Tao Upanishad #53

Lao Tzu has given four ideals.
'Tao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, and the emperor also.'
First understand what Lao Tzu means by these four.
Tao is the ultimate ideal. Beyond it, nothing remains. Tao means to come into accord with the ultimate law of life; that there remains no opposition in existence and within oneself.
As our life is, it is a moment-to-moment conflict. We live less; we fight life more. For us life is a struggle, a tug-of-war, a grabbing. Not a gift, not a compassion, but a duality. Whatever we want to have, we must snatch, we must pounce upon. If we do not pounce, do not snatch, it will be lost. And it seems to us that the more someone snatches, the more he gains; and the one who stands aside, who does not snatch, who does not fight, who does not enter the war, loses.
Lao Tzu’s vision is exactly the opposite. He says: the one who snatches and pounces may gain something else, but will remain deprived of life. He may gain wealth, he may gain fame, he may gain position, but he will be deprived of life. And when someone attains position by paying with life, there is none more pitiable. And when someone earns wealth at the cost of life, there is none more impoverished. And the one who sells his life to purchase fame, in the end finds nothing in his hands but ashes. Ultimately, what is attained at the cost of life does not prove to be attained; it proves to be lost. Lao Tzu says: if you want to attain life, snatching and pouncing are not the way.
Then what is the way? The way is to move in harmony with Tao; the way is, with that river which is life, that current, not to swim but to flow; not to fight it but to become one with it, and to go wherever that river leads. For one who has no trust in life can have no trust in anything. Life gives you birth; life is your breath; life is the beating of your heart. If you do not trust life—the very force by which your heart beats, which flows in your blood and moves within your breath—if even that is not trusted, then you can trust nothing. If we understand Lao Tzu, this is what shraddha means to him. The meaning is very deep—trust in life.
Lao Tzu does not say, believe in God. We have no clue about God; how to believe in that of which we have no clue? And even if belief happens, it will be false.
Hence in the world there are two kinds of people: the unbelievers and the false believers. It is difficult to find a third kind. And the unbelievers are more honest than the false believers—because the unbeliever, today or tomorrow, may come to trust; but the false believer can never come to trust, for he already lives with the notion that he has shraddha. In a God whom you do not know, shraddha cannot be. However much you deny your doubt, however much you explain things to yourself, however much you wrap yourself in doctrines and command your mind, 'do not doubt'—still, in that which you do not know, shraddha cannot be. You can force belief, but shraddha cannot happen. Deep down, unshraddha will remain. At the center, unshraddha will remain.
And peripheral belief has no value. Until it becomes subjective, until the arrow penetrates the within, until there remains no nook inside which shraddha has not entered—until all your life-breaths are filled with it, every pore of your being—and not a tiny recess remains for doubt, till then shraddha has no value. We wear the garments of faith; our soul is of unshraddha.
Therefore scratch a so-called believer a little, and disbelief will ooze out. Life itself sometimes scratches us; then unshraddha appears. Sorrow arrives, and a man begins to say, 'My trust in God is shaken.' A scratch has come—defeat happened, loss happened, success did not come—a scratch came, and faith wavers. This is why those whom we call religious, the faithful, are afraid even to talk about faith. Their soul quakes even to discuss with an atheist. What fear can an atheist bring to a theist?
It is a strange thing: atheists do not tremble to discuss with theists, but theists tremble to discuss with atheists. Certainly, the atheist’s disbelief appears stronger than the theist’s belief. The atheist’s doubt appears more authentic than the theist’s faith. Even a small-time atheist can shake your theism. The truth is: you are not theists. Faith is not that cheap. It is not given with the mother’s milk, nor does it come in the mother’s blood, nor is it obtained from society’s schooling, nor from scriptures. Faith is not so cheap. And we have been trying an impossible act for thousands of years: we want to have faith in that which we do not know. And our argument is very amusing: because we do not know, we want to believe, so that we may come to know. Theists can be heard saying, 'If you believe, only then will you know.' The paradox is that without knowing, shraddha cannot be. This entire edifice is baseless. Only knowing can give birth to shraddha. Without knowing, doubt will remain. If we probe deeply, doubt simply means: you do not know; hence doubt. Doubt is ignorance.
Therefore in ignorance, shraddha cannot be. And if shraddha can happen in ignorance, then doubt could happen even in knowledge. If in ignorance you can believe, what will remain for knowledge? Ignorance is accompanied by doubt; when ignorance drops, doubt drops. With knowledge comes shraddha. When knowledge dawns, shraddha enters like a shadow.
Understand thus: doubt is only a signal of the inner ignorance; shraddha is the signal of inner knowing. Knowledge and ignorance belong within; their signals reach without. Doubt is a signal. Shraddha too is a signal. Whoever goes on changing the signals at the surface is deceiving himself. Within there is ignorance, and the message of doubt is arising; and you cover yourself with a sheet upon which 'Ram-naam' is written, faith-faith all over. Yet from within, doubt will go on coming. The Ram-naam written upon your shawl cannot erase it. That doubt is authentic; it is arising from you. And this sheet you bought in the marketplace; it is just a covering from above. It may deceive others. But truly, there is no need to deceive others either. Because when Ram rises from within someone, the sheet loses importance. And if the sheet is very important to the wearer, others need not be deceived. It is only a device to cover one’s own doubt.
Even if others are deceived, the irony is that we ourselves also get deceived. Looking at the very sheet we have wrapped upon ourselves, we say, 'We are full of faith.' Inside every so-called faith, the worm of doubt resides. Until that dissolves, there is no arrival of shraddha.
Thus by teaching the whole world, 'Trust in God, trust in God,' we have not brought religion; we have only succeeded in making people dishonest. We have given lessons of trust in that which cannot be trusted because it is unknown; thus we have succeeded in creating false religiosity. Therefore the whole ground seems religious—and not a single truly religious person. All religiosity is only worn.
Yet the religious teachers keep shouting: they say, 'Feed religion with the mother’s milk to every child.' They remain afraid the whole time that if a child’s intelligence awakens even a little, then it will be very difficult to throw a sheet over him. Intelligence will begin questioning from within. So before his intelligence awakens, pour the poison in; feed him whatever you want so deeply that later, even if his intelligence questions, it appears as if the question is not from within. And the false faith planted from outside takes root so deep that he gets deceived it is arising from within. Thus we commit the greatest crime against small, innocent children. We do not lead them on the way of knowing; we lead them on the way of belief. Belief is a deception of knowing. Belief is not shraddha; belief is blindness. Shraddha is the name of vision. The deepest possible eye in this world is shraddha.
Lao Tzu does not talk of God. His thinking is very scientific. If ever religion is to come upon this earth, it will have to come by Lao Tzu’s steps. The other stairways have proved failures.
Lao Tzu says: What relationship can you have with God? The matter is too far. Start from the near. Do not speak of the distant; start from the near. Tomorrow you may reach the far—but begin your journey from the near.
Life is nearest. If I do not even trust life, if I am snatching even from it, then I can trust no one. Life permeates every vein of ours. Life is us; because of life, we are. The being of life is our being. Our being hides life within it. Even in this we have no trust. Such untrust can be broken. Because acquaintance with life is not a distant matter, not about some God sitting in the sky. It is about the life running in our very veins here. With this, a relationship can happen.
Lao Tzu speaks of four ideals. If we understand them step by step, finally we can reach that which is nearest yet appears farthest.
He says: 'Tao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, the emperor is great.'
These are stairs. Tao is supreme, ultimate. But Tao is very far from our grasp. Our hands cannot yet reach it. Though it is also hidden within our hands, that is for the day when we recognize it. For now, Tao is very far.
On the second step Lao Tzu places heaven. 'Heaven' means the formula of bliss, the principle of joy. Tao is distant for us; but joy, delight, is not that distant. Its fragrance has sometimes reached our ears: once, suddenly at dawn you woke and saw the last star drowning in the sky—and something trembled within the heart. That is heaven. Once, dark clouds gathered and their shadows formed in the lake—and within you also, for a moment, something reflected. Or, in the dark night of the new moon, the hush of the night touched your heart—some inner veena received a stroke upon a string for a single instant. Such moments perhaps are five or ten in a life. In those instants we have a slight glimpse of heaven. In someone’s love, for a moment, the whole world was forgotten, and that moment of love stood still as eternal. The clock stopped, time ceased—and it seemed everything vanished; only one wave of love remained. Perhaps for that moment we could donate all, ready to lose all. In such few accidental instants we glimpse heaven.
I say glimpse, for we do not know heaven. It too is far from us. By heaven Lao Tzu means the principle of bliss. It is difficult to find a man searching for Tao, for truth; yet it is also difficult to find a man who is not searching for joy. Tao is very far; once in a while a Buddha, a Mahavira becomes interested in truth. But those who come to Buddha, those who follow in his footsteps, they too are not interested in truth; they are interested in Buddha’s joy. That is the second step.
Sariputta came to Buddha and said, 'Lord, how may I attain the same joy?'
When Buddha himself was seeking a master, he went to many teachers. One yogi told him, 'Seek joy.'
Buddha said, 'If by attaining truth joy comes—fine. If by attaining truth joy is lost—even then, fine. I have no wish to waste my time in false joy. If joy is with untruth, I am not ready to take it; for what meaning has joy with untruth? It will be a dream. Joy is meaningful only if it is true. Therefore leave joy aside; truth is enough. What is truth?'
But when Sariputta came to Buddha he asked, 'How can I have the joy that you have?'
Joy we can understand. Even that is far. And when we speak of joy, what we mean is pleasure, not joy. Even our dictionaries define ananda as pleasure. Pleasure is only a reflection of joy, not joy itself. As if the moon is in the sky, and we saw it in the lake; that moon in the lake is pleasure; the moon in the sky is joy.
But what about the lake’s moon? A small pebble falls into the lake—and it shatters. That moon breaks into fragments. A fish leaps—and the mirror of the lake quivers; the moon becomes pieces.
Our pleasure is like that. A small pebble—and all is scattered. A small fish leaps—and all is broken. Then we beat our chest: all pleasure is lost. Pleasure is only the reflection, the glimmer of joy.
For one who has never seen the moon in the sky and has only seen it in the lake, it is not strange if, when we speak of the moon, he thinks of his lake’s moon. Even so, the lake’s moon, though opposite, is still connected with the moon. Thus we can understand something of joy; we are connected with pleasure. Yet even joy is far. Far also because the first condition of joy is very difficult: unless we renounce pleasure. Naturally, one who is not ready to leave the lake’s moon—how will his eyes rise toward the sky’s moon? One who takes the lake’s moon to be the moon and refuses to withdraw his eyes from there—how will he look toward the sky’s moon? Granted that the lake’s moon is connected with the sky’s moon, yet it is opposite, for all reflections are inverted.
Therefore if we remain engaged in seeking the lake’s moon, one thing is certain: we will never attain the sky’s moon. We must move in the opposite direction. The more we reverse the journey, the closer we come to the sky’s moon. That is the meaning of tapas. It is the reverse journey of pleasure—the search for the moon by renouncing the moon in the lake. So although we understand joy, the very reason for our understanding is also the obstacle. Pleasure is the cause of understanding; pleasure is also the barrier. If joy is to be attained, pleasure must be left.
We all want to drop sorrow. The strange thing is: we want to drop sorrow—and sorrow never drops us. We want to seize pleasure—and pleasure never comes into our grasp. We experience this again and again, yet draw no conclusion from it. We want to leave sorrow and cannot; we want to catch pleasure and cannot.
Tapas is the reverse experiment. Tapas is the experiment: up to now we tried to seize pleasure and failed—now we will leave pleasure. Up to now we tried to escape sorrow and failed—now we will seize sorrow. And the odd thing is: just as pleasure does not come by seizing, sorrow will not come by seizing. And just as sorrow does not leave by leaving, pleasure will not leave by leaving. In truth, that which we try to seize slips away; and that which we drop comes within our grasp.
Even though this reverse law is experienced many times, we never make a science out of it. That science is religion. The difference between the ordinary person’s experience and the scientist’s is only this: you have experiences, but they remain atomic—one experience, two experiences, three experiences. The scientific mind seeks the thread that runs through them all; it leaves the experiences. If in my life I have a thousand experiences, but I only accumulate their number—one, two, a thousand—and do not discover the law because of which they keep happening, I am not a seeker. The scientific mind means: from a thousand experiences, we find the essential law.
Before Newton, fruits fell from trees to the earth. And the apple—its history is ancient: the first fruit Eve plucked for Adam was also an apple. From Adam’s time apples have fallen. Yet the law of gravitation—Newton discovered it. Fruits were falling daily; thousands had seen them fall. The experience did not become a law. But Newton asked, for the first time, 'Why does the fruit fall down?'
It is a crazy question. Scientists always ask crazy questions. Ordinary people do not; thus they remain ordinary. It is madness to ask, 'Why does the fruit fall down?' We clever ones would say, 'Is your mind all right? Fruit falls down—finished. What else is there to ask?' But Newton said, 'All fruits fall down; there must be a secret in falling downward.' The earth pulls—otherwise fruits could not fall. From the observation of falling came the law of gravitation. Then all the fruits became irrelevant—whether they fell or not, stones fell or not—done. From all the experiences of falling, one essence came into hand: gravitation.
Religion too is a science—of the inner life. The more you try to seize pleasure, the more it doesn’t come; the more you run from sorrow, the less you escape. Leave sorrow—it does not leave. Leave pleasure—it does not leave. Through many lives we have this experience, but we never ask: what is the reason? What is this matter—that what we seize does not come, and what we leave does not go? Leaving seems like an invitation; leaving seems to call it. Seizing seems to repel it.
Try it in life. Whomever you want to forget, the more you try, the harder it becomes; the more you try to forget, the more remembrance comes. The effort to forget is itself a way of remembering. You sit with closed eyes, trying to forget—but forgetting is remembering. Thus, what you try to forget cannot be forgotten. Try the reverse consciously: try deliberately to remember someone—and you will find remembrance slips from your hands. Close your eyes, and visualize the face you deeply love, completely—focus all strength to recall its exact features. For the first time you will know: even your lover’s face does not hold in your memory by effort. You will be surprised: the face so close, that haunts your dreams—why is it lost? Even remembering your mother’s face is not easy by trying. Try—and you will find the lines waver, become hazy; the face is lost.
Why does what we try to remember get lost? Perhaps your effort becomes a repulsion. Why does what you try to forget come back? An opposite law is at work—the law of reverse effect. Opposite results arise.
One who understands this will no longer try to remove sorrow, nor to invite pleasure. And the one who does not remove sorrow and does not invite pleasure enters joy.
Joy means simply this: now sorrow does not come, pleasure does not go. Joy means, now sorrow does not come, pleasure does not go. But this is an alchemy, an inner chemistry.
By walking against the law, with our own hands we produce sorrow. And with our own hands we destroy pleasure. If we look into people’s lives, each man is digging pits of sorrow for himself. Every man. He has no idea what he is doing. He digs pits. Only when he falls in does he know—and then he shouts, 'Who is the wicked one who dug this pit!' Each person is inviting sorrow and breaking his own pleasure. And when his pleasure shatters into fragments, he beats his chest: 'Which enemy is against me? Nature seems cruel! God is harsh!' But if you understand this deeper law, the pits you dig will cease; and the hands with which you break your own image of pleasure will stop.
Even joy is distant—the state beyond both pleasure and pain.
A third formula Lao Tzu gives, and brings it closer to you: 'The earth is great.'
Even joy is far. Earth means pleasure. Joy is far; we cannot reach it. The earth is gross, very palpable; earth means the substantial, the solid. Pleasure we can catch—pleasure is gross. It enters our eyes, falls into our hands, comes into our net. But truly, does pleasure fall into our hands? Look closely: it seems to, but it never does. It is always near-near; we never really attain even it. Pleasure is our hope, not our experience.
This will be hard. We all suppose that at least we have the experience of pleasure, if not of joy. We do not even have the experience of pleasure—only the hope. Pleasure is always going to come tomorrow, never today. It is always near—almost within reach—just a moment more. But have you noticed? Whenever you arrive, disappointment meets you. What you desired, imagined, sought, always proves disappointing—always breaks expectations. All pleasures prove disillusionments. One goes and the illusion breaks.
We hoped so much: 'A friend is coming home—who knows how much pleasure will be!' He arrives—and nothing happens. After an hour or two of empty talk—'How are you? How are things?'—after two hours we realize: 'For this man I waited so long!' All is finished; only ashes in hand. The friend came; nothing else came. After a day or two, we begin to feel, 'When will he leave?' It is not as if this is a new experience. Two months later we will again wait for the same man in the same way. And two months earlier we had already done so. Man draws no conclusion from experience.
Pleasure exists in our hopes. It seems 'now it will be had.' It is like a rainbow—formed far away; go near to grasp it, and nothing comes into the hand. At most a few drops of water touch the fingers—and everything is over. Those colors, stretched so majestically across the sky, do not even leave a faint trace on your hand. Pleasure is almost like the rainbow. It is not our experience; it is our hope. We think we will get it; we do not. Man is clever enough sometimes to think later, 'I had got it.'
Understand this. It never happens now. Either we think we will get it—in the future—or, sometimes, looking back, we think, 'I had it'—in the past. But in the present, there is no touch of pleasure. Have you ever met a man who told you, 'I am happy'? You will meet such as say, 'I was happy.' Or, 'Not long now, I will be happy.' You cannot find a man who says, 'Right now, here, I am happy—this very moment.' And if someone is not happy this very moment, he is deceiving himself. But deceptions are necessary. Because if there is no pleasure and no hope of pleasure, how will one live? Lies become supports.
The old man says, 'Childhood was heaven.' Ask a child; then you will know. Ask a child—and all old men will appear liars. Not a single child says, 'This childhood is heaven.' All children are in a hurry to become young. Heaven seems to be in youth. Ask the children.
Do not remember your own childhood—that is false; you have constructed it. It is cultivated, arranged. You cannot remember your childhood. When you remember it, the poems and sayings you have read about childhood—you think they are about your childhood.
Psychologists say: a man cannot remember before four years of age. The reason is: the first four years are so full of suffering that to retain the memory is not beneficial. Therefore man forgets. You can recall at most up to four years. If very intelligent, perhaps three. But those first years go blank; they are forgotten. What happened? Psychologists say: when suffering is too much, it is not useful to carry the memory; the mind erases it. Dangerous—it would sit on the chest like a rock. Therefore the mind drops it. Yes, if a child is hypnotized, the memory reappears; but even in hypnosis no child says, 'I was in heaven.' Yet all old men say, 'We were in heaven; childhood was bliss.' In truth, you have no real memory of childhood left. You have constructed a childhood now.
As long as life remains, man keeps his pleasure in the future. When death draws near, the future ends; in the future only death is seen—so he puts his pleasure into the past. One thing is certain: wherever man is, pleasure is not. Then he places it behind. He thinks, 'What joy it was! Everything was bliss in childhood.'
If childhood were so blissful, children would refuse to leave it. But children are in a hurry to grow. A child, as he grows, claims to be even older than he is—because grown-ups seem powerful, wealthy, happy; they have control, ownership. The child feels wretched, weak, dependent. He longs to be big quickly. Thus children learn grown-up habits.
If small children smoke, it is not because there is any pleasure in smoking. There is none. A child only gets discomfort, for smoking cannot give any pleasure to a child. To take pleasure from cigarettes requires a more mature stupidity. The child is not yet so stupid; his inner bud is too fresh, so cigarette smoke can only give pain. Yet the child suffers it—no matter. For the moment he holds a cigarette, he feels powerful. Those who smoke—the film stars, politicians, strong men in cars—when the child holds the cigarette to his lips, childhood is gone; he has become a participant in the adult world. Children learn to smoke because the cigarette is a power-symbol.
Many children, psychologists report, try to grow beards and moustaches early; if the father is away, they use his razor—so that somehow facial hair will come. No child is ready to remain a child; he wants to escape childhood. School seems no more than a prison. Teachers appear the most selected rascals of society. And this impression may be partly true—psychologists say those who take to teaching often seek to dominate; they want to lord over others. Thus even with low salaries, a teacher agrees—for the juice he gets is different. In his class he is no less than a Hitler or a Napoleon; he feels like the emperor of the whole world.
If we were to ask children about their suffering, old men would have to drop the illusion that childhood was heaven. Where for twenty-four hours dependency is felt—'Don’t do this, don’t do that'—where parents seem to find delight in 'don’t', where a mother often says 'don’t' even before knowing what the child is doing—all egos seek their satisfaction, all unfulfilled desires seek outlets. There is no easier, cheaper target than children. A woman with four or eight children—understand, her ego will be vastly confirmed. In everything, the last word will be hers.
This memory of 'happiness back there' is deception. Neither was pleasure behind nor is it ahead; pleasure is always now. One who knows the art is happy now.
Someone asked Van Gogh, 'Which is your finest painting?' Van Gogh said, 'This one I am painting now.' He returned fifteen days later: Van Gogh was painting another canvas. 'Your finest painting?' 'This one.' The man said, 'But fifteen days ago, you said the finished one was best.' Van Gogh replied, 'That is gone—what have I to do with it? I am happy now.'
For one who is happy now, the past becomes meaningless. The value you give to the past is due to the misery of the present. You are so unhappy that no other way remains; you create pleasure behind, and ahead. Thus life sways between front and back. A false bridge is built; on it the journey goes on. And moment to moment, the real world is missed.
One who is happy is happy now. And one who is happy is on the summit of the world this very moment. Do not think that the next moment he will be unhappy. His summits never become small. Each moment is his peak. There is no comparison with before or after. Whenever the past entices you, know the present is unhappy. Whenever the future pulls you, know the present is unhappy. When the present is happy, the past dissolves, the future disappears. When happiness is, the moment becomes eternal.
Lao Tzu says the third great element is earth—pleasure. But that too is hope; it is a desire we want to fulfill.
The fourth, nearest to us, Lao Tzu says: 'The emperor also is great.'
For Lao Tzu the emperor is the symbol of the ego. Tao is far; joy is quite far; pleasure seems within reach yet never is; but everyone considers himself an emperor. This is already attained. Everyone is a king within—even if there is no subject. It does not matter. To be a king, a kingdom is not necessary. But within, each one is a king. And everyone creates a small kingdom. Even the beggar on the street has his territory. Another beggar cannot enter it. If he does, there will be trouble. He is not exactly a beggar—he too has his boundaries, his state. The nakedest man is king of some tiny realm.
Nearest to us is the ego. This we have. We live in it; we go on living in it. What does ego mean? What does emperor mean?
Ego means: 'I am the center of existence. The moon and stars revolve for me; the winds blow for me; the rivers run for me; the birds sing for me. Whatever is happening anywhere, I am the center for whom it happens. The day I am not, everything will scatter. The day I was not, nothing was. The day I die—I will not die, rather existence will end; there will be dissolution.' It is good that people do not get the chance to return from the grave; otherwise the shock would be greater than death. If some politician could return and see: the world runs without him! When he died, people said, 'This loss is irreparable!' And there is no discussion anywhere about what happened to the empty chair.
In this world, no place remains empty. People are ready beforehand. As a politician dies, ladders are ready to climb onto his chair. These are the same people who next morning say, 'The loss is irreparable.' These very people will repair it. In this world, when anyone is removed, no gap remains. Ego thinks that when I depart, the hole will never be filled. Ego believes: I am indispensable, inevitable; without me, nothing can happen.
Consider: when you will not be, still the full moon will rise; what a sadness spreads! When you will not be, the ocean will roar as ever! When you will not be, birds will sing at dawn! What a sadness comes. The thought that 'I will not be, and still everything will go on'—then whether I am or not makes no difference. Whether I was or not, it made no difference.
But ego is not ready to accept this. Ego means: I am something of weight and worth in existence, and without me, existence will be empty and pale. I am the salt of the earth; without me, all will be insipid. This is nearest to us; it is our affective state.
Ego is our present situation; Tao is our destination. We stand in ego; we have to reach Tao. But ego is a false position.
Lao Tzu says, 'These four are great in the universe.' And, he adds, 'the emperor too.'
He must count it, otherwise the journey cannot begin. So he says, the emperor too is one of them. This is where we stand. This is our situation.
Yet to call the ego 'great' may seem surprising. That Tao is great can be understood—but ego? Understand it this way: ego too is great in the sense that it has no limit; however big it becomes, there is no satisfaction. Whatever it attains, it is never content. It is unfillable. In this sense it is great. It is an abyss: whatever you drop into it, nothing changes. Ego is great in a negative sense. It is false; hence it is infinite. Truth is infinite because to be infinite is its nature. Untruth is infinite because it is not. That which is not—how can it have limits? That which is, is also infinite—but its infinity is creative; the infinity of the unreal is negative.
Therefore Lao Tzu does not want to count it, yet counts it: 'The emperor also is one of them.' These four are great; ego too is one among them.
Until today no one’s ego has been filled. Nor will it ever be. There is no way to fill it. The more you give it, the more its demand increases. Asking is its very nature. Whatever it gets becomes worthless; whatever it has not got—that alone seems meaningful. Wherever it reaches, it becomes blind; where it cannot reach, there its eyes remain fastened.
You too have reached somewhere. Everyone has. But no one is content where he is. If you are a deputy minister, you are troubled. When you were not, you were troubled even then—only an MLA. When you were not even an MLA—an ordinary citizen—then too you were troubled. From an ordinary citizen you made great effort and became an MLA. You thought all would be fulfilled. But upon arrival, it seemed: being an MLA is nothing until I become a deputy minister! Then with much running and lobbying you become deputy minister. Now you are deputy minister, but now you see not the ministry, only the 'deputy' rankles; it pricks like a nail—'Is being deputy anything? At least a full minister is needed.' Become a minister—and the chief minister begins to rankle and tease. The journey goes on.
Wherever a man is, there he is discontent. This is the sign of ego. And where he is not, there he thinks he will be content. Between these four our life is arranged.
Lao Tzu says, 'Man conforms himself to the earth.'
Earth—pleasure. Man constantly tries to conform to pleasure. Whatever you are doing, it does not matter what; one thing is certain—you are trying to be happy. It is not necessary to ask what you are doing—stealing, or saintliness, honesty or dishonesty—whatever you do. The amusing thing is: both the dishonest and the honest, the saint and the sinner, seek the same thing. All seek pleasure. That one thinks he will get it by dishonesty; this one thinks he will by honesty. That is only a difference of understanding; there is no difference in the search. Whether it will be gotten or not is another matter. But the search is for pleasure.
Every person seeks pleasure—and every person attains sorrow. And every person runs faster and faster toward pleasure, and faster and faster falls into the gorge of sorrow.
'Man conforms himself to the earth.'
Man tries all the time to conform to pleasure. But what is the obstacle? Why is pleasure offended with man? Why do so many efforts fail? Why can man not be happy? And the strange accident is: the nearer he seems to come, the more unhappy he becomes. The farther back we look, the more primitive, uncivilized, the fewer the means for pleasure, the less unhappy they appear. It should have been the reverse—we should be happier; primitives should be more miserable. But the reverse seems to be. We are more miserable; they seem more at ease. Why has this happened? Why is our unhappiness so dense, so feverish?
We have many instruments of pleasure now. After so many means, we come to understand: we are not getting pleasure at all. This increases our restlessness. A poor man, a beggar on the street, thinks: 'If only I had a palace, there would be happiness.' Palaces exist only for those who do not live in them. The glory of palaces exists only for those outside.
Then one day the beggar reaches the palace. For the first time he discovers: the palace evaporates. That magnificent palace—seen in dreams while sleeping on the road, that always surrounded and enchanted the mind, for which he made every journey—this palace is not that palace. That palace was something else.
Real palaces shatter the palaces of dreams. Reality always proves to be the breaker of dreams. The boats of dreams, when they touch the shore of reality, are broken to pieces. Hence we are so unhappy—we have attained those palaces that the poor desire.
If America appears more miserable than India, it is not surprising. If Americans feel: 'How to find meditation? How to find religion? How to reach Rishikesh? How to practice?' those living in Rishikesh think these people have gone mad. They live there all their lives and nothing has happened to them. Why are these Americans running toward Rishikesh? They have attained the palace that those in Rishikesh are still seeking. By attaining it, their dreams are shattered.
When pleasure arrives, we discover it is not attained. This is difficult: when it is not attained, it gives misery; when it is attained, it gives misery. Seeing this, Buddha said: misery is the very nature of this world. That which is not attained gives misery; that which is attained gives misery. The woman you desire—if you do not get her, lifelong misery. Ask Majnu; he is miserable. But he does not know how much misery would be if Laila were attained. Ask those who get her. Those who have got her stand in divorce courts—'How to be free! I want a divorce!' Those who have not got sing poems and shed tears. Who among these is more miserable? One thing is certain: what is not attained gives misery, and what is attained gives misery. Perhaps of the two, the first is better; at least hope remains. In the second, even hope breaks. What is the secret? So much search for pleasure—and it never comes to hand. Why?
Lao Tzu says a wondrous thing: 'Man conforms himself to earth; and earth conforms itself to heaven.'
This is the trouble. Hence union never happens. You run after that which is itself running after something else; it is not running toward you. Thus you are in trouble. This is subtle. I want to get you, and you want to get someone else—how will union happen? Only one way: I must start seeking that which you are seeking. Then union is possible. Otherwise it is not. And even if I catch you, you will slip and run—because you are not eager to meet me; you want to reach elsewhere.
Lao Tzu says: 'Man wants to conform to earth. Earth wants to conform to heaven. Heaven wants to conform to Tao. And Tao wants to conform to swabhava—naturalness.'
This is the chaos. Here, what we chase is itself chasing elsewhere. Until we catch that toward which everything is running, we will catch nothing.
Earth wants to conform to heaven—what does it mean? It means: wherever we see pleasure, wherever we get a glimpse of it, wherever it seems condensed—there, pleasure becomes futile. What is attained becomes empty. That point is journeying toward joy. That point wants to be joy. Difficulty! Earth wants to be heaven. If you journey toward joy, you will meet pleasure—because then your goals align.
Thus the strange thing: one who moves toward joy attains pleasure; one who moves toward pleasure attains only sorrow. In Buddha’s eyes there is a glimmer of pleasure; around Mahavira there is a breeze of well-being. When he sits, it seems 'happiness has sat'; when he rises, 'happiness has risen.' A gentle fragrance of contentment surrounds him; it showers all around. It is that very perfume that draws us. Then we think, 'Let me become like Mahavira; how can I get this happiness?'
But Mahavira receives this happiness by being blissful, by moving into joy. Every moment he is absorbed in attaining ananda. If we try to attain happiness, we will get sorrow. Look at the monks walking behind Mahavira—sad. Strange: look at Mahavira’s image—hard to find a more beautiful body—and place beside it a Jain monk. You will feel they are enemies. Mahavira’s body is so beautiful that no other body can be placed beside it. Because the body was so beautiful, Mahavira could stand naked. How can an ugly man stand naked?
Clothes do not enhance beauty; they only cover ugliness. Remember: when beauty increases, bodies begin to be uncovered. Where there is more beauty, bodies will be more exposed. If Western women uncover more and Indian women feel restless, reflect. Perhaps jealousy is working—nothing else. When the body is beautiful, covering becomes meaningless.
Mahavira’s body is supremely beautiful—made as if for sculpture. The sculptor would find it difficult; the statue would always seem pale, for it cannot be so alive. On the one side is Mahavira—every breath carrying well-being. On the other, the monk behind him: with fasts upon fasts, drying the body till it turns yellow; as he becomes yellow like brass, his devotees say, 'See the aura of tapas!' The yellowing of suffering appears golden. As the body shrinks and only life remains hanging in the eyes, people say, 'Look at the eyes—what radiance!' This is not radiance; it is the last flicker before the lamp goes out.
Around Mahavira there is a shade like that under a banyan; the weary traveler rests, a thousand people sit and feel cool. The reason is: he is seeking something else. Happiness is a by-product; it is not his goal. One who comes to him to seek happiness will fall into the sorrow of asceticism. He will imitate Mahavira—'Whatever he does, I will do—that happiness will be mine.' Happiness is imitative. You see a ring of diamond on someone’s hand, and it seems: 'What happiness it must bring! If that ring were on my hand, I too would be happy.' Whether the ring is diamond or anything else, upon getting it you feel only weight—a bondage. Mahavira seeks something else.
Wherever a glimmer appears—if in the silence of night you glimpse a coolness, it means the night has merged into a higher principle. If the moon gives you a touch of serenity, the full moon has become one with a greater law. If you go to the forest and the greenery enchants you and the heart begins to dance, it means that forest is immersed in the formula of joy; from its immersion this pleasure is born.
'Earth conforms to heaven.'
Earth—matter all around—is busy becoming heaven. A tiny seed wants to sprout and become a flower. Even a small seed wants to become heaven from earth. An effort is in motion in all directions. Man errs by trying to conform to earth.
But earth too does not attain heaven. Flowers bloom and wither. The moon becomes full and then wanes. Here nothing can become eternal. Earth cannot become heaven; it only tries. Because heaven is conforming to Tao. Even heaven seeks something else.
We have no acquaintance with heaven, thus it is difficult. Earth we can grasp: earth wants to become heaven. Therefore, somewhere, in Kashmir we say, 'heaven on earth.' Something has blossomed—lakes, sky, mountains, trees—something has bloomed that is withered elsewhere; so it seems heaven. It is a glimpse. But we do not know heaven. Earth cannot attain it; it only tries—because heaven wants to conform to Tao.
Understand it thus for now: what we know is not the end of existence. This earth is not the conclusion of life. There are other earths, other suns, planets and satellites. Scientists say life is possible on fifty thousand earths. There are three billion mega-suns. Our sun is a small family; there are three billion such sun-families. Our sun is mediocre, middle-class. There are suns sixty-thousand times bigger. Vastness.
Mahavira, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Krishna have spoken of planes of life superior to this earth—called 'heavens'—where life has blossomed more; where happiness has become a state. Here sorrow is the state and happiness is hope. There, happiness is the state.
Yet even where happiness has become a state, where joy showers, a little journey remains. Because as long as we say, 'I am blissful,' a slight distance remains between 'I' and bliss. Even that distance pricks.
Lao Tzu says: 'Heaven conforms to Tao.'
Those heavens too are running; they want to enter the ultimate destiny, to become one with that law which is the base of all laws. But their race too will not complete—because Tao too—this is the last, difficult point—
'Tao, too, conforms to swabhava—naturalness.'
The Tao we can speak of becomes a doctrine. The Tao we can conceive, make an idea of, remains our idea. Such an imagined Tao is not ultimate. The ultimate Tao is where all ideas drop and only swabhava remains—being, just-existence. Tao dissolves into pure being—where being itself is the end.
Understand a little more.
In English there is a word 'becoming'—the race to be. And there is 'being'—just being. As long as there is a race, there is suffering. If even Tao wants to conform to swabhava, suffering remains—for becoming is always in the future. Being is now.
Milarepa, a Tibetan fakir, went to his master Marpa. Marpa sat with closed eyes. Milarepa asked, 'Are you entering within? On an inner journey?'
Marpa opened his eyes and said, 'All journeys have ended. No, I am not entering within—I am within. Only one enters who is outside. I am doing nothing; I am only being.'
This mere being is called swabhava. In swabhava there is no journey, no future, no going anywhere. This does not mean no going will happen, nor that there will be no future. It only means there will be no race, no striving, no longing to arrive. Where all desires fall, where all dreams of becoming shatter—where becoming turns into suchness.
Lao Tzu says: this means that wherever anyone may be traveling, in whatever direction, the final journey is toward swabhava. Therefore, one who understands this formula and directly sets out toward swabhava will attain all that is worth attaining in life; and all that is not worth attaining will fall away by itself. Those who choose the middle journeys will remain in anguish—because that to which they are going is itself on a journey.
Think thus: you start from Bombay to Delhi. You reach Delhi because the station Delhi is fixed. If the station Delhi were also traveling, it would be very difficult; you would never reach. Because Delhi is fixed, you can reach Delhi.
In life, everything is traveling; nothing is fixed. Only swabhava is still. One who goes toward swabhava alone arrives; others wander, chasing those who are themselves running.
A last point.
Lao Tzu, in the Tao tradition, has defined the true guru: a true guru is one who is going nowhere. If he is going somewhere, he is not a guru. If something remains for him to attain, he is not a guru. If something remains for him to become, he is not a guru. One who follows a guru who is still going somewhere will fall into trouble. Trouble is inevitable, because the goal you chose is not a goal. Goal means that point in existence which is eternally in the same place; all things go toward it; it goes toward none.
This means that if we go toward swabhava—leaving all that is artificial, all that is contrived, all that is by effort, all that is far—and instead, sinking into that which is already within us. Swabhava is within. Pleasure has to be sought outside. Joy too has to be sought outside. In the search for truth, people wander everywhere. Only swabhava is within. Swabhava means: what you are right now, this very moment. If you do not run—if you stop—you meet it. If you keep running, you go on missing it.
Lao Tzu in three words: Whoever seeks will lose. If you want to attain, do not try to attain. For what is far must be reached by moving; what is within can only be found by stopping.
Enough for today. Let us stop, sing kirtan, then go.