fill this lack by obtaining respect from others, by a name, by credit. Whatever we do not have, we try to borrow from others.
But however many know you and however many recognize you, the pit, the gap in the one who does not recognize himself cannot be filled by others recognizing him. And when I do not know myself, how will I even get people to recognize who I am? It will be a lie. Yet, if many begin to repeat that lie, I too will come to believe it. There is not much difference between our truth and our lie. The only difference is this: the lie in which we place our trust becomes our truth.
Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography—and he wrote very significant things; the man was significant—he wrote: I have found no great difference between truth and untruth. Repeat the untruth again and again; slowly it becomes truth. And he said it from experience. He himself repeated many untruths, and they became truths. They became so true that not only did others take them as truth, Hitler himself began to believe them.
If you go on telling a lie to people, in a few days you will forget that it is a lie. Repetition becomes oblivion. Repetition—by saying a thing again and again—becomes the mother of truth, the truth that is our truth. Hence the only difference between our truths and our lies is this: the lie has been less repeated, and the truth is a lie repeated many times.
That is why ancient lies appear very true; for thousands of years man has been repeating them. And new truth looks like a lie; because it has not been repeated, it is still new. So we accept the old lie; we are not ready to accept the new truth. For us, the meaning of truth is only this: how much it has been repeated.
Therefore we ask how old a scripture is. The older it is, the truer it must be. So all religions try to prove that their scripture is very ancient. If someone proves it is not that old, they feel great pain. They want their scripture to be the oldest, so it will be the truest. For our minds, truth means: how many times has it been repeated? If it is ancient, then it must have been repeated more.
But even if an untruth is repeated for thousands of years, it does not become truth. And even if no one has ever uttered the truth even once, it remains truth. Between truth and untruth the difference is fundamental, qualitative; it is not a matter of quantity at all.
Yet, as man is, all his truths are lies that have been repeated. You keep repeating certain things about yourself. Others too start repeating them. You come to believe: I am this. That belief makes life futile.
In this sutra Lao Tzu says, ‘They do not reveal themselves, and therefore they remain luminous.’
Here is the definition of the sage. The one whom Lao Tzu will call a sage—not the one we call a saint. For our saint also is a repeated lie. Thus a Hindu’s saint will not be accepted by a Muslim; a Muslim’s saint will not be accepted by a Hindu; and a Jain’s saint will not be accepted as a Hindu saint. Because even our notion of saint depends upon which lie we have repeated most. Lao Tzu speaks of sainthood in its purity—the purest sainthood, the truth of sainthood—not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian.
He says, ‘They do not reveal themselves.’
The desire to reveal oneself—that another should know me—arises only from ignorance. That another should recognize who I am is only a device to conceal some inner wound. And another who does not know himself—how can anything he knows about me remove my ignorance? When it is said that the sage does not reveal himself, it does not mean he does not become revealed. But that revelation is not his effort, not his longing.
A small thing about the Sufi fakirs is useful to understand here. Sufis do not even leave the world—for only one reason. Not because leaving the world is useless. One can attain even by leaving the world—perhaps more easily. But the Sufi says: if you leave the world, people come to know. And anything that is done so people will know is the result of some deep hidden desire. So why even tell that much—that we are leaving?
Thus a Sufi may be a cobbler in a village, making shoes; he will go on making shoes. Even his neighbor may not know that next door someone has attained to knowing. Yet people from far away will keep coming to him. He will not accept them as spiritual seekers either; he will accept them to teach the craft of shoemaking. In the open marketplace he remains a disciple of shoe‑making; in the darkness of night, in solitude, he becomes a seeker. And often one fakir will send a man to another fakir. For two or four years he will make shoes for him, weave cloth for him. For two or four years he will not even ask, “What did you come for?” Two or four years he silently makes shoes, weaves mats, stitches cloth; whatever his master says, he does the whole day. After two or four years the saint initiates him into the inner realm.
Why? What was the wait for these years? The Sufis say: the one who quickly even reveals that he has come to practice, his desire to reveal is strong. Such a man will not find truth. He will be more eager to broadcast, “I am seeking truth,” and less eager to seek it. He will be more eager that others should know he is a holy man than that he actually becomes one.
The Sufi fakir Hasan would ask his disciples, Have you come to be sannyasins or to become sannyasins? Do you want to be religious—or to become religious? And he would say: the first is easy. If you want to be religious, to be a sadhu, a mahatma—it is very easy. You do not even need to come to me; you need only a little art of publicity and advertisement. But to become religious is a long journey. And its first sutra is: do not commit the mistake of revealing. Why is revealing so great a mistake?
When a man takes one step, the second becomes inevitable, then the third becomes inevitable.
Gibran has written: a fakir roamed from village to village, crying, Whoever wishes to walk to God, come follow me. Many said, We feel a great longing to come after you—but work in the world remains. Someone’s daughter is of age—her marriage must be arranged. Someone’s children are small—innocent—let them grow a little. Someone has just opened a shop. Someone has just sown his field; let the harvest be gathered. Thousands of such things. The fakir kept calling: whoever wants God, come! In each village people praised him greatly.
In one village a great trouble arose. One man agreed to go after him. The fakir was in difficulty. For in two or four days the man would ask, How much farther? Where is the path? The fakir gave him harder and harder tasks. But the man was stubborn. He would complete everything and stand ready: Any other way? Any other method?
Six years passed. The fakir dried up to skin and bones—because of this man. Twenty‑four hours he became a tension; he would not let him sleep at night or rest by day. His very presence became heavy. At last one day the fakir fell at his feet and said, Forgive me; because of you I too have lost the way. I made a mistake. I will never say it to anyone again.
He who was saying, I know the way—he knew no way. But there is great joy in others believing that I know the way. And because no one ever actually follows, there is never any examination. Of those you call saints, ninety‑nine out of a hundred would drown in the first stream if you actually agreed to follow them. You never follow, and they remain leaders. For without followers, to remain a leader is very easy. Slowly they too come to believe that they know. When your eyes shine and you feel, Yes, this man knows, that man too feels gratified.
We use each other like mirrors; we see our faces in others.
This urge to reveal oneself is born of the ego. If the sage becomes revealed—that is another matter. If someone finds him, knows him, recognizes him—that is another matter. But that deep desire that others should know me—that is not part of saintliness. “Let others know me”—that is the way of the worldly mind. “Let me know myself”—that is the way of the religious mind. “Let no one know me—let me alone come to know myself”—that is religious search. Whether I know myself or not—let the whole world know me; let not even a single person be left ignorant of me—this is the way of the worldly mind.
One evening in Mulla Nasruddin’s village coffee house there was a big crowd. A warrior had arrived. With naked sword in hand he was narrating tales of war. He said, We have come straight from the battlefield. People were stunned by his bravery. He said, I cut people like greens and radishes. It went beyond Nasruddin’s tolerance. He stood up and said, Our youth too comes to mind; once we also cut people like greens and radishes. In one lunge we cut the legs of ten or fifteen men. The warrior said, Legs? Never heard of that. Better if you had cut heads. Nasruddin said, Someone had already taken their heads away.
Yet it became difficult to keep silent. Nasruddin is the symbol of that childish ego hiding in us. If someone speaks of knowing God, you cannot refrain; you too will say something. It is hard to find one who does not speak without knowing. We all speak without knowing. We tell without knowing. We advise without knowing.
Emerson has written in his diary: If people in the world stopped giving advice without knowing, the earth could become heaven any day.
But even those who know nothing still enjoy that someone should think they know. This enjoyment is very costly! Some even shape their lives around it; they bear great hardships. It is not that such people are deceiving others; they go through pain to deceive themselves. One man eats only once a day, remains naked, sleeps on grass, will not stay in a house. Not a small hardship; he bears it fully. But if hardship is borne only to convince others that “I am a saint,” then all the hardship is wasted.
Buddha has said: even if the foolish practice austerities, they still go to hell. Even with austerities the foolish move toward hell.
What is the basis of their foolishness? What is the basis of all our ignorance?
To treat the other as a mirror is the basis of all ignorance. Leave concern with the other and turn directly to concern with oneself. What am I? Let me know this first. And the wonder is: the one who knows what and who he is, all yearning that anyone should know him disappears. The very idea ends. The urge to impress others dissolves at the very moment one knows oneself.
And Lao Tzu says: such are they—they do not reveal themselves, and for that very reason they remain radiant. Those who reveal themselves become depleted and beggarly.
Revealing dissipates power, energy. The one who keeps himself hidden—as a live coal keeps hidden, as the sun may hide and not appear—all his energy remains saved. Revealing is an expenditure of energy. And the loss of energy is the loss of radiance. If a person becomes free of the desire to reveal himself, then it is as though a sun has arisen within; all energy begins to gather inward. When we go out to impress others, we are spent, we are exhausted. In the effort to influence, it is not necessary that the other will be influenced. One thing is certain: we will be diminished, we will grow poor, we will be drained; our life‑energy will lessen.
Whether the other is influenced or not is very uncertain—because he too has come to influence us, not to be influenced. Pay attention: often when someone appears to be influenced by you, think again—perhaps that is his way to influence you. There is no end to man’s cleverness. If you want to influence someone, the first way is to pretend to be influenced by him. It becomes flattery. When you seem utterly impressed, melted at his feet, you do not know that you have melted him. Then only a little push is needed and he is at your feet.
Why does flattery touch us so much? Because the flatterer proclaims how impressed he is with us. Many times we even know that the flattery is sheer falsehood; still, that someone considers us worthy of being flattered pleases the heart. Flattery does not touch as much as the fact that someone deemed us worthy of flattering. Is that not enough? And in this world where everyone lives by the ego, to tickle another’s ego even a little seems miraculous. But the flatterer is appearing to be influenced in order to influence you. The likelihood that you will influence another is small. One thing is sure—you are spending your energy, you are losing yourself.
There was a Zen master, Rinzai. Whenever anyone came to him he would say: Two things first must be decided. One, that you have no intention to reveal yourself. Have you come to be my disciple only so you can tell the village you are Rinzai’s disciple?
Rinzai is a great master. Disciples always advertise their guru. But it is not the guru being advertised; as the guru grows, so grows the disciple. A great guru makes a great disciple. If you say something wrong about someone’s guru, the disciple is hurt—not because the guru was found wrong; but if the guru is wrong, what of the disciple? The disciple too is wrong. If the guru is great, the disciple becomes great.
Look carefully: if someone abuses your country, your hurt is not actually for the country. What have you to do with land? If someone abuses your religion, what do you have to do with it? If someone abuses Rama, Krishna, Mahavira—what is your purpose?
No—the abuse reaches you. The Hindu wants to believe that Hinduism is the supreme religion—because he is Hindu. The Muslim wants to believe Islam is supreme—because he is Muslim. Only if Islam is supreme can the Muslim be superior. Only if Hinduism is supreme can the Hindu be superior. And if India is such a land that even the gods long to be born here, then by being born here you have bestowed a boundless favor upon India! When the gods are longing—and you got the chance—then the gods fell two inches short. The happiness this gives the mind has nothing to do with geography.
Ego fills itself from all sides. Its formula is: reveal yourself. If the ego remains unrevealed, it dies—remember this. The ego lives by revelation. Its life is in how many others accept me. The ego’s breath is the impression we make on others. If no one knows me, where will my ego stand? If you are alone on the earth, your ego will have no place to stand. Ego is within, but it stands upon others’ shoulders. If those shoulders are not available, it cannot stand.
This ego is the first obstacle to saintliness. Whoever wants to know the soul must be free of ego. Freedom from ego means freedom from the desire to influence others. And remember, to influence another is violence. That the other may be influenced is another matter. But to influence another is violence. To mold the other, to shape the other, to make ideals for him, to make him “good”—is also violence.
In truth, we are unwilling to accept the other as he is. We are eager to make the other what we want him to be. Fathers are making sons, friends are making friends, gurus are making disciples. Everyone is busy making everyone else. No one is pleased with you as you are. Neither your wife, nor your father, nor your husband, nor your son—no one is ready to accept you as you are. As you are is the wrong way to be. Each is eager to carve you into his desired image. He will cut you. One ear is problematic—cut it off; one eye is bad—pluck it out; break the hand; fix the leg—fix everything.
I have heard: one day a bird sat on Mulla Nasruddin’s window. A strange bird—Nasruddin had never seen it. A long beak; a colorful crest on its head; large wings. Nasruddin caught it and said, Seems no one has cared for you. He brought scissors and cut the wings smaller, trimmed the crest, cut the beak. Then he said, Now you look just right—like a pigeon. Seems no one cared for you. Now you can fly at ease.
But now there was no way to fly. The bird was not a pigeon. But Mulla knew only pigeons; his imagination could not go beyond a pigeon.
Every child born in your house is a stranger. Such a child has never been born before in the world. He has nothing to do with the children you are familiar with. This is another bird. But you will cut his wings, trim his beak, and say, Son, now you are fit to go into the world.
Thus here everyone lives mutilated—because everyone around is so eager to influence, to make, to manufacture him that there is no measure to it. When a father sees his own image in his son, he becomes pleased. Why? He feels, I was right—see, my son is just like me. If I get the chance and thousands become like me, I will be very happy—because my ego has expanded. When thousands are ready to imitate me, it means I am right, and thousands follow me. Behind influencing the other is this desire of the ego: Become like me.
Lao Tzu says, ‘They do not reveal themselves, and therefore they remain radiant.’
Their energy, their fire does not finish; they go on shining. But their shine is not to lure anyone’s eyes. Their shine is an inner glow. That flame is not lit to delude anyone. That flame is their own energy.
‘He does not justify himself, and is therefore far‑famed.’
The sage never justifies himself; he does not prove his own rightness.
Jesus is being crucified. Pilate asks him, I can still pardon you—just prove that you are the son of God. Jesus remains silent. Pilate says, You have one chance—say at least that I am innocent, that I have no crime; make an appeal to the Roman emperor that I am guiltless. Jesus is silent. Going to the cross seems more appropriate than justifying that I am justified. Why? It seems only proper—one would say—even we would advise: consult a lawyer! What haste was there to be crucified? He should have proved that what he said was right, that he meant something else.
Christianity has been trying for two thousand years to prove that Jesus meant something else, that people misunderstood. But why did Jesus not prove it himself? It would have been easier. For two thousand years witnesses are being given that Jesus meant something else, and those who crucified him failed to understand. Jesus had said “kingdom of God”—it was the kingdom of God he spoke of, not the kingdom of this world. The kings of this world were frightened; they thought Jesus was seeking a worldly throne. But Jesus himself could have said so. So simple—a statement: I mean that, not this. Why did he remain silent? Why not justify it?
Because, the very urge to justify is to accept the other as lord. Before whom are you justifying? The sage is answerable to no one. If you go to Lao Tzu and say, Prove that you are a holy man! he will say: If you wish to take me as unholy, take me as unholy; if you wish to take me as holy, take me as holy—this is your business; I have nothing to do with it. You may say, We will go thinking you are unholy. Lao Tzu will answer: It is your amusement. But if I go to prove to you that I am holy, that would mean my holiness requires your authenticity—your seal, your signature.
A funny thing happened: once I was seeking a job. I met the education minister of that state. He said, We can give you a job at once; choose any university or college you like; but we need your character certificate. Bring a character certificate from the vice chancellor of the university where you studied, or a principal where you attended.
I said, I have yet to meet a man whose character certificate I could give—not any principal, not any vice chancellor. So, when I cannot write a character certificate for them, to bring one from them would be strange indeed. If you can give the job without a character certificate, give it. Otherwise, it is better to remain without a job than to bring a certificate of character from the characterless. After all, who can certify character? How? And whether I have character or not is between me and Paramatma. And I told him: the salary you will give me is for teaching—will you pay me for my character? If you were going to pay for character, perhaps then character should be of concern.
But the world we live in rests on justification; everything has to be proven. And the methods of proof are amusing.
Quaker Christians do not swear oaths in court. In court one must swear: I swear to tell the truth. Quakers say, If I am going to lie, I can lie even while swearing.
It is a strange madness! A man skilled at lying—we make him swear he will tell the truth. He swears: I swear I will tell the truth. Is it not a wonder that swearing can make a man stop lying? And the man who could stop lying by swearing would have given it up long ago. But courts go on playing childish games. Somewhere we have to begin—somewhere we have to assume you speak truth. How can an oath determine who speaks truth?
The joke is, the liar will swear loudly; the truthful may hesitate: to swear or not. The truthful will hesitate; the liar will not. For the one who intends to lie—what obstacle is the oath? The one who intends to tell truth—the oath can become an obstacle. He may think, Swearing means telling the truth. But the liar will swear swiftly.
Bertrand Russell has written: In this world those who are most eager to justify themselves thereby prove that they are unjustified. The urge to prove themselves shows that they themselves doubt within. To hush that doubt they do all sorts of things.
Thus, a delightful thing: the highest ones in the world who have spoken have given no proofs for what they said. They are straightforward statements; there is no proof. Buddha says: This happened to me. If someone asks, Proof? he says: Do this and this—you too will know. Your doing will be your proof. If I bring four witnesses that “they too say it happened to me,” an infinite regress begins—a chain without end. For I bring one witness—yet we never ask, This witness who speaks—where are his witnesses who say he speaks rightly? Where will the chain of witnesses end?
The rishis have said: truth is self‑evident. Untruth is not self‑evident. Therefore the untruth always comes accompanied by witnesses. Truth is its own witness—there is no other testimony. Untruth makes arrangements beforehand; it comes with twenty‑five witnesses in hand.
Mulla Nasruddin went to trial. He had murdered someone. Ten witnesses testified that the murder occurred before their eyes. Nasruddin said, What of that! I can produce a hundred who are ready to say the murder did not occur before their eyes. What are ten? A hundred witnesses I can bring! When the man was murdered—Nasruddin says—I did not do it; someone else must have. I was present. In court the lawyer asks: How far were you standing from the victim when he died? He said: Thirteen feet and seven inches. The magistrate was startled: You are the first man! How do you know thirteen feet seven inches? Nasruddin said: I had thought it through beforehand—some fool in court would ask. I measured everything before doing the work.
The one who is wrong finds witnesses before committing the wrong. The one who is right discovers only later that even for the right one must give witnesses.
Lao Tzu says: the sage does not justify himself. For what he is, he has no testimony. For what he has experienced, he has no proof. Nor any desire to give proof. The sage stands completely unjustified, without any concern for justification. Those who can see, let them see; those who cannot, let them remain blind.
But if in the mind of the sage there arises a desire—to prove that I am truthful, nonviolent, vowed, renunciate…
I once went to a village. A sadhu was staying there. Someone brought him to meet me. The one who introduced him was his disciple. He said, He is a great renunciate, a great ascetic. He has so far performed so‑and‑so thousands of fasts. I asked the sadhu: They say you have done thousands of fasts? He said, Yes. And now the number is even higher; they are telling the old count. I asked, Do you keep accounts? He said, I keep a diary.
For whom will this diary be shown? Will he take the diary to Paramatma? For whom is this diary? No—it is to show people how many fasts have been done. And one who is eager to tell may write two or four extra fasts in the diary too. One who is eager to tell—no trust can be placed. For the fast is not the real thing; the number is the real thing. The value of the fast is only in how the number increases.
This justification of renunciation tells that the man is still in the marketplace. His language, his way of thinking are still worldly. No ray of sannyas has yet touched him. He has not yet tasted the bliss of renunciation. He gets pleasure from renouncing—but not the bliss of renunciation. Understand the difference well. He gets pleasure from renouncing—because people respect, honor, touch feet, shout hosannas, take him in chariots with bands playing. By renunciation, from renunciation. Renunciation is still the means; the pleasure is in respect. He has not yet known the joy of renunciation itself.
The day he tastes the bliss of renunciation, he will see that renouncing respect is the greatest renunciation. Whatever he has left so far—food, clothing, house—are nothings. If leaving them gives so much joy, then the day one leaves the entire ego—the very urge for respect—he attains supreme joy. But he has no inkling of that yet. Those who today play bands around him—if tomorrow they stop—his fasting will also stop. The very reason will be gone.
A man used to come to Ramakrishna. Every year during the autumn festival of the Goddess he would celebrate with pomp, many goats were sacrificed. Suddenly the celebrations stopped; the goats were no longer sacrificed. Ramakrishna asked: For long I have seen—one year, two years—the festival? Religion? Worship? No goats are sacrificed now? The man said: Teeth are gone—my teeth have fallen. Ramakrishna had thought the festival was for religion—he was startled. Ramakrishna asked: What has that to do with teeth? The man said: Without teeth what celebration? How to eat the goats? The joy of eating and drinking is gone.
Religion was a pretext, a cover. When the root cause falls… If you stop honoring sadhus one day, you will know how many sadhus remain. As long as honor is given, it is difficult to decide. Ninety‑nine out of a hundred are sadhus only because of honor.
And a strange thing: to be a sadhu requires no great intelligence, no special quality, no talent, no genius. Everywhere in this world respect is costly; by becoming a sadhu it is very cheap. Look at your sadhus with some attention—into what direction could you put them so they would be useful?
A sadhu wanted to leave his robes. He wrote to me. I said, Leave them—what is there to ask? Will you leave even by asking? You asked to enter, now you will ask to leave? If you want to leave—leave. What is wrong? He wrote back: You did not understand. I failed high school. And now—even the vice chancellor comes to touch my feet. Tomorrow I will not get even a clerk’s job. That is why I ask—should I leave or not? I replied: You asked the wrong question. You should not have asked to leave sainthood—there is no sainthood there. You are in a business—and a good business at that—continue it. It has nothing to do with sainthood. You have found a suitable trade; continue. But do not call the trade sainthood.
To be a sadhu is the cheapest event requiring no qualification. So it is easy. Ninety‑nine out of a hundred are sadhus only because through sainthood they get what otherwise they could not get. But remove the foundations of respect and your sadhus will vanish. Then perhaps only that one will remain for whom respect had no purpose—who did not want to be revealed; or, even if revealed, it was without desire, a happenstance.
We justify ourselves only when we feel those before whom we justify are our judges.
Someone said to Nietzsche: You write so much against Jesus—and Nietzsche not only wrote against Jesus; even when he signed his name he wrote “Anti‑Christ Friedrich Nietzsche”—so give proofs for all this. Nietzsche said: In the very court where Jesus’ authenticity will be examined, we too shall give our proofs. If there is a God somewhere who will prove that Jesus is the son of God, before him we too will prove. But not before you, because you are not judges. Who are you? What have I to do with you?
And Nietzsche is no saint—but he stands very near saintliness. His books are not systematic; they are fragments; there is no chain among them. Many told him: Make a system. He said, Who are you? The thoughts are mine—I am responsible. Those who have eyes will see the chain; those who have no eyes—why tell them the chain?
Nietzsche said: Others have written a whole book on a single thought; I have written a single sentence from many thoughts. But these are seeds. And there is no judge; there is no accountability to anyone.
In truth, the sage’s statement is: As I am—that is between me and Paramatma; no one else has anything to do with it.
But we cannot refrain from jumping in between. We have become voyeurs, peeping Toms. We peep through keyholes. We all have become so prone to peeping into others! And others are so weak that they begin to justify themselves: I am right; the reason I did this was that; what I said—I had reasons. The others give reasons too—they are also weak.
But the sage is not weak. He is entirely settled in himself. He needs no proof. No explanations, no justification, no arguments, no witnesses.
And Lao Tzu says, ‘Therefore their renown reaches to the far horizons.’
Those who go on justifying may succeed in convincing two or four. Those who do not justify at all—their fragrance travels on its own to far horizons. For they cannot be refuted. It is a great wonder: one who has never tried to prove he is virtuous—you cannot prove him unvirtuous. One who has tried to prove he is virtuous—he can be shown unvirtuous. In fact, in trying to prove virtue, he has announced he is unvirtuous. When a man goes on saying, I am not a thief; I am not dishonest; all day he keeps repeating that he does not lie—anyone will become suspicious. What is the matter? Why so much awareness? Why so much repetition? If you are not, it is enough.
The one who feels guilt within keeps trying again and again. His every effort keeps pointing to a hidden crime within. Freud said: there are people who keep rubbing their hands the whole day. These hand‑rubbers are those who have committed some sin; they are washing their hands. Their rubbing is not causeless.
Some have a mania for hand‑washing—ten, fifty times a day. Some heavy sin is inside and hand‑washing is its symbol. There is some crime that makes them feel their hands are stained; they cleanse them. Some women become mad for cleaning the house. Cleanliness becomes madness. No speck of dust must remain. A guest coming into the house becomes a cause of fear—he may bring dirt.
Cleanliness is good—but anything can be stretched to the point of madness. Freud says: in these women’s minds some dirt, some filth is lodged; outwardly it appears as a passion that no dirt remain outside. Outer dirt reminds them of inner dirt; hence the madness.
A friend was with me. He would drink no tea at anyone’s house, no water, eat no one’s offering. He always said: I take nothing from outside.
Often seeing this I felt it was some mania, some madness. I probed, discussed, tried to understand. Once he had tried to poison someone. Since then he cannot eat at others’ houses. What is hidden within still trembles. Now to take anything from anyone is to re‑awaken his own crime.
Man is very complex. What you do and why—you may not know. The mind is deeply entangled. Man does thousands of things without knowing why. But the cause is hidden within. Those who constantly justify that they are good feel deep inside that they are not. When someone comes and says, You are not a good man—if you become angry, it means he has touched a wound. Otherwise, what reason is there to be angry? If he is right—thank him. If he is wrong—laugh it off. The matter ends. Why anger?
People came to Gurdjieff and said: Today someone was saying very abusive things about you—swearing at you, speaking filthily. Gurdjieff said: That is nothing. There are others—go meet so‑and‑so; he says even filthier things. And if you are still not satisfied, I will tell you more who say worse—this is nothing. When Ouspensky first met Gurdjieff, he was amazed by this. Whenever someone came speaking of slander about him, he would say, This is nothing.
The man who has no wound inside—you cannot hurt him by any amount of slander. Hurt comes not from your slander, but from the wound within. If someone says, So‑and‑so says you are without character—the hurt you feel does not come from that man. You know too that you lack character. Now the disgrace is out—others too are coming to know. And you rush to justify that you are not—who says so? I am virtuous. Except the characterless, none has tried to justify character.
The sage does not justify himself; but his renown reaches far horizons. This reaching is an effortless happening—unarranged, uncontrived. There is no desire for it, no ambition for it. Yet it happens. And when it happens, it is difficult to stop the fragrance. For it can never be disproved. One who is not trying to prove right—you cannot prove him wrong.
‘They do not claim superiority; therefore people give them the credit.’
Their only credit is that they do not claim to be superior. Only the inferior claim superiority; the superior do not. The one who is truly superior—why should he claim?
‘They are not proud, and therefore they remain foremost among men.’
They remain in front—only because they have no desire to be in front. They are fully prepared to stand at the back. Indeed they stand at the back.
Understand this a little. There are two ways people come to the front in this world. One is by pushing and shoving their way up the line. Politicians do this—much rough‑and‑tumble they endure to come forward. Their disgrace is great—but the lure is greater. And once a man is in front, people forget his disgrace. For the line’s front changes the story. The successful man’s failures are forgotten. When one reaches the front, it is forgotten that he once stood at the back.
The fun is: the very way he pushed to the front—he then starts preaching to others: stand in line; do not push. Ask Indira Gandhi; what Nijalingappa used to tell her, she began telling others. Strange—but such is the human mind. Everyone’s mind is like this.
You are in a train compartment. You shout from the door, not letting anyone in: It is full—no space—move on! You forget that at the last station you were outside and the arguments you gave then are the arguments the man outside is giving now: Do not worry, I will stand on my feet; there is space for a foot; I will bear the discomfort. You say, There is no space. These were the very words spoken to you from inside. But the moment one enters, the soul changes. Outside is one soul; inside is another. You have no idea how souls change so fast. And it is not that the pleading man will not change; let him in—at the next station hear what he tells those outside. Then you will know that what a man says depends entirely on circumstance.
To become a leader one must create all sorts of trouble. But to remain a leader one must preach to the rest not to create trouble. The one who pushed his way up is most against pushing—because he knows well the means by which those in front can be pulled down.
Machiavelli has written: burn the ladder by which you ascend. He is one of those rare men who peered deeply into man’s mind. Few see so deeply. Machiavelli says: first work—on reaching the top—destroy the ladder. Because the ladder is impartial; just as it lifted you, it can lift another. He says: a leader should keep a wide distance between himself and followers; those near are dangerous.
That is why no leader likes intelligent people near him; he prefers fools. There is a distance between them such that even if you place a ladder, they won’t know to climb. Such people are safe. Hence every leader has a flock of fools; on them he survives.
One way is to come to the front by pushing—this is the political way.
Saints too are sometimes found in front. But their way is different. They stand at the back. Wherever there is pushing, they move to the rear. In that calm stance, because they do not need to go ahead, there is no restlessness. One who does not need to go ahead has no anxiety, no competition, no jealousy, no struggle. One who does not need to go ahead has no enemies. What is the use of enemies for him? When a man has no enemies, no restlessness, no anxiety, no pain, no sorrow—the radiance that begins to arise in him draws some people to queue behind him. This is the other process. People begin to stand behind them. And they must stand so silently that he does not come to know that people have gathered behind; otherwise he will go and stand behind them.
Gurdjieff used to say: If you wish to walk behind the saints, do not let them know—do not let your footsteps be heard. For saints are lovers of standing behind; they will put you ahead. Walk behind them in such a way that it is as if you are not.
Sometimes even behind such saints millions gather. But this being “in front” is qualitatively different. In this, no one has been pushed behind; people themselves have stepped back. In politics, followers must be made; in religion, followers happen. In politics, people must be kept down; in religion, people stand down by themselves. It is a natural happening. And the breeze carries this fragrance to far horizons. Therefore those who are not proud remain foremost among men.
‘Since they do not put forth a thesis, therefore no one in the world can contend with them.’
The proposal of a thesis is an invitation to dispute. If I say, This alone is truth! I will evoke in someone the urge to say, This is not truth. The world is a balance. When a claim arises, a counter‑claim arises immediately.
If you go to Mahavira, there is no thesis. No one succeeded in disputing with him—because what he said is not a “ism.” Someone says, God is. Mahavira says, Right—this too is right. A little while later someone says, There is no God. Mahavira says, This too is right. He says: there is no untruth that contains no part of truth; and there is no truth spoken by man in which untruth does not mix. So why worry? Nothing is complete in this world; whatever anyone says will contain a part of truth—no matter what the thesis. And nothing can be expressed as complete truth, for human language cannot express the complete.
So Mahavira has no thesis. But disciples create theses. Without a thesis the disciple is in trouble. If you tell a Jain, a follower of Mahavira, “All right—no thesis—then let us go to the mosque! Why go to the temple? Why keep Mahavira’s words? Keep the Quran! Why bow to Mahavira? Bow to Rama today.” He will say no. He has a thesis. These are the accidents of history: Mahavira had no thesis—but the follower cannot live without one. He must create a boundary to be different. And boundaries create dispute.
Mahavira had no thesis. Yet the Jain philosophers have argued more than any others in India. They are confirmed disputants. They split the hair a thousand ways. Jain logic is refined. In truth, Jains were forced to refine logic—because Mahavira did not touch logic. He left them in difficulty. They had to guard him a lot; they had to invent a great deal. And what was not a thesis at all, they named Syadvada—the doctrine of “perhaps.”
It is a contradictory name. “Syat”—“perhaps”—is a most wondrous word. It only indicates possibility. Someone asks: Is there God? Mahavira says: Syat, perhaps. “Syat” means: I neither say absolutely no nor absolutely yes. It means: I stand in the middle.
For “syat” English has no word. A contemporary American thinker, De Bono, has coined one—useful. He proposes “po”—a newly minted word. There are two words in English: yes and no. De Bono seems a man of Mahavira’s grasp. He says, These two words are dangerous—because they settle things completely—yes or no. And life is not like that. Life is not like that. Hence he says, between yes and no a middle term—po, P‑O. “Po” means: perhaps.
You ask: Do you love me or not? Yes or no? De Bono says: po—syat. Because it depends upon a thousand things; to reply quickly with yes or no is dangerous. Yes would mean love is absolute. If I say yes and after a moment I get angry with you, you will ask: Where is your love? No would be wrong; yes would be wrong. In life everything is relative, not absolute. What is love now may not be love a moment later. Where there is no hint of love now, a sprout may appear a moment later. Nothing can be said. So De Bono says—po, syat.
Mahavira used “syat.” But his disciples made it into a doctrine—Syadvada. Yet “syat” itself says: there is no doctrine in the world. Whatever doctrine you propose… A doctrine means a claim: it is so. “It is so” creates doctrine. Mahavira says: Do not say “so only”—say “so also.” Put emphasis not on “only,” but on “also,” and there will be no quarrel, no dispute. Dispute arises from insistence on doctrine. No insistence—no claim.
‘Since they do not put forth a thesis, therefore no one in the world can contend with them. And is it not true, as the ancients have said: in surrender alone lies the security of the whole? Thus the sage remains secure and the world accords him respect.’
“In surrender alone lies the security of the whole”—this was the opening of the sutra. In the whole sutra from different angles—do not fight, let go, do not struggle, bend, do not dispute, do not claim, do not justify yourself, yield, do not be stiff, do not stand with a swagger—Lao Tzu has said the same truth from many sides. The essence is surrender.
Let us understand the last point well—it is the essence.
There is a word “struggle,” and a word “surrender.” In struggle, one fights the other, wants to win; and the result is defeat. In surrender, the other is not “other”; there is no opposition, no enmity. In surrender the other is accepted without conflict—as when a blade of grass bends before the storm, surrenders. It does not make the storm an enemy; it accepts a friendship—thinks, The storm is playing with me. It lets the storm pass, gives way. This surrender of the little blade before the storm is its security. The storm passes, the blade stands up again. Big trees fall; the blade survives.
If we see this whole existence as a storm, surrender is the way of safety amidst the tempest. Here, bend.
The word “bend” does not sound good to our minds because our language is the language of not bending. But if we understand Lao Tzu, “to bend” is wondrous. Very few attain to the greatness of bending.
Bend amidst the whirlwind that is the world. For we are its parts, not separate from it. To fight it is meaningless, madness—as if I made my two hands fight each other; as if my eyes fight my body; my feet fight my belly—madness. “Fight” is dangerous.
To enter the mystery of existence, let yourself be like a drop falling into the ocean, becoming one. Like a dry leaf surrendering to the wind—becoming one with it. In the storm of existence I am only a particle—not separate, not apart. I have no separate existence; I am only a grain of the one existence. To fight is meaningless and costly—a needless torment, a needless sorrow. The anxiety of the West today has arisen from the belief that the individual is separate from existence. Whoever thinks himself separate will fall into anxiety. Then the world becomes the enemy and I must protect myself. This protection is impossible; then I break, I wither, I am troubled. If this whole existence is me, if I am one with it, even my death is not my death.
Omar Khayyam said: What if I die? The dust that is my body will merge with earth; some plant will sprout from it, some flower will bloom—I will bloom in that flower. My breath will be released into the winds; it will enter someone’s lungs; some heart will beat—I will beat in that heart.
I cannot be annihilated—because I am not. I can be annihilated only if I am. If I am not—and only existence is—then there is no way to annihilate me. The blood that flows in my veins today may once have flown as a bird in the sky. The earth in my bones once blossomed as a flower; it will again become flowers. The very word by which I speak today was once born from wind striking upon trees; it will again flow among trees. If my being is separate from existence, my end is certain. But if I am one with existence, then sometimes as a flower, sometimes as a bird, sometimes as sky, sometimes as earth—in infinite forms I remain. There is no way to end me.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: in surrender there is safety. He who dissolves himself wholly into existence—his insecurity ends. If you protect yourself—danger is certain. Trouble begins.
And we are all busy protecting ourselves. That protection is our misery. Nor can we succeed. We cannot succeed. We will be lost anyway. It is not that those who protect lose one way and those who surrender lose another; only the outlook changes. Both have to lose. Both have to lose; only the vision changes. You die—because you believed you were. Lao Tzu merely dissolves into the Vast. The vision changes. Lao Tzu’s death is a quiet death—no pain. For Lao Tzu is becoming greater—as if released from a prison. The prison walls fall; the sky hidden within the prison blends with the great sky. This is the moment of liberation. What is death for us is liberation for Lao Tzu. What is sorrowful and sad for us is nirvana for Buddha and Mahavira—the consciousness becoming one with the Vast.
Mansur, hanging on the cross, said: Do not only look that I am being crucified—open your eyes! A hundred thousand were gathered—throwing stones, abusing. They had come to kill him. Mansur said: I am dying—do not only see that. Open your eyes, stop the noise. This side I am dying—that side I am meeting Paramatma—see that too. Here I am departing—there I am being welcomed. Here I am removed—there I enter. From you I go away—to Him I come near; see that too.
But when a man dies we only see the farewell. We do not see that he goes somewhere. We are blind. In this universe nothing is lost—not even a grain of dust. Science says: destruction is impossible. We cannot annihilate even a grain of sand. It will remain—in some form it will remain. Existence will remain; its quantity cannot be diminished a jot. Where even a grain of sand does not perish, why such fear for yourself? Where nothing can be destroyed, man fears: I will die, I will be gone. This fear stands upon a delusion—the delusion of being separate. If I am separate, fear begins: I will end.
Ramakrishna was dying—he had cancer. He could not even swallow. Whatever was put into his throat would fall out. Vivekananda said to him: Why do you not ask the Mother—Kali—just once? If you pray once, it will be resolved.
Listening to Vivekananda, Ramakrishna closed his eyes, then burst into laughter and said: I asked—and Kali said: You ate long enough through your own throat; now eat through others’ throats. So, Vivekananda, today when you eat, through your throat I will eat. And this is proper, Ramakrishna said—how long will I be tied to this throat? The time nears when I must spread into other throats.
But if this very throat is my throat—then the noose will suffocate me. If all throats are mine—let there be nooses—some throat will remain. However many breaths stop, somewhere breath will go on. However many flowers wither, elsewhere flowers will bloom. In this world nothing is destroyed. Only the ego’s delusion makes one feel, I am separate—therefore arises the fear that I will be destroyed.
Surrender is the dissolution of the ego’s delusion—I am not separate. Then there is no struggle in this world.
Enough for today. Let us pause five minutes and sing a kirtan.